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.

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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.

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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.)

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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.