2009

A few months ago, the owls came. Perched in pine trees and allowed my dogs to howl and howl at them. Were they a harbinger for what would come next?

Europeans believed that raptors and birds of the crow family were carrion-- war birds that feasted on death and signaled that the reaper was close at hand. Caesar said as much in Shakespeare's "Julius Caesar."

Symbolically, owls were also known as the bird of wisdom. Perhaps this was due to their flight and speed acuity and especially their keen ability to see in the darkness; a skill that humans admired as it is so easy to lose one's way when the darkness falls.

"I don't scare easy. I don't fall apart when I'm under the gun. You can break my heart and I'm not gonna run, I don't scare easy for no one/ I'm a loser at the top of my game."-----Tom Petty

The year of 2009 started out devastatingly....Last Christmas I barely made it out of frozen Portland, all but my airplane grounded due to snow. I wanted to see my family and did, and saw Amelia in the apartment and life I wished could be mine. I took one look at my cat Phoebe lying next to my mom under the covers and I knew then that I didn't want to leave. Dragged my ass back to PDX where I realized how lonely I was. Wanted and deserved a pet, something to love. Found Miss Kitty on the chair under my window. Took another cat in and found the limits of a friendship I thought would be there and have my back forever. Discovered a new friendship with a fellow writer. Mara took me in during those dark weekends. As did Lora and Emily. Almost lost Miss Kitty. Miss Kitty and I are told to move out and started to look for a new place where I could find companionship. Did that and was laid off. At this point, saddened beyond tears that I couldn't stay for my beloved Portland spring and summer. April. Packed up the car, almost cried at the Oregon/ California state border. Still pining for Sean. Got home. Restless, listless and felt completely lost. Freelanced for Pasadena Weekly. Sat at coffee shop typing away in the heat and look to my left, notice a good looking man that seems very familiar. Joel Garcia? Yes. Exchange numbers. Go out. Butterflies and kisses. Carnovsky tea parties and meeting new people. Front page feature story for Pasadena Weekly. Rekindle old friendships and gain new ones. Good people all around. May/ June, Gallus and I no longer dating. Saddened and try to kill pain. Put myself out into the world and meet Greg. Good, good man. He shows me they exist, those men that are kind and sweet and ones that have loving hearts---ones that can love me. Stray and hurt him. Sorry, so sorry. Los Angeles Magazine contacts me. I start interning and writing for the publication's website. July 29, Lucy's 51. Young man, head bent, sitting in the shadows facing the door. I stand there and look at him. Andrew. He finally looks up from his phone and I shake his hand and say, "Hi, I'm Carolyn," full of nerves, so nervous, I'm about to jump out of my skin. Can he see I'm shaking? Peach flavored drink later he takes my hand and tells me how pretty and feminine it is. He looks at me and brushes the bangs off my forehead. Walking towards Warner Brothers at a crosswalk and he looks down and kisses me. Sit in my car at end of night and smile. Early August. Andrew drives me to the beach. Rock scaling. Packed lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and water bottles. Sun hitting his eyes harshly. Makeshift tent with his jacket to shield our eyes. Drive up the coast, into Ventura. Gained boyfriend and relationship. Drive to Griffith Park Observatory where we talk on a hill looking at that full moon. Start working as a Page for CBS. Paycheck and future possibilities. August 29, one month. Special day and night. October 3rd. Celebration of my birthday at Getty Villa and fancy dinner. November, he is present at our Thanksgiving dinner table. He feels welcome in my house. December. I scare him into thinking I might run. He says his anxiety over me leaving is outweighed by his love for me.

The year is winding down and I can't help but look back at my progress. I went from a job that paid the bills but not the soul. Came home and was pleasantly surprised to be embraced lovingly by old friends. Relationships strengthened and I met more good people. I now consider myself extremely lucky because I have a great group of new and old friends who care about me. And I have a very good man that loves me. And I love him.

At the top of the year, I feared I no one outside of the Portland Sentinel would publish me. I've now written for two additional publications. The year's not over yet and that's fine with me, because it's been the worst of times and it's been the best of times.

Buttermilk Truck Review: Tasty, Cheap, Small Portions

Buttermilk Truck. The name reminds me of the days when milkmen brought freshly bottled, wholesome milk to the front door twice a week. Reminds me of black and white television days, homemakers straining to prepare hearty, large dinners of pot roast and pot pies.

Buttermilk Truck provides a niche service in the burgeoning market of gourmet lunch trucks in our City of Angels. The truck's menu consists of breakfast goodies like buttermilk pancakes, cinnamon french toast sticks, rosemary hash brown patties, coffee, tea, bottled orange juice and such. They offer a Friday and Saturday night "late-nite" munchies menu similar to its day time menu. Look out for the LA soul food special item of waffles and chicken!

REVIEW:
I ordered my favorite college breakfast menu item: the breakfast sandwich. Buttermilk upped the ante with a lightly greasy, dense-yet-fluffy biscuit which housed a fried egg, yummy apple chicken sausage and cheddar. I added a rosemary-hash brown patty and the total food tab came to $3.50. Not bad. Really not bad.

So the price and the food is tasty; just beware that as possibly filling as protein + biscuit + cheese is, for some, it may not be enough, which is okay, seeing as how Buttermilk Truck also offers up additional pancakes, pastries and french toast sticks for good prices as well.

Just beware: sodas, juices and especially water bottles can be expensive at $1.50, whereas other trucks will sell these beverage items for $1 or $1.25.

BOTTOM LINE: Korean-Mexican food truck fatigued? Go enjoy Buttermilk Truck for good, cheap, breakfast food.

Thanks for All the Years Zoe

Dad had to put Zoe down last night.

She started knuckling, which meant that she was no longer able to operate her own left back foot and instead of sitting on it, like a rabbit sits on its long haunches, she was dragging her foot, and later her leg around. Her kidneys had started to go and she was losing weight fast, so it didn't surprise me when I knew the time had come. It's just that no matter how you know the time is coming, it still hurts.

Make no mistake---I've seen my fair share, more than my fair share of the life cycle. Animals are small, you love them as babies, they grow older, and inevitably decline. As loving guardians, our job is to be strong enough to end their lives when they have no quality of life left, or they are suffering. I've been a part of this process several times and have seen many beloved animals go to the grave; my dearest Henry, Arthur, Nell, Mr. Jeeves, Bear---just to name a few.

Zoe was never my favorite cat; but her presence will be missed, perhaps more than the others. She was the last living member of what I call the "Old Gang"---the cats that adopted us (or did we adopt them?) when we moved into our house on Oleander in the late summer of 1992. She was perhaps the oldest cat we've ever had and we saw her go from infancy, to motherhood when she had two litters. We got her fixed as soon as we could and she lived outside amidst our lush garage garden for many years, until she had an accident and ripped one of her toe nails out. We took her to the vet and thought she was too old, although she was only middle-aged and still wily, to live outside. On the eve of my mother's baby cat, Nell, being put down, that very week, (or was it the day?) we had to help Zoe, and it was her turn to come inside and live with us in a more domesticated setting.

She had a full fluffy tail then, and until my girls came, long, silky haired giants, I thought Zoe had the biggest tail I'd ever seen. She was unique in her voice. I've never heard a cat cry with so high a pitch, almost like a bird calling in the trees, and my friend, Jessica, called her "the bird cat" since then. She reminded Jess of a bird.

Zoe has passed, and her passing reminds me that time moves forward, I am getting older, and things at the Oleander house, so much a part of me, will never remain the same; they are ALWAYS changing. There will be one day, unless I have the money to buy the home from my parents, that I'll have to leave the house that saw my childhood and womanhood, my tears, laughter and growth. Zoe was a reminder of the beginnings of my life in this house. She lies in the slope at the side of my kitchen door, buried with her comrades. This is not morbid, but a testament to the animals that I have loved and that have, and will remain, so much a part of my life.

Sleep well, sweet Zoe.

Fall and Writing

Fall makes me nostalgic. I watch people gather around television sets to watch college football shenanigans and it almost makes me wish my alma mater had a football team. Almost.

Walking invigorates me, especially when I'm walking in crisp November morning air, especially when I know that by midday in Los Angeles, that air will be at least 15 degrees warmer. Fall brings me back to Oregon autumns with yellow trees, textbooks, lawns spread over college quads and the fog that subsequently hides the construction docks and ships from sight.

Feet hitting the ground=words on paper, and with words comes the hope for my professional writing future.

Good Ol' Soul Food Cookin' at Larkins in Eagle Rock

I had heard many a thing about Larkins and knew that it had already been reviewed by Los Angeles Magazine (with whom I currently intern), and given great reviews. I'd driven past it's craftsman home location countless times as well, and even stopped once or twice only to find it closed on Monday AND Tuesday.



But this last Wednesday, November 4, I drove there with the intention of finally sitting down and eating the food I'd heard about. Why my haste? Even in the best economies, opening a restaurant and having it stick around is tricky; I couldn't be so sure this one would tough it out in these hard times.

Not to fear; I entered the restaurant and found two couples already sitting there, and while sitting with my eating companion, my mother, Karen, we saw at least six people come inside to eat. Apparently Larkins ain't doing so bad.

But how was the food you ask? Tasty, and a bit unexpected. To my delight there were more than a few bbq items smothered in bbq sauce. The menu featured the consummate corn-breaded catfish, meatloaf, gumbo and jambalaya. I was in the mood for fried chicken, and I ordered macaroni salad and potato salad as accompaniments.

The fried chicken plate consisted of three all-dark meat pieces (just the way I love it) and fried to a crispy finish. No complaints here.

The only thing I can complain about are the salad sides. Both were two sweet and pickel-y for my taste. The macaroni salad was cooked to an al dente finish, impressive, since most people cook pasta until it becomes flimsy and soft. The potatoes were cut chunky style, instead of mushy, but in the end tasted too much like vinegar and pickle.

Karen ordered an amazing hot links bbq po' boy that offered everything it claimed it would. The hot links were meaty, smoky and hot enough to leave a burn in the back of your throat. The bread was pillowy, and the bbq sauce was smokey, thick and sweet; the way good barbecue sauce should taste. Her sandwich came with a dainty salad side.

To finish everything off, Karen ordered unsweetened iced tea and I ordered bottomless house-made lemonade. She didn't liked her iced tea and thought it had a bit of a weird aftertaste. I tasted it and summed it up to being over-brewed (not altogether a bad thing, either, considering that under-brewed tea tastes like nothing). I couldn't ask for more with my lemonade--it was sweet, tart, refreshing, bottomless and served up in a mason jar.

Mama Larkins came out and served us our dessert: a triple layer red velvet cake with three layers of cream cheese frosting. Nothing too complicated or gourmet. But a tasty, moist, rich finish to an all together tasty meal.

Would I go to Larkins often? No. But if ever the mood strikes me for southern barbecue or soul food, Larkins is first on my mind.

I'm a Writer

Two pitch story ideas turned down at Los Angeles Magazine. A pitch silently killed on the other side of the internet ether when it hit the Pasadena Weekly inbox. But no matter.

How else would I define myself if not for being a writer? I sometimes smile to think that I had no idea this part of myself was waiting for me when I entered that classroom in January of 2006. And then, all of a sudden, a part of me, a future part of me which had existed all along but was separate from me, found me and we became one.

Writing is hard and there isn't much money to be had. I figuratively bang my head on the wall every day, partnered with the intense fear and anxiety that I can't come up with ideas or that once gotten, they will be rejected, as I have been rejected by men and others all my life.

My solace resides in the fact that while climbing the mountain, it's not really possible to see how far up you are or the progress of your climb; it's only when you reach the top that you can see above the low lying cloud line to the vast valley from whence you started.

Stress and difficulty and that quiet desperation that I live with everyday, especially in this economic climate, remind me to micro-view. Insanity comes about when I try to see the big picture. Better to take things in smaller doses, much like a recovering addict is told to take one day at a time. So shall I. So shall I take one moment at a time, and merely be proud of putting one foot in front of the other. Times like these build fortitude and strength.

Just tell me I'm not a writer and I'll have a few choice words for you.....

Finally Using his Name

He wrote a blog to say goodbye to a lost love and in it he included a beautiful song by The Cure.

It made me sad to know that I still harbor these hurt feelings, this wanting to know, this longing for Sean after I barely knew him. I barely knew him and to him, although he didn't say it in so many words, I was nothing. I was just one more pretty and willing girl in Portland, charmed by him and his cigarettes and his writing and his words and the leather jacket and the motorcycle. And after all this time I still can't let him go entirely. I think he will always haunt me, which makes me sick to my stomach, because here I am pining for more than a year, numerous emo-inspired blog posts written about him, and for what? For someone who didn't care enough about me to even register me on his map.

And the saddest part of all is at least Andrew's affair involved a song, with beautifully written words invoking all sorts of feelings for someone who once loved him, who saved him, whom he loved deeply.

I'll never get a song from Sean (yes, I'm finally using his name, because, as I said, I'm quite sure he's forgotten me). If only I could know that I meant something to someone I thought was so special.

But like Andrew said, the woman he loved died--she vanished. And I came to find out that the man I hit it off with so well was both himself on that first moving-the-office-day and something else that I didn't like.

I'm consoled by the fact that a week after I met Andrew, he saw fit to write me a gorgeous letter---one I still reread and keep tucked away in a protective box.

Maybe one day I'll get a song.

New Goals

"What can I write? I don't have any characters or plot. Who wants to read what I have to say?"

"Hunter S. Thompson wrote the Rum Diary-- a novel about trying to be a journalist while he was doing journalism."

And with that, he sparked an idea. If McCaulay Culkin can write a little novel with sketches and personal journal statements and Hunter S. Thompson becomes one of the most forward thinking and revered journalists of all time, all starting with nothing but an idea and talent, why can't I, I ask myself.

So this is my new project: and I will detail its parts in a list

1) Don't be too hard on myself (i.e. don't mentally paralyze myself before I've even begun or been turned down/ rejected)

2) Instead of being heads-down and fact checking at work---I'm going to be more present. I will write pitches and I will become more visible to Ann Herold, Mary Melton, Matthew Segal and such.

3) Take (a or many) creative writing course(s).

4) Start writing novel and look into getting it published

5) Learn Adobe and other digital illustration programs

6) Keep up on technology, blogging, new websites and such

7) And most of all KEEP THE FAITH THAT THE NATURAL TALENT I POSSESS WILL BE ENOUGH TO MAKE ME BRAVE ENOUGH TO SEEK OUT OPPORTUNITIES AND TO STICK WITH WRITING

Aimless

I don't have much time to write this, and in fact I should be getting ready for my real job....you know, the one that actually pays....

Had lunch with my editor yesterday and am now in a real fix. Here's the issue; I can either remain an intern, helping a magazine, getting an intern credit getting more clips, but for what? Is journalism, even magazine journalism dying a slow death, or, when the economy finally recovers, will magazines bounce back as well? And who am I if not a writer? What else can I pursue that will make me feel fulfilled? After all, I've spent so much time going after writing, writing, writing. Working for free, which I hate. And I'm at the point now, where living with my parents is doable, but I've paid my dues. I want a place of my own.

But I've worked so hard and for so long in the writing field. What if I give up and Los Angeles Magazine is poised to offer a job and then I'm not around to be considered? How long should I hold on for? I'm not sure.

When will this economy speed up? When will it get better? When will the national anxiety go away? Not sure, but praying every damn day.

Finally Sharing Paris for M

I light a candle as I sit down to write this--the first post I've written in over a month. And though I shall not name the person to whom this post is dedicated, simply calling him "M," I will say that I write this as a prayer or my attempt to give solace to him, the story is written and the candle is lit for him.

When I came home from Paris in January of 2007, I was devastated and my nerves were shot. Up until this point I had suffered no real heartbreak, but this undid me. Every dream I had ever had had previously been attainable; success in school was guaranteed as long as I tried, which I did. High marks and praise from teachers followed, as did acceptance into prestigious, rigorous universities. Becoming a competent equestrienne only depended on my natural skill, my practice and observation of horses and trainers' techniques....you get the point. As long as I tried, applied myself, and found interest in the thing which I wanted to accomplish, they were mine.

Not so with Paris. Since middle school, my dream was to study abroad, to learn a beautiful language and speak it fluently. I wanted to live abroad, in France or Italy, experience the beauty and the differences of those cultures. And so, I found myself as a sophomore in college, being accepted into a program for study abroad which would incorporate my scholarship money and allow me to attend classes at places like the Sorbonne in Paris for the spring.

I was enthusiastic about the upcoming trip. I was so excited and I did everything right; I was the young woman who read up on the Parisian culture, who studied maps so I knew exactly where I'd be living and studying upon getting to Paris. I had maps, I reviewed the transit system and made numerous copies of my passport, visa, identification and medication information--one for me, one for my parents, one for the school center and one for my luggage. I prepared the most anyone could.

And then I got there and the roiling anxiety that had been brewing in my belly for weeks and months came to a boil. I got to Paris, went to my host family's home and the anxiety pot was knocked off the stove, anxiety spilling everywhere. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat (being in Paris, something I looked forward to), I couldn't laugh, I couldn't concentrate. I had never felt so alone in my entire life. I was completely isolated, away from everything that meant something to me---my parents, my animals (Aussie Pup was no more than three months old), my friends, my aunt, American entertainment and television. So consumed with nervous energy I stalked the city crying, spending countless hours haunting Le Metro, walking into the evening hours, not stopping for water or food, doing nothing but walking, because walking was the only thing keeping me from insanity.

I was in nine different types of pain, and I could do nothing but go home, because I felt that if I didn't go back home to the US as soon as possible, I was going back to the US in a body bag.

And so, ten days after going to Paris, right before the semester began, I returned home, to a family that was accepting and loving and not ashamed of me. In fact, it was I who was ashamed of myself. I was the one who had failed me; for the first time in my life, I could not accomplish something I wanted, I couldn't succeed. I was crushed and although this happened more than two years ago, I am still very tethered to the pain. It has colored my world ever since, and since then, it has become a habit of mine to see a situation turn out in negative ways instead of the optimistic Carolyn, who once found it so easy to believe that only the best in life could happen. Fear crept into my world; fear of depression, fear of the dying of dreams, fear of loss and isolation. "The Fear," as Hunter S. Thompson wrote in his Las Vegas-set novel is still with me.

I write this for one main reason: to share my experience with someone who is feeling something similar. He chose a path in life which he thought would give him experience and direction and after six months, he came back home. When I came home, it was to a family who loved me, who did their best to make me feel better, who were easier on me than I was on myself, and I had the ability to speak to a counselor who was supportive as well.

Unlike me, M is not so lucky. Since I don't know him extensively, I can only imagine what his heart is feeling and his mind is thinking. He's handsome, highly intelligent and cultured, possessing a depth of emotion I think many young people (in particular, men) may lack. One more thing has not worked for him, and he has returned to a less than understanding, gentle, accepting household. I believe he feels lost, and having felt like that in the past, I know it hurts.

I want to share this story with him in some small way. I want him to know that though our experiences were different, they were similar in many ways as well, and that he's not alone in feeling as he does. The truth is, to some extent, I think everyone in their twenties are lost. I know I am. And if he's feeling lost, which I think he is, I want him to know it's okay, because I'm there too, and so are many people. I want him to know that as shitty as right now feels, one day it won't feel like this, and he'll look back at this as a dark time that taught him something about life. He'll recover, and he'll figure out life. It just won't happen tomorrow.

I also want him to be easy on himself. Not only has he gone through something hard, but he returned to less-than sympathetic conditions of family and household, and the fact that he's still alive, walking, eating and functioning is something to be tremendously proud of. It is a sign of real inner strength and my fear is that with all of his modesty and self deprecation, he doesn't see that strength in himself.

Someone who was close to me and helped me through senior year, once told me that my fear of getting depressed in the future was a reliable one---in that, most likely I would experience severe depression somewhere down the road. But she said, and I'll never forget this as long as I live, that I had a sense of magic in me, a passionate fire and that, this magic would be enough to pull me through every time. If I didn't believe that today, she said, she would hold the knowledge for me and when I was ready to believe what she knew as fact, she would hand it to me and let me hold it for myself.

I don't know M very well. But he means an incredible amount to someone I love dearly, and through extension, I care about M as well. I will do my part to hold his strength in my hands, so that when he doesn't see it, I can show him. And one day, as the pain eases and drops from sight I will give it to him, so he can hold his own power in his hands.

If Only/ There Once was a Dream/ The Godliness of Animals/ Imagine....

As thoroughly depressing as I've found this to be, I cannot avert my eyes or turn my ears away for that matter.

Corporatocracies may exist, as well as government and corporate sanctioned assassinations, takeovers of other foreign corporations, militias and governments. (See movies Zeitgeist and Zeitgeist Addendum).

Entertainment is named by many learned people as the way by which people are numbed into apathy. This is true.

But this is also true of entertainment (art): entertainment is needed, because if the human brain is bombarded with too much truth, too much pain all at the same time without reprieve, insanity and spiraling depression-filled helplessness and hopelessness ensue.

Entertainment, art, fashion, music, philosophy, literature....all exist to help us dream. My man, my homeboy and inspiration had A DREAM. He dreamed that "my [his] four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. I HAVE A DREAM TODAY." (You should know these words were written by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. [may he rest forever in peace]).

He told us that he saw a day, dreamed a dream that we would all, in essence be one. That we could love without boundary, care without separation of us versus them. That we were all children of God, all worthy of the same rights as everyone else.

It is no mistake that his words of peace, of strength, of fighting, of anger tempered by compassion and kindness were framed in the words of "a dream."

We need to intellectually dream, to raise our souls to the level of the greatness of human potential and evolution. We need to dream, which is why when our bodies rest at night, our minds must dream to function in the morning. Make no mistake: WE NEED TO DREAM. And entertainment, art and especially LOVE are the things that soothe and re-balance the soul. Animals too, our pets help us dream, help us reach that level of calm love. and balance.

There's a theory out there (see Buddhism, Zen, Taoism, meditation) which is revolutionary; consider what it would be like if only every individual had the necessities of life and therefore could afford the time to dream their dreams and calm their souls. How much more peaceful would people be? If only everyone had enough so that they could dedicate time to sitting in silence and grounding themselves in the love that flows from star to sky, from sky to tree, from tree to soil and rock, from soil to foot, from foot to leg, from leg to heart and from heart to mind.

Problems would still exist as we are human; jealousy and violence (although more petty than before) and problems of the heart when it comes to love. But with the grounding that everyone could achieve, I have NO DOUBT that the mind and the soul and the heart could heal through art and that we could all live on eagles' wings; soaring with freedom and majesty.

We need art. I am a staunch supporter of the free word as I am of all forms of entertainment. Give me mindless television (in healthy, controlled doses) which relax the mind and give people a breather so that they are not overcome with suffering. Breathers allow for people to resupply strength for the hardship ahead. Give me comedy and fantasy and drama. Give me all of these things and I will show you a world that is more at peace for the challenges ahead.

In hopes that the hope we've placed in elected officials, especially Obama, are not mislead, and that in the breasts of these politicians, their hearts beat true to the words their mouths say.

"We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force...They have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our (and every WOMAN, man and child's) freedom. WE CANNOT WALK ALONE." -----Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Dedicated to those who pursue truth and good change in the face of fear and threats against life. To those who inspire hearts and minds, who open eyes and who love. And dedicated to Andrew, who has opened my eyes in more ways than one....

This One is for the Guys

There once was a woman who wanted to write. And she did, but most of her posts were introspective pieces about her life, her fears and her search for love and her quest to keep on writing. Here are some things she's heard from men that have stuck with her (gasp)!

This one is for the guys...


All I ask is that you try your best---James Neuhausen

Love is like writing; you have to risk it all...

You can do anything.

I'm always trying to better myself and learn whatever I can---Sean Coker

Yes, but Carolyn, some people are so dull they don't even have the imagination to dream.

You're writing is tremendous. You owe it to the rest of us to keep writing---Greg Schultz

You have moments of charisma.

[You're] not transparent, but translucent.

I'm infatuated with you, something I didn't think would happen. I lie awake at 4 in the morning and am surprised that I think of you.---7-1

Success to me, is happiness. And I would tell my kids, to do something they enjoy doing, even if it means living in a trailer home.

You say I look young? I tell people, yeah, um Jack Daniels, rock 'n' roll and sex---musician
Scott Bennett

Keep plugging away at it, and you'll find your opening, your window---friendly airline passenger

Everything comes down to leaps of faith---Movie Industry Mark, outside of Kaldi

You'll probably always have him in your heart. I understand.

I love you, Carolyn.

I never thought I could love again.

No one's ever looked at me with that emotion in their eyes---Andrew Wescott

And Then There Was.....Los Angeles

I used to shrink from 95 degree heat, and I find it almost outrageously funny that in the last few months, I've found myself laying out in that same heat, taking it all in, happily into my skin.

I often find a shady tree to lie under and I feel the cool of the heat that washes over me under that tree. I take stock, as I have over the last few months, as to how lucky I am to be here again.

It's not that Portland was all bad---and even if it were, I needed that year of crushing gloom to realize where home really was for me; to be thankful for Los Angeles.

From here on out, I'm going to try to paint my time in Portland not as a "bad year" as I so often hear myself saying----but as the year that was hard, and inevitably led me to the greatness that is now.

Amidst all the fear of disappointment, all of the fear that I won't write---something I desperately want to do---I know I will find my way into a career that makes me happy. Something creative and fulfilling. Right now, I'm trying to be more than content over the opportunities I have in my lap, and the love I have in my life.

I, Carolyn Neuhausen, am loved, in a way I thought was impossible in the past. And as this means so much to me, I am basking in the glow of it.

Equal parts ambition, fortitude, persistence and personal championing will get me to the place I want to be at. Of this, I am (almost) certain!

A Year Ago....

Shit Howdy! Things have changed for me.

I'm reading a post on the Portland Sentinel website about this year's upcoming National Night Out festivities in Portland and I realize that was such a major story for me when I was working at the Sentinel last year.

Last year.....

I feel like I've grown in leaps and bounds from the person I was. I was so naive. I was so young and had so little experience with life and love and independence.

The journey I've experienced in the last year hangs nostalgically in my heart, bittersweet, bringing tears with it. I see a picture of him and he looks so damn good. I hear his voice and it brings everything back to me. No more, I say.

I'm staring 23 in the face and things are so vastly different. I've met great men. I have new friends and reconnected with dear old friends. She boxes me ferociously, and like the traitor she is, she's sweeter to my dad than myself, but I've got a new cat, a new member in our family.

I've come home to my roots. I've learned things about this city that I didn't know. I've gone to the House of Blues. I've heard Pat Green live in concert. I know the West Side street-scape in a way I didn't before I left. And I can also claim that my name dots the Los Angeles Magazine website here and there.

Where will this lead, I ask the stars.

On an assignment, I went to the Paley Center for Media and saw a screening of a film about Walter Cronkite's life. His life was amazing. He saw the Great Depression, the Dust Bowl, was a stringer in college for a major city newspaper in Austin, Texas. He was less than 25 years old by the time he was doing news on the radio and going overseas, flying in WWII planes and gunning at enemy aircraft. He was the first reporter to tell of news from the Allied occupation of North Africa. He saw the end of World War, the beginning of the Cold War, corresponded from Moscow, covered political conventions and protests during the 60s, reported on Watergate and the race to get a man on the moon.

And I think to myself, quite depressingly, that I'll never be the legend that Walter Cronkite was. I'm older than he was when he started working for a major media service. Meanwhile, I'm still trying to get my foot in the door enough to get paid (lowly too,) for my work.

While my life has just begun and I cannot predict the great challenges and turmoils and awesome moments I'll live through historically, I know in my bones that I am not wired as Cronkite was. I don't think there's any way my stomach is strong enough to report on war. I wouldn't be happy traveling around, covering international news, although there's a large part of me that wishes I could be happy doing just that.

No, my roots are too settled, cast too far into the ground. I did the traveling thing and I crashed and burned. I hold myself up to past experiences, which tether me to fear and the past, and yet those experiences are ever with me, because my ability to remember will never leave me. That is my curse; my tremendous ability to remember details and moments also links me to them, which means I'm never more than a memory away from the past.

I remember something I heard in a documentary some years ago; Julius Caesar was 25 years old and gazing at a statue of Alexander the Great. He started weeping and it's said that he proclaimed "I'm older than he was and I have yet to conquer the world."

At the time, I thought this was a stupid thing to feel; after all, these men were entirely different. One was Macedonian and lived several hundred years before the Roman Caesar did. One was of "royal" blood and the other was not. One lived in a monarchy and one lived in a "democracy."

But now, upon hearing about Cronkite's life I feel much the same way I imagine the first Caesar did. Will I ever be strong and brave enough to live the adventures I want to? Will I ever rub shoulders with the people I want to meet? Will I ever impact peoples' lives and change things for the better? Will I make a difference? Will I be remembered?

These are the things that drive me forward and hold me back. But I'm older and wiser now and I'm happy that the future remains dark to me; I don't want to know what I'm to become, I want to live every moment in utter surprise.

They're Bad for a Reason.....

What is it about "bad boys" that women like so much? I don't know that I can or even want to justify other womens' desires for these types of men so I suppose that I'll talk about my own beliefs and feelings regarding this dangerous and specific type of creature.

I used to think, at the young age and the feeling that I was seemingly much older than that in my mentality, that I would never go for a bad boy because they were, well, bad. I didn't want that. Or so I thought. And then I realized that there was an element of adventure, or rebellion or counterculture or something "bad" about the men I was attracted to. I made mistakes and flirted and got involved with and got attached to and hurt by men who weren't worthy of me. Who weren't good.

Greg Behrendt says that a bad boy is "bad" for a reason. These are the men to stay away from.

And then it dawned on me: why I'm attracted to the guy that's going to hurt me. Because they seem interesting, accepting, and free spirited; all things my perfectionistic and judgmental self wouldn't allow in my own personality. I liked the idea that they did things that were taboo, or things I was too afraid to try. That they had a past my walking the line didn't afford me. And then I realized, very pathetically, that I didn't view these men as partners, but more as substitutes for who I wanted to be.

No more.

I won't go after or say yes to someone to get a thrill from their life. If I want a thrill I'm going to own it. I'm a woman, an adult and I'm finally capable of making decisions for myself without regard to the constructs of society or the idea of how my parents would feel about any decision I were to make.

I'm no longer going to look for someone else to give me what I'm lacking in my life. If I want to learn more about cars, I'll do so on my own. If I want the thrill of a 180 mph ride, I'll do it for myself. The older I get, the more I feel fortunate in the idea that I can finally make decisions wholly for my own life and for no one else's satisfaction. After all, I only have one shot at this life in this body and in this mind frame, and I won't waste my life concerned about my decisions and how they affect others. This is my life. This is MY LIFE. Mine and no one else's.

So from here on out, I'll search for a man that compliments my life, that has that spark that I've got and the passion that resides in me. But he'll be a parnter, not a substitute for what I'm lacking in myself. I've gotten old enough to know that much. See, some things do get better with age.

"See, it's not what you said, but just how you said it...."---Pat Green

Los Angeles, How I've Missed You

It is said that the official founding of the city of Los Angeles was September 4, 1781. As I write this I would like to spend some time giving tribute to this beautiful city of mine. 

The City of Angels has opened its (his, her?) arms to me. I was an expatriate. Fed up with the eternally sunny, warm weather, with too much lack of any variation of rain, or trees turning color or snow, I was so ready to leave. I wanted to flee the "shoulds" of my father, the darkness that haunted my soul like a ghost, the city I felt was stale under my feet. I wanted adventure and a change of weather, pristine air, and a mountain soaring in the distance, its peak always covered with snow, a promise that would be fulfilled in later years. 

A change is what I got. I met some incredible people and learned many a thing. I fell in love with journalism---something I never knew would happen. I learned how to manage websites, track google analytics, learned where a Lisianthus flower grew, and the difference between Asiatic and Oriental lilies. I learned how to make decent cups of coffee, how to risk life and safety in the haunts of an abandoned factory. I fell head over heels for someone who subsequently broke my heart; I spent far too much time missing this person, convinced I would see him in Portland (I never did thankfully). I spend too much time speaking of this person. He came, he conquered and he's gone. He'll stay in my memories but I pray that he'll leave my heart (almost 100% gone and leaving more steadily every day). 

I met God in the form of the angel I met in my freshman year. I still talk to her and think of my best friend every day. I watched Grace Jones and had countless jokes with Meagan and Lora. I saw Seattle with Jess. 

And yet.....

I find that I tried things, I got out there, I did craigslist and internship meet-ups and tennis and knitting circles, and yet, the world stayed closed. My world was a Monday-Thursday routine of work, television and dinner with Meagan and weekend errands by my lonesome. I spent so many hours and days doing things by myself and occasionally with Emily. Life was so small and lonely and fixed. 

And then I was laid off and I came back home. My home. My home, how I've missed it. I've missed those San Gabriel mountains that are stained purple with the dipping of the sunset sun. I've missed La Crescenta and La Cabanita and El Cholo and Venice Beach. I've missed Zuma and Amelia and April and Jessica S. I've missed Mom and Dad and my darling Phoebe and Aussie Pup and Willie. I've missed Griffith Park, and the Greek Theater and the pine trees and eucalyptus trees. I've missed the Sun and the promise of sunlight on any given day. I've missed that marine layer. 

Los Angeles has opened its arms to me and I got kisses and tea parties and new friends and old friends and excitement and front covers of the Pasadena Weekly and work with Los Angeles Magazine and knowledge of this great city's gastronomic culture and culture of things yet to come. 

I have come home. I am no longer an expatriate. And while I might sit in traffic cursing the millions of cars in traffic with me, and cursing the indian summer temperatures peaking above 100 degrees, I will remain forever in love of the hustle and bustle, of what Los Angeles is and what it has to offer. I will be grateful for the opportunities it has afforded me, the culture that can be found from Muscle Beach to the haunts of old orange grove ranches of San Bernadino, the museums in the Miracle Mile, the haute couture of Beverly Hills and the old history that lies in the Pasadena area. 

I am an Angeleno, and I am SO GLAD to be home!

My Song

I am my father's son
Never known when to shut up
I ain't foolin' no one
I am my father's son

We don't see eye to eye
And I'll be the first to admit I never tried
Sure it hurts, but it should hurt sometimes
We don't see eye to eye

I was a young man when
I first found my pleasure in the feel of a sin
And I went down the same road as my old man
But I was younger then

Now it's 3 AM and I'm standing in the kitchen
Holding my last cigarette
Strike a match and I'm seeing my reflection
In the mirror in the hall
And I say to myself

I've got my Mama's eyes
Her long thin frame and her smile
And I still see wrong from right
'Cuz I've got my Mama's eyes
Yeah I've got my Mama's eyes

------Mama's Eyes, Justin Townes Earle

I could gush about this song until the proverbial cows come home but I won't. Suffice it to say that this song means a lot to me. I know what it's like to feel like I got demons from both parents. I also know what it's like to love them and know that they gave me some good things too. And parents aside, I find that I try to strip away life from myself, so that I can see my soul and who I really am; that part of me, that individual that existed before I was a twinkle in my parents' eyes.

I wish I had the talent of Mr. Justin Townes Earle, to put words into a meaningful song and have it rhyme, but I don't. However, I will try to start my version of his song.

I am my father's girl
His temper leads to the stubbornness of my will
Heard "should" too much
Got his art and direction too
I am my father's girl

We don't see eye to eye
And sometimes it hurts me because I always try
To open him up and hear his words but
We don't see eye to eye

I was a young woman then
Still am, but I'm growing up in a glance
Learning and endeavoring things
I thought I'd never do
But I was younger then........

That aside, I had an experience last night. Is it possible that I need to give myself more time? I hate that. We said our goodbyes to romance more than two months ago and I vowed to myself that I wasn't going to wallow and sit in sadness for what I had lost. I've done that more than once and all it leads to is brooding, boredom and sadness and three of these things combine to form this potent elixir which holds other men away from my life. I didn't want that. If my journey to find the right one and quell the loneliness I feel revolves around finding the right companion, how is mooning over someone going to help me in this endeavor?

And yet, is it possible that I moved too fast, put myself on the market when I hadn't moved past it completely? One part of me wants to say yes and the other part wants me to say, "but where has wallowing gotten me in the past? And don't you have to feel something for someone else in order to move on? If there aren't any other contenders then you feel attached to the person with which you're no longer romantically involved."

I don't know about all of this, but I'm going to ponder this in the next few days.

Settling

Carolyn, it seems like you settle for things. Like with these internships...things that are worth having don't come easily.

That's what he said the night I was remarkably clumsy with my feelings, thoughts and words.

And it both angered me and made me think. Internships aside, I think I do settle for things. I don't know when it started, but somewhere in the last two or three years I became consumed with the fear that the things I wanted in my life may not come to me; the idea that there was no guarantee that I would meet a man I could love, who could love me. That the road ahead in terms of being a writer and journalist would be so hard that I (probably) might not be able to make a comfortable living doing what it is I love.

Fear crept into my life. It still resides there. Fear of disappointment, of depression, of loss, of dashed hope. Intellectually, I know that most things have a 50/ 50 chance of working out in a positive way. I know that for any given possibility or thing I want to do, there is just as much chance of me succeeding as failing, which means that all the avenues are open. But it doesn't feel that way.

So, I find myself thinking and rethinking about his words. I don't want to cling to the belief that I'm not worth getting paid for my work, that the only way into a publication is an internship. I want to believe that if I act as an independent contractor, one day the door will open. I also want to believe that if it doesn't feel absolutely fabulous with a guy, he's not the one, no matter how much I'm afraid he might be the closest thing I find to love.

Her Downcast Eyes....

I tried to escape my thoughts and the heat as best I could, particularly in the summer time---with an evening walk.

The church stands in front of me, almost smiling, for it always seems to be a happy place to me, with its friendly and lovely facade, and it's bell, available for anyone to ring.

I walk up the dirt pathway as fervently as I can in stretchy workout pants and sweat-wicking athletic top. Taking in the church, with its beautiful glass and iron work, its arched door closed for the night, I peak into the dark silence of the hallowed space through one of its narrow slat windows.

I place my hand on her waist, looking up into her downcast eyes. She bears the cross upon her back, and I imagine that it must irritate the crests of her wings. I also wonder if its sacrilegious; isn't Jesus the only one depicted carrying the cross? "It's rarely silent enough for you and I to talk anymore," I say. But she does not reply. Her eyes aren't sad although she bears a weight and forever looks at the ground. The truth is, it's been many a year since I stood in her presence, and I can't recall that I ever wanted to talk to her. A few short years ago, I was so vehemently against the idea of religion and faith. And I almost laugh at how much of a 180 I've made, something I swore I'd never do.

Every once in a while he'll say "the catholics really got to you." And while I protest, I guess it's true. But I'm not ashamed of it.

-------------

I have recently met a man who is as strong as he is emotionally vulnerable. As open and loving as the best of them. He has the sorts of qualities I was afraid no man could possess. His openness, willingness to listen to anything (even the harsh things) I have to say amazes me and humbles me altogether. In the end he awes me, and shows that there are men out there who are kind, compassionate, and good listeners. For this, I thank him sincerely.

------------

Dedicated to G. I think you know who you are and you thoroughly deserve this post.

Growth

I want to watch myself grow. I want to feel every sprout of the arm and the leg, every ounce of straightening pride and fortification of backbone that only hard times and conquering of despair and life after heartbreak can bring. I want to watch the way I walk, so that when I step more gracefully, with more punctuation and stride, with more purpose and focus, I'll know what got me there.

I want to feel all of this and more, although I'll admit if I never felt depression again it would be too soon.

Thomas Paine Once Wrote.....

"These are the times that try men's souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman."

----Thomas Paine

I wish I could scratch these words into my skin, into my very soul in a way that would make them feel more tangible than they do. I try to walk in these words. I feel as though, in a time where finding MEANINGFUL, lucrative work is difficult; when finding work I want to do is difficult, and not knowing who I am and feeling as though I have no guarantee of how things are going to work out, I walk in these words. I feel them and they propel me into faith. They make me feel more vindicated; this is a hard time, and it is hard to stand tall in such a time. And for those who do it, they accomplish something quite special.

This Is All I Ask

I am filled with hope. That moon is full and glowing against the clouds. The clouds are a rarity in the Los Angeles summer sky when so much dry heat overcomes us. 

I am filled with hope of tomorrow and filled with equal parts fear that my hopes will be dashed and the disappointment will crush. I want to yell at the sky "but don't I deserve this? After all of the years wanting this, after all of the days and weeks and months that drag on with me craving just this, and being told I'm not the one." 

And I've had it in parts....his big hands, his acceptance and openness, the way he'd pull me to him, his arms around my waist, the way he wanted me. 

His sneer---confidence shown in his upturned lip, as sexy as it was pretentious and repulsive, the way he'd lean into me, that particular sexy move of his which consisted of a mouth and a necklace, his unerring belief that anything was possible. His humor on that first glorious day, our common interests.

His dark hair and unique, exotic, highly smart and intellectual self. His shoulders, not as broad as I like them, but his height and his body, something I felt in tune with. The way I felt so good sitting on that booth seat, sliding over to him as if it were nothing, as if we'd done it a hundred times before, his arm relaxed and over my shoulder, as if I were his. 

I've had all of these, just these parts and I feel as though I'm about die from exhaustion or burst at the seams over so much time of grasping at what I haven't had. I want all of it. 

That is all I ask for tomorrow. That is all I ask. 

The Decisions We Make, The Regrets We Have

As usual, I did my thinking in the car. My legs, heart and 6 am air dictate that tomorrow I shall take a long walk in a place that means a lot to me. Sleep should happen right now, but it won't, for I have ideas and words and feelings that need to spill out as fast as my fingers can type. 

What am I afraid of? 

I have realized finally that the shadowy thing in my way is fear. It stands in front of all the wild things I want to do. Fear and judgement. 

I'm talking with a friend of mine; talking of regrets, of the things we wish we'd done, and how our lives are progressing now. Existentialism by any other words.....

I've done some wild things, but things tempered by good judgement. I entered that abandoned factory only when I thought my chances of not getting caught were reasonably high. A smart decision on my part in terms of logistics and punishment, and yet, without the risk, was it as fun?

I think about myself twenty years from now. If I were to take my savings account right now, pour it into a motorcycle, hop on it and take myself to Memphis by way of Austin, would this change my life? This decision would undoubtedly set me back; the savings money would no longer be a buffer between my future existence of independence and a possible bad future job market. The savings account would no longer be there to come in handy for an emergency car repair or payment, the deposit on the apartment I want, the money I ultimately want to invest in a home. That money would be the cost of this motorcycle endeavor. And yet, would the cost be worth it? My parents would be disappointed, something I hate doing to them. But would this one act of danger, of wild, impulsive decision lead to adventures that would turn into a book or writings that take me to places I can't get to while walking the line?

When I was in middle school and especially in elementary school, I was so concerned with every decision I made and its impact on my future. I stupidly believed teachers in middle school that claimed the grades I made then would bleed into a college's decision to accept me or not. I look back now and think, really, middle school grades? Carolyn, how could you have believed them so willingly? They lied to you, possibly out of ignorance, possibly as a way to keep you on a particular track. 

I actually thought there was a permanent record, as the character of the cartoon Doug heard so often. A permanent record? I wish I had gotten detention a few times, possibly skipped school. I was so concerned with being the best, problem free child as a means to get along with everyone and to assist me in the letters of recommendation I would need for those college applications. But when I look back now, I think, how many people I went to high school with weren't as teacher friendly as I, weren't as motivated and their few run-ins with the principal and teachers did not stop them from getting into the college they wanted, or getting the letters of recommendation they needed. 

Have I walked a straight and narrow path for naught? And in the end, has it always been my decision to do so? If it were my decision wholly, would it then be one of the purest forms of radical, wild independence regardless of how the exterior of my "safe" decisions seem to others?

Beyond the Golden Rules (treat others the way you'd like to be treated, don't kill, don't steal, don't lie, have compassion), which cannot be questioned, I'm old enough now in my young 22 years to know that true independence is achieved when the decisions are made based on my own internal compass, without any sort of regard to the opinions and words of others. 

Looking back on my youngerchild years I realize that with a few exceptions, many of the rule-breaking decisions I could have made would not have affected my long-term goals or my life. Skipping school would have lead to fights with my parents and groundings. Big fucking deal. If those rebel moments had allowed me to feel unconstrained and free, perhaps that would have been worth the weeks I'd have spent grounded. I doubt that those weeks would affect the rest of my life. I would have turned out to be a writer anyway. 

But, at 22 I also think I am mature enough to know that as an adult, the decisions I make now are long reaching and dramatically affect my future. 

Somewhere along the line I went from being completely optimistic to being a negative-minded fatalistic sort of woman. I blame the crushing despair of past years. And yet, there are certain things in life I need to remind myself of. The date this Saturday has just as much a 50% chance of turning into something fantastic as something that doesn't spark me. The latter 50% would crush me while the former would lift me to heights of unbounded happiness. One is better than the other and yet neither will change me; I will still be that compassionate friend willing to lend a shoulder whenever, that determined and passionate writer, that romantic individual with a heart of platinum. 

But in a highly competitive field as journalism, in a ridiculously difficult job market, in a recession, the cost of taking off now and riding around on a motorcycle will impact my life in far reaching ways. Is it possible it can bring about some very good things? Yes. But my sense is that there's a bigger chance, more than 50% that this crapshoot will give me an adventure that takes me away from the big things I want to accomplish in life. Knowing how difficult it is to save money and accumulate it, that drained savings account will lend me more certain time living in a home with little privacy. It will certainly guarantee a loss in internship possibility and with it marketing myself, my words and networking with others. And with that loss, I might have lost the opportunities at the right time I needed to make bounds and leaps into the directions I want to go. I guess I'm trying to say that this isn't a question of detention in a principal's office, this is money, food, shelter and living. These decisions are not innocuous anymore; they have major implications. Cost opportunity, with true costs. 

I think in the end it's the best to realize that part of the human condition is regret. Twenty years from now I have no doubt that there will be regrets I carry. But will the smart, "walk the line" decisions I make now leave me comfortable and happy in the future? Yes, I have the utmost faith in that. I look at my father and think about all of the bohemian, gritty, adventurous things he did when he was even younger than I. 

He drove around, doing lighting for bands, unloading equipment for the Rolling Stones, hanging with musicians. He bounced around and tried drafting, architectural drawing, only to turn down the right street in the wrong direction and he wound up with a television job. That television job led to moves to Austin, and then to California television, where he ultimately met people like Bill Holden, Carol Burnett and Gregory Peck. These adventures gave him a place of prestige at CBS, a very healthy paycheck, and a good home and life for my mother and myself. 

He won't open up about much else, so I don't know if there were many costs to his decisions. Suffice it to say that in all the things I think that were cool about his decisions, he does have regrets he's talked of. Many a time I hear him say he regrets not finishing his degree at University of Texas Austin, having a child too young, marrying when he wasn't ready to be a husband, regretting not going to a four year university and having the college experience. In the end, his adventures led to good things, but this didn't eliminate his sense of regret. No matter the adventures taken, I think there is just as much a chance of regret for not having a more safe, secure and structured life. 

I think the most mature thing is to realize that no matter what path a person has lived, the opposite, the road not taken will always haunt. 

I realize now that I loved (?) him for many reasons, one of them, a bit embarrassingly, is that I wanted to be like him. I wanted to be that 27 year old who was full of ideas, of bravery (bravado), and risk. I wanted to be that person who was bold enough to have a fire tattoo on the back of my calf, to hop on my motorcycle and take the curves too tight, too fast, and write about my travels. To do what I wanted, when I wanted and make a paycheck because of it. I wanted to be that dark horse that wasn't tender-hearted--who could have a lover in every city. Who could engage in sex and dates without getting hurt, with nothing but an article, a fulfilled libido and an orgasm as my accomplishments at the end of the night or the top of the morning. I wanted to be that person that did everything they dreamed of, and furthermore, did it with this attitude, of take-it-or-leave-it, fuck-'em-all-I'll-do-what-I-want-and-make-money-at-it-too.  

I wanted to be him because his sense of himself was so much more sure than mine. He was living the dream and he looked really good doing it too. 

And yet, my final thoughts for tonight will be this: he has regrets too, I know it. He wrote that he feels a sense of loneliness that stems from his traveling. He doesn't own a sense of home, of placement. Though I do not know how much, it seems as though his words had an ache to them. At around the time I knew him, he was $5,000 in debt and living off of rice and beans. He had no companionship from a cat; none of these things seem desirable to me. 

I don't think debt or a dependence on rice and beans is a good thing; his thin body and empty biceps said as much. So did his breath which smelled of cigarettes---having watched grandparents wither away and die painfully because of smoking related illnesses, I can say, years from now, he's going to regret the cigarette smoking as well. 

Every decision has a regret attached because every decision is based on a cost-benefit analysis. 

And in the end, I am me. CEN. There ain't no one else out there like me, and I will find my way to my most authentic self when I no longer care about the adventures or decisions of others. I'll find my way and have no apologies. You just wait! 

Za Za Zu

I sit here listening to 1945 Gene Krupa and Orchestra jazz, my head spinning from all of the things in the works since this week began, and it's only Tuesday. 

My last post really took it out of me, exhausting me in a way I haven't felt in a long time, and yet I think, out of all my blog writing, it is one of  the two pieces I'm most proud of. I still wonder if I did the right thing by divulging so much personal information in such a public space. There are demons I've kept secret for a long time and things that still hide in the shadows. But in the end, I'm me and you either take me as I am, or you don't take me at all. 

But I sit here, procrastinating from cleaning my room (a process three months in the making), vacuuming, finishing that article, printing out my samples portfolio and cleaning the kitchen. 

I've been thinking a lot about attraction lately. What is attraction? Is sexual attraction something which must only be accomplished organically, when you least expect it? Is the organic piece of it the thing that gives you that oomph feeling, that spring in the step, and fire in the belly, the excitement, as Carrie says---the Za Za Zu? Or is it possible to find someone you think you might personally be compatible with, seek them out and then find the attraction later? This kind of attraction would be planned then, because the seeking out of the compatible person would be deliberate. Is it possible to get that Oxytocin rush that way? Or does the deliberate nature of it negate any sort of natural rush. Granted, the deliberate nature doesn't mean forcing sexual chemistry to come about, it just means that expectations of getting on well personally are already established and the excitement part is hoped for. 

I can look back on my little bits of experience and say that the most spark-worthy experiences I've had with men happen when I'm not looking at all. My heart is always open for love, but sometimes I force my head to focus on a job or adventure or family, and in so doing, after months of loneliness, something completely unexpected pops up and it takes my breath away. What a fabulous occurrence. Having that guy that looks so good take my breath away when he's interested in me! 

The down side here though, is that in all of these circumstances, things haven't worked out for me, and even more so, I'm the one left feeling more attached and hurt. So in the end is it worth it? The optimist in me hopes it's possible to go out with someone I think I'd personally be compatible with, and then meeting him, get the butterflies too. Here's to hoping for the compatible za za zu. 

The Church

The darkness and the subsequent silence of the church surprised me. So did the open door, beckoning me to enter.

I'd thought many a time to do just this--to go to the church by myself and sit in silence--the place where I worshipped as a child, where I walked alongside my father, taking communion with him.

I entered the church, worried that Father Rob would be there, preparing his sermon or setting the altar; I didn't want to be seen, for I wanted to stare alone at that magnificent glass scene depicting Christ's empty tomb, an angel standing beside the stone door, rolled aside to show that He had left, risen from death to new life. I wanted to sit and pray slowly and fervently to the Divine.

That stained glass window has always amazed me. How is it possible for a piece of glass to be so vividly red and deep in hue? The gold looks like it is lighting the way, almost vibrant enough to transport me to another place beyond this world.

I love this church for selfish and unethical reasons; it looks English and is so as it is Episcopalian. It touches my heart as a tie to the English/ Irish roots that run through my blood. But something more than that has brought me back time after time after all of these years.

As I've grown older, my deepening of faith has surprised me. To the outside world, though I raged and argued against God (something I do on a weekly basis), faith and especially the Catholic Church as a teenager, I've always been a spiritual person. As a child, I was probably more faithful than most, believing without a doubt that there was a heaven, where even animals are admitted. I still believe this. I've heard the Catholics don't, but I say fuck 'em. It only makes sense that the animals that loved me so unconditionally and who bore witness to the difficulties of my growth, puberty and adolescence should be reborn on a plane of eternal happiness. As a child I also believed in spirits and ghosts. I still do.

And now that I'm a grown woman, searching for myself, I feel that my faith keeps deepening.

I remember when it happened. (I pause here, thinking about how much I wish to divulge. This is a public forum after all. I strive to write for me, to make this blog all about me, to write for me with no consideration to who may read it or if it is even followed.)

------------------

I remember when it happened... when I felt there was truly Divine energy because I had encountered an angel.

------------Oct. 31, 2004

I was miserable, just back to school from Fall Break in late October of 2004, after seeing my parents for the first time since living on my own in college. At this point in my life I didn't know I was medically ill. I had always been a worrier, even as a young, young child. As I became a teenager I experienced bouts of intense depression; I could be starving and didn't want to eat anything. I'd live off of one small snack a day. I couldn't stop crying, feeling as though a part of me was dead inside. I couldn't sleep but spent hours lying awake at night tossing and turning, worrying about all the things that I couldn't control in life, of the future, and worrying about myself and who I was.

The depression worsened as I grew older, returning more frequently than it had when I was a child.

Now, I found myself in college, trying to run away from the depression that had plagued me for years in high school. I thought with college, a change of scene, getting older and hormones settling down would alleviate all or most of my intense symptoms.

By the time Oct. 31st (with the exception of my birthday, my favorite day of the whole year) I had slipped back into a depression that was a week, and many sleepless nights old. I felt like I was at my wits' end. Nothing had changed. I was still miserable. I was still anxious, worrying all the time, feeling guilty for thoughts I could not control.

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Anne was a young woman I'd met in my home-base/ icebreakers group at University of Portland over Orientation Weekend. She was very tall (she's 6 ft 1) and you couldn't not notice her. She was nice and she liked cats, so naturally we got along quite well. Over the next few weeks, we'd meet with our mutual acquaintances for lunch, and we were friends, but only slightly so.

Everything changed when I came back from working out at the gym that Sunday, the 31st. I was so down I didn't even get a costume (a thing quite unlike me) and everyone was gearing up for Halloween festivities in the dorms. I returned from my attempt to exhaust myself into sleep and I walked through the first floor where Anne was decorating the hall for the little kids who would soon be trick-or-treating the hallways. She looked up at me, we exchanged hellos and she instantly saw that I wasn't happy.

"How are you?"

"Not good," I said as I tried my best to stop from tearing up.

"Do you want to talk?" she said.

Here's where everything changed. Up until this point I had hardly spoken about the specter that followed me, the sickness of the soul I had carried for so long. I thought no one could love me or like me or get me or want to be friends with me if they knew what I dealt with, how I suffered. Not even my best friend of many years knew what I struggled with. I'd told no one but my parents. And when asked about how I felt on a day to day basis, my answer was the clipped, "I'm fine." A lie, packaged in two words that seemed to stop other people from asking too many in-depth questions about how I was really feeling.

At this precise moment, I made a leap of faith and took one large step towards showing myself my own strength.

"Yes," I strangled out as she folded her arms around me and I started crying into her shoulder.

We went down to the study rooms, at this point vacant and quiet, offering some privacy. With equal parts relief and fear, I told her about how I was feeling, what I was thinking, how awful I had been feeling.

To my surprise, she kept listening to me; there was no hightailing it to the door---I didn't scare her away with my truth or my jagged slump-shouldered sobs. Even more to my surprise, I had finally opened up, become vulnerable to a person who understood depression and anxiety, on a firsthand level.

Her words saved me that night, as they did on subsequent nights and later years, and the sheer fact that I opened up, so raw and vulnerable, to the right person at the right time, in my time of need, was a personal miracle. Her kindness, faith and acceptance were beautiful to me and her ongoing support and faith in me was a sign of unconditional love; something I'd never felt.

Though many people might claim coincidence, I know that it was not. She was Angel in that moment, transcending the human form and tapping into a source of Divine love I needed so much.

I've thought about this turning point in my life many times over, especially on the rare occasion I get to see Annie, and today was no different---the dark, empty wooden pews; the knee rests and prayer books cloistered in that cool, dark and silent church brought all of this back to me. As I sat there looking at the empty tomb and thinking about the promise of Christ's miracle, I realized I had experienced one of my own. God is ever with me because I still talk with Anne.

If the only thing I was thankful for today was cool twilight breezes and sun dappled eucalyptus, that's enough for me. 

Smiles

When he asked me what my smile meant, I shrugged it off. If only he knew all that I was thinking. 

"You and I want the same things out of life." Don't say that! I wanted to scream, but all I could do was keep smiling. 

A smile can hide a lot of things. Sometimes a smile is something other than an indication of happiness, but an outward expression of a sarcastic chiding to the self. A "I should have known" or "of course this X thing would happen" or "how ironic."

I've been told all of my life that I'm a bad liar, and my eyes have always given me away. Behind the blue-green exterior, there are longings and emotions that are felt too deeply, and can be transmitted no other way than through the nuances of the eyes, for words are too clumsy to explain these things. Thank God it was dark and the shadows hid my eyes from further examination.

I am an emotional sado masochist, placing myself in situations that do nothing but throw the truth and pain in my face. I'm not wanted. I'm not coveted, I'm not seen as anything special out of the crowd. I don't mean anything to any man. And it should seem so cruel to be made to crave something so much and live many years without it. Almost as if the Creator wanted to play a sick joke: I will Create this person who yearns for this, and I'll dangle a bone in front of her nose every once and a while, but she'll go what feels like an eternity without gnawing on it. 

How can my voice sound so small and childish when I have so many things to say with an intensity? When I feel full of passion for the word? How can I feel simultaneously so young and inexperienced, and yet so old and mature? How can I be so impatient and yet be calm and hopeful? Perhaps within my multitudes, I am a series of opposites as well. 

I Live By.....

The main character of the movie Memento tattoos important messages into his skin as a recall technique in place of his inability to remember things from day to day. 

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There are certain codes I live by, and certain themes that are recurrent in my life. Sometimes I draw my brand, my initials onto my skin. This ritual started a few years ago when I was presented with a situation in which I could give in to what temporarily felt good and soothe my loneliness and desperation, or I could be truthful to myself. They were mutually exclusive. I could not be true to myself, and also have his affection, which also meant I leapt into a self-made position of heart ache.  The worst injury I could commit to my soul would be to wrong myself. 

I live by these words: 

I say what I mean and mean what I say about 98% of the time. The remaining 2% happens when I say something I don't mean in order to be conciliatory or to diffuse an argument or bad situation. I'm striving to make that 2% as honest to myself as the other 98%. I strive to be a person of my word.  I want people to know that when I say something, I stand behind it. 

I'm an all or nothing sort of woman. I don't want halfway. Halfway is a No Man's Land filled with nothing but rough gems hidden under land mines. Halfway hurts; I know, because I've done it more than once. 

I believe in the idealist, romantic, optimistic potential of human life. I believe that we can strive to be better than our base instincts and sins. I believe that love and faith and compassion are the best parts of being human. 

I keep placing my faith in faith. I was in the car just yesterday thinking about my lack of a job. I feel as though I keep knocking on doors, but without one opening, I can't go far. All of the knocking has to eventually be reciprocated at one point or another in order for me to move forward. I was thinking to myself that the world needed to reciprocate and then I had a very sober thought: I asked myself what makes you think the world owes you anything? I'm still not sure how to answer that. All I can say is that I'm putting out all of this mental energy, and for what? And I want to shout and beg and plead with God, verbally shaking my fists, pounding the earth with passion, because I so badly want to know where I'm going and what I should be doing and when I pray, I hear nothing but silence. I understand how Luther and others were mad with a fervor to understand in the face of silence. 

I live these things with all that I am. I am a writer. I am a seeker, a wanderer, a dreamer a reporter. I'm willing to work as hard as a plough horse--a great big Percheron or Clydesdale, hitched to equipment, throwing my shoulders and muscled quarters into the work, but the work has to present itself. 

I ask myself, how much more can I ask the universe to grant me what I want, as The Secret people say? The only thing I can think of would be to etch my words and codes of conduct into my flesh, but they are already in my heart. My moral codes and my wishes for meaningful work are with me everywhere I go. I think I'll leave the self-inflicted harm to that dude in Memento but I wish I could do something more than all that I have been doing.

I'd Like to Give My Thanks

This post is dedicated to two characters, and really to two writers. I'd like to send my deepest gratitude to Mma Ramotswe and Detective Harry Bosch, authors Alexander McCall Smith and Michael Connelly. 

Mma Ramotswe is an amazing individual which might sound funny given that she is a character of fiction. She is always above fair in her judgement of things to be done; she was once on a case where patients at a particular ward of a hospital in Botswana were dying at precisely 2pm on Friday afternoons. When she learns that the cleaning staff at 2pm clean that particular room in that ward and unplug ventilating machines in order to plug in a vacuum, her client insists the maid should be fired for causing the deaths of three people. 

Ever in her wisdom, Mma Ramotswe judges that no good will come from the firing of a maid, who's husband has died and who has three children to support, for doing something she didn't even know was wrong. Wasn't it the duty of the hospital to train the cleaning staff on health code procedure, Mma Ramotswe asks?

After staying with a family who do nothing but yell at each other and cast snide remarks at one another, Mma Ramotswe was almost poisoned to death. She insists that her fee has gone up to the tone of 100,000 pula, but it's not until the end of the episode (or book) that we find out she doesn't ask for the money herself, but for the orphan farm outside of Gabarone. 

When a woman comes to her certain that her husband has bought a Mercedes he knows was stolen from South Africa, the woman asks Mma Ramotswe for help. She doesn't want to turn her husband in, merely, she wants the car returned to its rightful owner so that God will know the right thing was done. Mma Ramotswe figures she will "steal" the car from her client's house, drive it across the border and give it to a police friend of hers who will return it to its rightful owner. Who, may I ask, commits such a creative crime? Only the wonderful No. 1 Lady Detective. 

Harry Bosch is a damaged character, and it's for this reason that I love him. His heart is in the right place, although he makes some judgement calls that place him in charge of a person's life, instead of a court of law. He speaks for the dead because their lives were taken, and with that, their voices. He takes the matters into his heart; he doesn't just feel or handle his cases on an intellectual level, he feels them, and in this, he lives an extremely rough life. 

His depth of character and emotion are nothing that I can replicate with my words, which do nothing but vaguely describe a diamond without illuminating all of its facets. At the end of the day, Harry Bosch is a man seeking justice, a bird with a broken wing but a fearsome bite, a smoker, a lover, and most of all, one who looks to right the worst of wrongs. He kick an ass and send a zinger as instinctively as he puts long-forgotten pieces of a case together, and he does none of this because of personal glory--only because it's his mission in life. 

 

to be continued......

Gentleman

I'm such a gentleman, I thought to myself, as I leaned into him, pulling up the hem of his shirt and covertly slipping a 10 into his front jeans pocket. I couldn't really afford to give up the 10 dollar bill, but I figured I should give him a little for paying for the taxi and the drinks.

Somewhere between the second and third shot of Patron I figured that I could probably order myself a Red Lion or a grapefruit martini on his open tab, and I probably deserved too as well. I was the third wheel with two other people, one an acquaintance, the second, even less so--and the "third wheel rights" probably would have afforded me some personal indulgence on his dime. After all, I'd kind of been ditched by my friend and left behind in the third wheel configuration--one that was supposed to be more platonic, but the booze was working on the two of them, so they ended up lip locked against the wall. Luckily, I didn't have to be the killjoy, because she was the first to suggest we go back to her place. After dancing with the both of them in a bar atmosphere not quite ready for dancing --taking my arms away from his neck, we went outside where his sister drove us all and we reconvened with our mutual friend.

It's a good thing I didn't have that fourth shot of Patron--or I'd have been as wasted as them. I got to enjoy my tipsy buzz, with just enough drunkenness to be silly. Luckily for me, the only thing I regretted was taking my top off back at the house, wandering around in a bra in front of a few people I didn't know too well. They were lucky enough to see hints of a nice rack--a thing not every one of my paramours have seen. If I'd had that fourth shot of Patron the bra might have been lost when he said "let's all take off our tops."

But a lady never loses all of her clothes on a first date, gets too drunk or too loud. After all, I'm a gentleman.

Movement

I'm often in the car these days, or on my bike. Anything to keep me moving. I like being on that tennis court and wish I could come up with a system to get me on the court more often. I love anticipating that ball, matching its trajectory and placing my racquet at just the right place to hear the sweet spot sing with that onomatopoeic "phut." I love the feel of stretching out my arm and catching the ball and smashing it to the other side at that spot, down in "no man's land" that opponents can't get to. 

It's the movement I like. I feel that if I can keep my feet moving and my body tilting forward in air long enough, other parts of my life will follow suit and I'll move out of my lull. It's not good to be a ship stuck in still water, no wind in the sails. 

Looking back through papers I wrote while I was at Cal State LA, I realize how far my writing's come. It's one of the things I like so much about the creative process. I once had a young journalism professor of mine tell me in college that my class's work inspired her to be a better writer and that her writing was constantly evolving. I wonder if Edward Robert Hughes or Albert Bierstadt or William Hogarth felt that way about their painting. 

I read through these papers and I see little things I would change--an altered word or phrase there, a grammatical mistake here. And I realize, as I did then, after coming home from Paris, the trip I wanted so badly, the one I dreamed of for years, the one that didn't happen--that I wanted to be a writer. I'd known that for a few months. Now, in a time in my life where I am feeling creatively blocked, having no new ideas or pitches, not having my voice heard, I look back on these papers and see all that I've done since. I was merely a student then. I've been published in four periodicals since. I was a Senior writer for one of them, a paid freelancer for three, and made the front page feature of a major city paper. 

Onward!--I say to myself. It'll happen again. 

Until then I must follow suit and keep moving, as Tom Petty says "...I dig you baby but I've got to keep movin'/ on...gotta keep movin' on"

Scales

There is a theory that by thinking of something with a lot of focus, you attract that thing to you. This concept has been espoused by many people, including Oprah, and has been written about in many a book, including the bestseller The Secret. 

As a Libra I'm constantly trying to balance things, to weigh them, and to give each side its fair time with arguing its theses. The romantic, hopeful, optimist in me wants to say that I believe in this theory. Maybe it really is as simple as mind over matter. After all, Einstein's genius is attributed to the fact that he used 7% of his brain instead of the 3% we mere mortals use; this seems to suggest to me that the human mind is full of potential that is quite literally above and beyond. And if this is true, then if we think about something enough, isn't it feasible that it will happen? There are enough testimonials from wealthy, accomplished, experts who say they've used the Law of Attraction, and this indicates that the Law may really work. 

And yet, the doubter in me wants to believe that it can't be as simple as that. I dream of being a successful freelance writer. I have been known to have extraordinary powers of imagination and focus and I have literally focused on the picture of myself in an office, about town, with a Blackberry ringing off the hook from editors that want me to write for them. I come home to an apartment that I like, feeling tired, and there is my cat, happy to see me. Best of all I invite a boyfriend, just the kind-hearted, dark and handsome, humorous gentleman I imagine who makes me laugh and wraps his arms around my waist as I stir the dinner I've got going in a pan. 

I can imagine it. And yet, it isn't here. Instead, I've gone many years without the kind of love I want and imagine, and I find that at almost every turn, I run into a wall when it comes to making money through writing. Journalism is changing; it's moving from objective, fact-based, edited news, to bloggy shit written by anyone who has google. If an internship is how one is supposed to move up into a field and make money, then I'm screwed--because I'm too old for an internship. I have enough experience to know what's what, and to deserve pay and yet I haven't been hired yet. I have too little experience for the LA Times or another news service, but I don't qualify for a media internship because I'm no longer in school. I made the mistake of succeeding and graduating, instead of bumming around in college longer than was necessary. 

I have faith merely because life is easier to live when you look on the bright side of things. But that doesn't mean I don't get consumed by fear and disappointment and rage at life every once in a while. 

Hair

Her eyes are dark brown and slightly slanted, with only the most kind of crows' feet crinkling at the edges and above her high, circularly sculpted cheekbones.

I have known her eyes for more years than I can remember. Her hands have trimmed and cut and shaped my hair for more than a decade. As I sat back in the booth and looked across at her, I realized that this woman has seen me grow up--transforming from a knee-high thing with stringy golden brown hair, to a curvy woman with thick auburn hair . She says that I am like one of her babies, like one of the two daughters she's raised. I feel blessed to have this woman in my life, however peripherally she might be.

She, more than I, knows what the real American dream is: I was born with a bronze spoon in my mouth. She emigrated from China and came with no money, eventually had two children, bought a house in South Pasadena, learned an entirely different language, owned a business, and sent her girls to college. She came from not much and ended up with a home, love and a family.

There are few people I have met that give with so much whole-hearted kindness and humbleness. She is one of them. I wonder what other ways she'll see me grow up in. How many more years her hands and scissors will trim away bad men, failed relationships, hopes, dreams from my life. I'm like Sampson, in that I hold a lot in my hair; for him it was strength, for me it is experience. Cut the hair, change the life. Much shorter bangs are punctuating this part of my life. I wonder how many different hairstyles she'll see me wear.