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.

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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.