In the middle of last August, a death occurred. Aunt Linda passed away. My aunt. My second mother. She left and I realized that I wasn't living. I kept thinking when I move out, when I have a place of my own, when I have a boyfriend, when I finally start making money, when I find that professional job, then I'll start living; then I'll decorate my room the way I want to, then I'll entertain the way I want to, then I'll live the way I want to. Then I'll start living the life I wanted. She was gone in the physical sense, and somewhere along the line I had stopped living long before she left this world.
I turned 25 in late September and panicked. I visited San Francisco in early October, and saw the city that I knew meant a great deal to him. I still carried him around.
Late October, I played the role of bridesmaid and reconnected with people that mean such a great deal to me; realized what was missing in my everyday Los Angeles existence.
Came home and realized that Anne had made a life for herself and chosen her own family when she said those vows. She was wed. I was alone. He emailed. I emailed back. He asked me to coffee. I agonized over the decision. Should I see him? November 3rd was a Monday and my legs were as solid as jelly as I went to that coffee shop and beheld that which had haunted me for nearly three years. And then, something fantastic happened. I looked at him and realized I didn't like him or want him anymore. I had seen the face of real love at Anne's wedding and he was not it. I had finished my coffee and I was tired of hearing him preach and go on about all of the things he was doing in his life. So, with no delay or any consideration for his feelings I said, well, I gotta go, and I did.
I was done living my life through his eyes, through what I thought were his parameters. It was time I started living my life according to my own priorities.
And then, I felt free. When I was invited out to a party or a get-together, I went, instead of choosing to sit alone at home. And then I met someone who was a writer, a friend of a friend, a man who made me laugh and who pursued me. I met someone great. And I went out and I liberated myself from the things that had constrained me.
Life continues to be hard. I am constantly split between pushing for a journalism career and trying something else to obtain a secure job. I haven't found the one or reached my dream dress size. I haven't moved out and things aren't going so well at my regular day job. To the casual observer, it may seem as though my life has stayed much the same. But that's not the case at all. I'm different. My life is different. I'm freer now than I have been in years and for the first real time in a long time, I have some faith. Faith in circumstances. Faith in the world. More faith than I could ever imagine in my friends. And more faith in myself.
Like a sculptor shaping clay into a new form, I have recreated and reshaped myself. I did. And for that reason, my blog posts have become fewer and farther between. I may never officially end this blog, but for the foreseeable future, I want to stop writing about myself and start LIVING this new life.
I'll see ya out in the world.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Life is risky....
Love is rare. It is so rare.
I've come to realize, at 25, and with a bit of dating under my belt, that it is truly rare for me to find a person I can love, because he makes me laugh, and he's kind, and generous and gentlemanly and communicative and handsome and full of love and passion; it's rare to find that person and even rarer for that person, I find, to love me back.
When I was a child I assumed that life was guaranteed to some extent or another, the major things in life would in fact happen, and with some hard work and a lot of determination, the things I wanted would come to me. I would make top marks in high school, get into a prestigious university, study hard, learn what I was passionate about and pursue it, get an educational internship, which would lead to a good paying job, find the love of my life with little effort, and if I wanted to have children in the future, they would come effortlessly too.
It is now, post-degreed and in the real world, with a real minimum wage job, bills, daily realities, that I know few things, if anything in life is guaranteed. Life is risky. That's my new mantra. It's risky to go out with someone I really like but don't feel romantic towards, and turn him down for something I think is potentially a better fit for me. The age old question....take a bird in the hand, or wait for two in the bush? Friends are pairing up left and right, finding the loves of their lives. I love these friends and are so happy for them, and yet so jealous. What is the secret formula? How have they found the One? What did they do that's different from what I'm doing? When will things change for me? Will they one day be dancing at my wedding?
Life is risky. This I know. It's risky to date, to see what's out there, to get a taste of something great. But I'm taking the risk.
I've come to realize, at 25, and with a bit of dating under my belt, that it is truly rare for me to find a person I can love, because he makes me laugh, and he's kind, and generous and gentlemanly and communicative and handsome and full of love and passion; it's rare to find that person and even rarer for that person, I find, to love me back.
When I was a child I assumed that life was guaranteed to some extent or another, the major things in life would in fact happen, and with some hard work and a lot of determination, the things I wanted would come to me. I would make top marks in high school, get into a prestigious university, study hard, learn what I was passionate about and pursue it, get an educational internship, which would lead to a good paying job, find the love of my life with little effort, and if I wanted to have children in the future, they would come effortlessly too.
It is now, post-degreed and in the real world, with a real minimum wage job, bills, daily realities, that I know few things, if anything in life is guaranteed. Life is risky. That's my new mantra. It's risky to go out with someone I really like but don't feel romantic towards, and turn him down for something I think is potentially a better fit for me. The age old question....take a bird in the hand, or wait for two in the bush? Friends are pairing up left and right, finding the loves of their lives. I love these friends and are so happy for them, and yet so jealous. What is the secret formula? How have they found the One? What did they do that's different from what I'm doing? When will things change for me? Will they one day be dancing at my wedding?
Life is risky. This I know. It's risky to date, to see what's out there, to get a taste of something great. But I'm taking the risk.
Friday, November 4, 2011
25 and the San Francisco trip, October, 2011
Excerpted from my travel journal:
October 3, 2011
I'm heading northbound on the Caltrain from San Jose to South San Francisco, rolling past modest little homes by the side of the tracks. Jason Isbell is playing on the stupid fucking iTouch in my pocket that refuses to get wifi and leaves me stranded in San Bruno with no internet service and therefore, no maps or taxi cab phone numbers. This is the first time I've been to the North Bay area in almost 10 years. I didn't much like it then, so let's hope I like it better this time around.
This trip has begun with snafus and frustration; missing hotel confirmation information, the afore-mentioned broken iTouch, the decision to take the Caltrain instead of a shuttle from San Jose to San Francisco Airport, taking an airplane instead of driving the six hours from Los Angeles to the city.
It's okay though, time ticks away and trips are often a microcosm of life in general. Sometimes trips start or end roughly, but often there are highlights, turns that lead you somewhere surprising, fabulous, unexpected.
------------
10:30pm, October 3, 2011
First impressions of San Francisco go like this; the city so far reminds me less of its Northwest siblings and more so of a smaller, slightly better smelling New York City in so far as the Union Square area shopping is top-notch and Armenian-owned crystal chandelier shops abound. The city even smells reminiscent of New York; a faint urine smell fills the air. Buildings are old and crowded, especially in Chinatown, hallways and bathrooms are scuffed up and paint peels from the walls.
I love the feeling that there's more to this city than I've seen so far and I have a suspicion that there's another flavor-perhaps like that of my beloved Portland and Seattle that I have yet to taste---like those cities, San Francisco lies amidst dense forest and cold water after all.
------------
11:30 AM, October 5, 2011
Yesterday, mom and I took the BART into the Embaracadero Station on the edge of the Financial District. Occupy Wall Street movement had set up camp in the Financial District and it made me feel proud that the activist tradition in this area is once again alive and kicking. I looked out to the warehouses and the piers and thrilled at the idea that I was looking out at the same water and the same view, traversing the same streets that Kerouac walked--the same Embaracadero he talked about.
Fisherman's Wharf reminded me of a less glitzy Times Square; everyone hawking the same meaningless trinkets, post cards, disposable cameras, t-shirts and sweatshirts. I'll be honest, I wasn't impressed with the Wharf.
We took a sight-seeing bus tour of the San Fran highlights, Golden Gate Bridge, Golden Gate Park, the Victorian row houses. I am astounded with Golden Gate Park, so beautiful, so vast.....
Money has slipped from my pockets and I haven't been keeping track of where it goes as I've been traveling. A planner, I usually revel in planning a trip; buying trip books and guides, searching online for information about the city, places to shop, things to do. Planning a vacation is the best part; it's the mental foreplay, all about what's to come before the orgasm of the actual trip.
This San Francisco trip is different though. No guidebooks, little research, little forethought. This trip is a celebration of me turning 25. Maybe, like the trip, my 25th year can be unplanned, unguided. Maybe I need more spontaneity and blind faith that stuff works out.
October 3, 2011
I'm heading northbound on the Caltrain from San Jose to South San Francisco, rolling past modest little homes by the side of the tracks. Jason Isbell is playing on the stupid fucking iTouch in my pocket that refuses to get wifi and leaves me stranded in San Bruno with no internet service and therefore, no maps or taxi cab phone numbers. This is the first time I've been to the North Bay area in almost 10 years. I didn't much like it then, so let's hope I like it better this time around.
This trip has begun with snafus and frustration; missing hotel confirmation information, the afore-mentioned broken iTouch, the decision to take the Caltrain instead of a shuttle from San Jose to San Francisco Airport, taking an airplane instead of driving the six hours from Los Angeles to the city.
It's okay though, time ticks away and trips are often a microcosm of life in general. Sometimes trips start or end roughly, but often there are highlights, turns that lead you somewhere surprising, fabulous, unexpected.
------------10:30pm, October 3, 2011
First impressions of San Francisco go like this; the city so far reminds me less of its Northwest siblings and more so of a smaller, slightly better smelling New York City in so far as the Union Square area shopping is top-notch and Armenian-owned crystal chandelier shops abound. The city even smells reminiscent of New York; a faint urine smell fills the air. Buildings are old and crowded, especially in Chinatown, hallways and bathrooms are scuffed up and paint peels from the walls.
I love the feeling that there's more to this city than I've seen so far and I have a suspicion that there's another flavor-perhaps like that of my beloved Portland and Seattle that I have yet to taste---like those cities, San Francisco lies amidst dense forest and cold water after all.
------------
11:30 AM, October 5, 2011
Yesterday, mom and I took the BART into the Embaracadero Station on the edge of the Financial District. Occupy Wall Street movement had set up camp in the Financial District and it made me feel proud that the activist tradition in this area is once again alive and kicking. I looked out to the warehouses and the piers and thrilled at the idea that I was looking out at the same water and the same view, traversing the same streets that Kerouac walked--the same Embaracadero he talked about.
Fisherman's Wharf reminded me of a less glitzy Times Square; everyone hawking the same meaningless trinkets, post cards, disposable cameras, t-shirts and sweatshirts. I'll be honest, I wasn't impressed with the Wharf.
We took a sight-seeing bus tour of the San Fran highlights, Golden Gate Bridge, Golden Gate Park, the Victorian row houses. I am astounded with Golden Gate Park, so beautiful, so vast.....
Money has slipped from my pockets and I haven't been keeping track of where it goes as I've been traveling. A planner, I usually revel in planning a trip; buying trip books and guides, searching online for information about the city, places to shop, things to do. Planning a vacation is the best part; it's the mental foreplay, all about what's to come before the orgasm of the actual trip.
This San Francisco trip is different though. No guidebooks, little research, little forethought. This trip is a celebration of me turning 25. Maybe, like the trip, my 25th year can be unplanned, unguided. Maybe I need more spontaneity and blind faith that stuff works out.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
A Candle and All Hallow's Eve
Last night I participated in an old Irish custom I've read about in books.
When I was but a child, my mother's friend gave me a book for my birthday called Witches, Pumpkins, and Grinning Ghosts by Edna Barth. I've always had an affinity for Halloween and the change of seasons, which in Los Angeles happens in very subtle ways, and I was delighted to read the book.
Barth's book was written at a child's level to help children understand the meaning of Halloween and the origins that spawned the Halloween symbols of carved pumpkins, ghosts, witches, owls and cats.
Barth writes, "There was nothing make-believe about the fears of the Scotch, Irish and English on this same evening [October 31st] years ago. This was the night when ghosts, the spirits or disembodied souls of the dead, were thought to return to their former homes, looking for warmth and cheer.....Throughout Gaul and Britain, huge Samhain fires lighted the skies above hilltops. Their bright flames were meant to guide kindly ghosts on their journeys home and frighten evil ones away."
In Lisa Carey's novel In the Country of the Young, Oisin MacDara is a moody, lonely, solitary artist who, as a child, had the gift of "second sight" where he was able to see spirits that lived alongside the living. After his twin sister's suicide, he loses the sight and wishes every day to regain it. The book jacket reads, "Then on a quiet All Hallow's Eve, a restless spirit is beckoned into his [Oisin's] home by a candle flickering in the window: the ghost of the girl whose brief life ended on Tiranogue's shore more than a century earlier. In Oisin's house she seeks comfort and warmth, and a chance at the life that was denied her so long ago."
In the vain hope and mostly superstition, but also as a link to my Celtic ancestors, I lit a candle in my window, last night on October 31, as a way to welcome my aunt and uncle home, wherever they may be.
When I was but a child, my mother's friend gave me a book for my birthday called Witches, Pumpkins, and Grinning Ghosts by Edna Barth. I've always had an affinity for Halloween and the change of seasons, which in Los Angeles happens in very subtle ways, and I was delighted to read the book.
Barth's book was written at a child's level to help children understand the meaning of Halloween and the origins that spawned the Halloween symbols of carved pumpkins, ghosts, witches, owls and cats.
Barth writes, "There was nothing make-believe about the fears of the Scotch, Irish and English on this same evening [October 31st] years ago. This was the night when ghosts, the spirits or disembodied souls of the dead, were thought to return to their former homes, looking for warmth and cheer.....Throughout Gaul and Britain, huge Samhain fires lighted the skies above hilltops. Their bright flames were meant to guide kindly ghosts on their journeys home and frighten evil ones away."
In Lisa Carey's novel In the Country of the Young, Oisin MacDara is a moody, lonely, solitary artist who, as a child, had the gift of "second sight" where he was able to see spirits that lived alongside the living. After his twin sister's suicide, he loses the sight and wishes every day to regain it. The book jacket reads, "Then on a quiet All Hallow's Eve, a restless spirit is beckoned into his [Oisin's] home by a candle flickering in the window: the ghost of the girl whose brief life ended on Tiranogue's shore more than a century earlier. In Oisin's house she seeks comfort and warmth, and a chance at the life that was denied her so long ago."
In the vain hope and mostly superstition, but also as a link to my Celtic ancestors, I lit a candle in my window, last night on October 31, as a way to welcome my aunt and uncle home, wherever they may be.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
I should blog about.......
Why don't you blog about natural cosmetics and lotions? Why don't you blog about politics? You're a good writer, why don't you blog about art or landscape design or eco-friendly technologies?
These are the things I hear from parents and friends. While I thank them for the kind words and for nudging me along in my writing journey, it's not so easy for me to just start blogging. SilverTonguedLass started out as a very personal online diary; a place where I could write about me and my life with little regard to anyone else reading it. Sure, I figured close friends would read it, and between trans-continental phone calls, it was a way for them to see how I was doing and what I was up to. But mainly, this blog was also a way for me to keep my writing skills sharpened. I was the only editor and these blog entries were up to my discretion; no word count limits; no one editing me or rejecting my pitches. I could write about anything I wanted.
But somewhere, I started wanting to get my name out there. I wanted to write a blog. Amelia has been writing about all things vintage, with a specific bent on vintage clothing, for three months to my three years, and her blog theimportanceofbeingvintage.blogspot.com has already had over 3000 page views. Sure, she's writing about a much broader, and more interesting topic than myself, but I still grow jealous at the thought. Jealous, perhaps also because she's wildly talented as a writer, one more talent to her arsenal. I always thought writing well and engaging pieces was my special talent. Now, I feel often like a jane-of-all-trades and master of none.
Amidst thousands and thousands of blogs written by "writers", I want to be the real deal. I want my blog posts in this digital age to lead somewhere. I dream of a novel or a book. A deal. A web content job. A way to freelance and travel this wide open country the way I want to. Even if it's to learn that road tripping and lonesome wandering isn't as romantic as I think it is. Maybe I won't road trip or travel, but entertaining the idea and a growing savings account are dreams as well.
My issue is that I find too many things exciting and important. I love art and design, whether it's a poster or a well designed landscape. I think solar panels and rain water storage barrels are great technologies that I hope will allow us to use energy efficiently enough to help humans as a species survive into the next century. I love Burts Bees and other lotion/ cosmetics companies that make paraben, pthalate, and petroleum free products and do so using plastic free packaging.
Successful blogs, however, come from one direction, are updated regularly, and discuss one particular topic. My skills and interests have always been scattered, so coming up with an umbrella topic where I can discuss drought-tolerant gardening, efficient, sustainable technological advances, favorite food and alternative country music records in a cohesive way is quite difficult.
Should anyone have any ideas as to how to accomplish this or to narrow things down, please let me know by commenting to this post.
These are the things I hear from parents and friends. While I thank them for the kind words and for nudging me along in my writing journey, it's not so easy for me to just start blogging. SilverTonguedLass started out as a very personal online diary; a place where I could write about me and my life with little regard to anyone else reading it. Sure, I figured close friends would read it, and between trans-continental phone calls, it was a way for them to see how I was doing and what I was up to. But mainly, this blog was also a way for me to keep my writing skills sharpened. I was the only editor and these blog entries were up to my discretion; no word count limits; no one editing me or rejecting my pitches. I could write about anything I wanted.
But somewhere, I started wanting to get my name out there. I wanted to write a blog. Amelia has been writing about all things vintage, with a specific bent on vintage clothing, for three months to my three years, and her blog theimportanceofbeingvintage.blogspot.com has already had over 3000 page views. Sure, she's writing about a much broader, and more interesting topic than myself, but I still grow jealous at the thought. Jealous, perhaps also because she's wildly talented as a writer, one more talent to her arsenal. I always thought writing well and engaging pieces was my special talent. Now, I feel often like a jane-of-all-trades and master of none.
Amidst thousands and thousands of blogs written by "writers", I want to be the real deal. I want my blog posts in this digital age to lead somewhere. I dream of a novel or a book. A deal. A web content job. A way to freelance and travel this wide open country the way I want to. Even if it's to learn that road tripping and lonesome wandering isn't as romantic as I think it is. Maybe I won't road trip or travel, but entertaining the idea and a growing savings account are dreams as well.
My issue is that I find too many things exciting and important. I love art and design, whether it's a poster or a well designed landscape. I think solar panels and rain water storage barrels are great technologies that I hope will allow us to use energy efficiently enough to help humans as a species survive into the next century. I love Burts Bees and other lotion/ cosmetics companies that make paraben, pthalate, and petroleum free products and do so using plastic free packaging.
Successful blogs, however, come from one direction, are updated regularly, and discuss one particular topic. My skills and interests have always been scattered, so coming up with an umbrella topic where I can discuss drought-tolerant gardening, efficient, sustainable technological advances, favorite food and alternative country music records in a cohesive way is quite difficult.
Should anyone have any ideas as to how to accomplish this or to narrow things down, please let me know by commenting to this post.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Competition
One of the senior privileges at my alma mater was that seniors got to choose a favorite quote that would stand as a personal motto of sorts, listed under their senior photo in the yearbook. One of my best friends listed this as her quote:
"In the end, the only person you're competing with is yourself."
I view myself this way, or rather, that I compete with this version of myself that I think I should be; the version of myself that took risks, that was rougher and meaner around the edges. There's a part of me that wishes I could flirt easily, pick up good looking men, laugh with them, bed them and then leave them quietly sleeping in the morning. I wish my heart was colder, more detached. I compete with the version of myself that lives independently, even if it were in a dump in east-shit hook, because it seems wussy that I live with my parents now. There's a part of me that wishes I could jump on a bike or a car with nothing but the money in my checking account and take off the way Kerouac did in the forties. The life that I see one particular person living, with all the calamity of a burning fire; and yet, I don't even know if that's in my head, my skewed perception of his life, or if it's an accurate reading on someone I never knew very well. Something I've learned from my father is that the grass isn't always greener on the other side; sometimes, dare I say it, often times, the grass isn't greener. It just looks that way.
I'm only competing with myself because I only have my life to live with. No matter how close you are to a person, you can never know all the difficulties, the worries and anxieties, the ups and downs and the obstacles of someone else's life. Life is happening now and I choose to put my life in a particular direction every day, the way I put my feet on the hardwood floorboards when I get up in the morning. I really choose the life I want every day, every second of every day; some seconds I'm happy and some seconds I'm not. But I choose the life I want, and I think it's one of which I can be reasonably proud. There's something profound in knowing that I'm only competing with myself and no one else.
The truth is, that I may want to jump on that bike or in that car, but I don't want it enough. Why does that pseudo dream keep rubbing me the wrong way? I don't know. But, I think that's me. Perpetually torn in two different directions.
I'm only competing with myself, so either way, I'm bound to win.
For anyone wondering what my senior quote was, here it is:
"And I heard that highway whisper and sigh, are you ready to fly?"---Jackson Browne.
Prophetic, no? Even when I was 17, I knew that road was talking to me in ways I didn't even know.
"In the end, the only person you're competing with is yourself."
I view myself this way, or rather, that I compete with this version of myself that I think I should be; the version of myself that took risks, that was rougher and meaner around the edges. There's a part of me that wishes I could flirt easily, pick up good looking men, laugh with them, bed them and then leave them quietly sleeping in the morning. I wish my heart was colder, more detached. I compete with the version of myself that lives independently, even if it were in a dump in east-shit hook, because it seems wussy that I live with my parents now. There's a part of me that wishes I could jump on a bike or a car with nothing but the money in my checking account and take off the way Kerouac did in the forties. The life that I see one particular person living, with all the calamity of a burning fire; and yet, I don't even know if that's in my head, my skewed perception of his life, or if it's an accurate reading on someone I never knew very well. Something I've learned from my father is that the grass isn't always greener on the other side; sometimes, dare I say it, often times, the grass isn't greener. It just looks that way.
I'm only competing with myself because I only have my life to live with. No matter how close you are to a person, you can never know all the difficulties, the worries and anxieties, the ups and downs and the obstacles of someone else's life. Life is happening now and I choose to put my life in a particular direction every day, the way I put my feet on the hardwood floorboards when I get up in the morning. I really choose the life I want every day, every second of every day; some seconds I'm happy and some seconds I'm not. But I choose the life I want, and I think it's one of which I can be reasonably proud. There's something profound in knowing that I'm only competing with myself and no one else.
The truth is, that I may want to jump on that bike or in that car, but I don't want it enough. Why does that pseudo dream keep rubbing me the wrong way? I don't know. But, I think that's me. Perpetually torn in two different directions.
I'm only competing with myself, so either way, I'm bound to win.
For anyone wondering what my senior quote was, here it is:
"And I heard that highway whisper and sigh, are you ready to fly?"---Jackson Browne.
Prophetic, no? Even when I was 17, I knew that road was talking to me in ways I didn't even know.
Friday, August 19, 2011
The Fabulous Fuoco Siblings
It seems like I have been grieving for longer than I can remember; grieving over illness, over loss, and now, death. In the last two months, I have lost two relatives I was exceptionally close to. My aunt and my uncle have passed into the infinite, into the space between spaces and are, at the least, together.
Some people believe that the afterlife is a manifestation of what we want here on earth. I like to think that's true. Like the things and places we loved most, the people we were closest to, are the things we experience when we are no longer restrained in our bodies.
So here are where Joe and Linda are now.
A world traveler, my aunt loved the tropics, so right now, she's chilling on the shores of Belize or the Bahamas, a pina colada in her hand, a book in her lap. She's making friends with everyone, in the way that she did, inviting them into conversation in the easiest way.
My uncle is young again, and back in playing form. He's swinging away on the Pebble Beach links and after his game, he will kick back with a glass of single malt scotch. Family and laughter were so important to these siblings, so they'll do what they did here: they will meet for martinis, play marathon canasta games, where they will discuss family, friends and everything else. And they will do what the Fuocos do best; gossip, love, laugh, joke, and laugh some more.
Some people believe that the afterlife is a manifestation of what we want here on earth. I like to think that's true. Like the things and places we loved most, the people we were closest to, are the things we experience when we are no longer restrained in our bodies.
So here are where Joe and Linda are now.
A world traveler, my aunt loved the tropics, so right now, she's chilling on the shores of Belize or the Bahamas, a pina colada in her hand, a book in her lap. She's making friends with everyone, in the way that she did, inviting them into conversation in the easiest way.
My uncle is young again, and back in playing form. He's swinging away on the Pebble Beach links and after his game, he will kick back with a glass of single malt scotch. Family and laughter were so important to these siblings, so they'll do what they did here: they will meet for martinis, play marathon canasta games, where they will discuss family, friends and everything else. And they will do what the Fuocos do best; gossip, love, laugh, joke, and laugh some more.
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