To say that missing someone dulls with time,
like a scar that heals
shows up on the skin
is to lie about what missing someone is like
It can be years, days, months, hours
but the pain that comes from missing someone is not like a scar at all
for scars eventually heal, and there is no pain, but just an angry design on the skin
yearning and missing is a breathing, stinging and relentless beast
that lays you open and consumes you, piece by piece
leaving you raw and flayed, tears brimming to the eyes with nothing to help
yes, Time dulls the pain, but perhaps
the most painful thing of all, is that it is always there
a sleeping dragon scorching the heart sometimes, even years later
when it's over, it's over, but there's always something to miss
his eyes, his scent, his words, his thoughts, which cannot be replaced by another
......something
and that sadness never completely goes away
that is the worst pain of all
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Brown Penny
There's so much I want to say and so much that I've recently been thinking about. Sometimes I get so sick of my own voice, feeling it's too navel-gazing, too self-indulgent; I get tired of my voice because I feel like it's completely narcissistic to write about me, about my thoughts, my feelings, my opinions, and I start to sound a little whiny to my own ears. After all, who gives a flying fuck what I have to write about? So for this entry, I will type out a poem, although written in a man's voice---it's one of my favorites that emotes much of what I currently feel. I owe a deep debt of gratitude to that great Irishman, Mr. William Butler Yeats.
I whispered 'I am too young',
And then, 'I am old enough';
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
'Go and love, go and love young man
If the lady be young and fair.'
Ah penny, brown penny, brown penny
I am looped in the loops of her hair.
O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.
I whispered 'I am too young',
And then, 'I am old enough';
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
'Go and love, go and love young man
If the lady be young and fair.'
Ah penny, brown penny, brown penny
I am looped in the loops of her hair.
O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Green Lake, Seattle
A year ago I was witness to my dear friend Emily getting married in Portland. Andrew sat beside me, his arm reassuringly around my shoulders and his hand in mine.
It's been about a year and it hurts when I think that he and I aren't together. It's strange, that I have this compulsion to want to make things permanent with all things and all people, as if having the relationship with the same person in the future makes the memories of our past that much more real. A falsity I know, since past, present and future exist as separate entities; memories made in the past can't be touched or erased because they exist no matter what the present or future holds. In this way, I know, as I get sad from time to time about us, that the time Andrew and I spent together remains, pristine and special, hanging somewhere in the ether, protected.
I'll be going to Seattle this July, and Seattle only conjures up memories of him and I, sharing a hotel room, showing him my favorite city, the kick ass EMP-SCI FI museum, the Space Needle, the way Seattleites dedicate wasted sidewalk grass strips to vegetable gardening. I remember that it was gray and a bit damp (shocker), but the greens, oh my gawd, the greens of the grasses and the leaves, the vibrant colors of the tulips that just jumped from the petals to hit you in the eyes, all of it was glorious.
My favorite Seattle memory from that time was this: although it was evening the sun stayed out late, so much in fact that Andrew and I were walking around and taking buses at 9pm, because the sun had set so fast, catching us off guard.
It was about 7:30 when Andrew and I got off the bus from the University district and we were lost, but decided to walk around anyway. There in the distance, ahead of newly built townhouses and modest, lovely homes, was a big lake glimmering in the sunlight. The sun peaked low on the horizon but strong, and shining its rays on the water so that the reflection was a light orange. A large running path wound its way around the lake. A desert girl, I appreciate rain and water the way most Mid-Westerners appreciate warmth in the depth of winter. I looked on this stunning view and thought, wow, what a beautiful place to live.
He and I will always have that memory, that sun set and the Green Lake.
It's been about a year and it hurts when I think that he and I aren't together. It's strange, that I have this compulsion to want to make things permanent with all things and all people, as if having the relationship with the same person in the future makes the memories of our past that much more real. A falsity I know, since past, present and future exist as separate entities; memories made in the past can't be touched or erased because they exist no matter what the present or future holds. In this way, I know, as I get sad from time to time about us, that the time Andrew and I spent together remains, pristine and special, hanging somewhere in the ether, protected.
I'll be going to Seattle this July, and Seattle only conjures up memories of him and I, sharing a hotel room, showing him my favorite city, the kick ass EMP-SCI FI museum, the Space Needle, the way Seattleites dedicate wasted sidewalk grass strips to vegetable gardening. I remember that it was gray and a bit damp (shocker), but the greens, oh my gawd, the greens of the grasses and the leaves, the vibrant colors of the tulips that just jumped from the petals to hit you in the eyes, all of it was glorious.
My favorite Seattle memory from that time was this: although it was evening the sun stayed out late, so much in fact that Andrew and I were walking around and taking buses at 9pm, because the sun had set so fast, catching us off guard.
It was about 7:30 when Andrew and I got off the bus from the University district and we were lost, but decided to walk around anyway. There in the distance, ahead of newly built townhouses and modest, lovely homes, was a big lake glimmering in the sunlight. The sun peaked low on the horizon but strong, and shining its rays on the water so that the reflection was a light orange. A large running path wound its way around the lake. A desert girl, I appreciate rain and water the way most Mid-Westerners appreciate warmth in the depth of winter. I looked on this stunning view and thought, wow, what a beautiful place to live.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Saddle Up
Mom made me promise her, as I lay in the hospital bed, to keep riding; in her own words, she was saying that though I'd taken two hard falls, she wanted me to get back in the saddle and ride, immediately.
She reminds me of that now, that I can't let too much time go before I get back in the saddle, otherwise, the longer the time between falling and riding, the harder it is to take that risk again.
I remember her words when I start to drag my feet on something, when I read an overview for a job position and my throat slides into my belly with anxiety, with the possibility that my skills are as impractical and feckless as my shadow whispers to me, in the back of my mind. A constant, dull voice that says over and over again, what if......what if I'm not good enough, or I can't take the critique, or I fuck up, or worst of all, if I get fired. I don't know what to do with this voice but to remind myself of previous accomplishments, of the many struggles I faced before crossing the graduation platform to receive my diploma, that stuck it out in Oregon post-graduation for a miserable ten months, and that I look back now and see an entire portfolio of written articles.
It's the same for relationships, although in this realm I'm much more optimistic. So it didn't work with Andrew, but I still believe I can meet the right one as some of my friends have done. For some reason, I'm more optimistic about my future love life, although I have no proof to show for it, but I remind myself that unlike the job search, relationships aren't dictated by the booms and busts of a marketplace, globalization or automation.
I'm apprehensive and shaken, brimming with self-doubt, but I'm tightening the girth and one day not too far off I'll have my foot in the stirrup.
She reminds me of that now, that I can't let too much time go before I get back in the saddle, otherwise, the longer the time between falling and riding, the harder it is to take that risk again.
I remember her words when I start to drag my feet on something, when I read an overview for a job position and my throat slides into my belly with anxiety, with the possibility that my skills are as impractical and feckless as my shadow whispers to me, in the back of my mind. A constant, dull voice that says over and over again, what if......what if I'm not good enough, or I can't take the critique, or I fuck up, or worst of all, if I get fired. I don't know what to do with this voice but to remind myself of previous accomplishments, of the many struggles I faced before crossing the graduation platform to receive my diploma, that stuck it out in Oregon post-graduation for a miserable ten months, and that I look back now and see an entire portfolio of written articles.
It's the same for relationships, although in this realm I'm much more optimistic. So it didn't work with Andrew, but I still believe I can meet the right one as some of my friends have done. For some reason, I'm more optimistic about my future love life, although I have no proof to show for it, but I remind myself that unlike the job search, relationships aren't dictated by the booms and busts of a marketplace, globalization or automation.
I'm apprehensive and shaken, brimming with self-doubt, but I'm tightening the girth and one day not too far off I'll have my foot in the stirrup.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
How much of it was me, and how much of it was her? I don't know and the reality of it is that no matter how much I try to be objective, I'm living in my head, so my world is already shaded. I remember once in high school, an English teacher told my class that people tend to see themselves and their viewpoint in a more positive light than that of their opponent's when it comes to an argument. All of this being said, when I detach myself from the situation I can honestly say that she was a terrible manager; discouraging, negative, picky, impatient and critical of me with impossibly high expectations, she had no understanding that people need to know what they do well, along with the things they don't do so well. To focus solely on the mistakes made and the things that could be better is no way to inspire someone to do better or play to their strengths. A month and a half is not a long enough time to allow someone to do well, learn and get better before getting hard on them either.
These are the things I can be objective about. Nevertheless, I have found myself rootless and shaken, my confidence all but gone. There have been times in my life where I say I don't know what I'm doing, but right now, I feel like that's the truth. I was trained and loved but one thing when I was in college. That one thing was writing, journalism, but it's extremely daunting to me now in "the real world" to know that fighting for a j-job takes a willingness to constantly self-promote, to expend energy every second of every day thinking of what stories exist, how to pitch them......And at the end of the day journalism jobs are highly unstable and pay little to nothing, rarely a decent income with benefits.
I feel tortured; the one thing I love is the one thing that won't support me financially, but I cringe when I think of spending years chained to a 9-5:30 desk, performing a job by wrote, with little or no room for creativity or for anything else that matters.
I try reminding myself that just because I have a tendency to place things at opposite poles does not mean they exist there. Just because a job is a desk job doesn't mean it won't allow for fulfillment or creativity. Just because journalism doesn't pay now, doesn't mean it might not lead down a road towards a content position that does pay. I tend to live in opposites and must remind myself that life consists of multiple shades of gray, rarely black and white.
And why lose ALL confidence in myself? I'm personable, hard working and quick learning. Although I didn't know Excel or Word proficiently while I was there, I did learn details about the programs, things I didn't know before starting the position. It is possible to learn these programs, and once learned, no one, not even a negative manager can take those skills away.
Daniel Pink writes in A Whole New Mind that story telling is one of those high-touch, high-concept skills that can't be easily replicated in Asian markets, where systematized, logical work can be done via computer, for much less money. Maybe journalism jobs are disappearing and maybe it's no longer a viable career option for me; but if what Pink says is true, there must be room for some solace in his words. After all, I'm a story teller, and it's true that my voice cannot be easily, or cheaply reproduced by someone else.
So, right now, I'm trying to self analyze and figure out how I can learn from this failure. The most dangerous thing I could do would be to latch on to this experience the next time I'm working a new job and facing a critique. I don't want to create a self-fulfilling prophecy like "if I get critiqued, I'll be worried about my job, which will make me worry more, which will harm the quality of my work, which will inevitably lead to someone firing me because my work's gotten worse." This is the mantra I need to stay away from. I need to realize that events, although linked, do happen in finite, separate times, and are unique to themselves. They may be linked by a thread, but experiences are not like dominoes. Just because one thing falls through doesn't mean that it pushes everything ahead of it to fall through as well.
These are the things I can be objective about. Nevertheless, I have found myself rootless and shaken, my confidence all but gone. There have been times in my life where I say I don't know what I'm doing, but right now, I feel like that's the truth. I was trained and loved but one thing when I was in college. That one thing was writing, journalism, but it's extremely daunting to me now in "the real world" to know that fighting for a j-job takes a willingness to constantly self-promote, to expend energy every second of every day thinking of what stories exist, how to pitch them......And at the end of the day journalism jobs are highly unstable and pay little to nothing, rarely a decent income with benefits.
I feel tortured; the one thing I love is the one thing that won't support me financially, but I cringe when I think of spending years chained to a 9-5:30 desk, performing a job by wrote, with little or no room for creativity or for anything else that matters.
I try reminding myself that just because I have a tendency to place things at opposite poles does not mean they exist there. Just because a job is a desk job doesn't mean it won't allow for fulfillment or creativity. Just because journalism doesn't pay now, doesn't mean it might not lead down a road towards a content position that does pay. I tend to live in opposites and must remind myself that life consists of multiple shades of gray, rarely black and white.
And why lose ALL confidence in myself? I'm personable, hard working and quick learning. Although I didn't know Excel or Word proficiently while I was there, I did learn details about the programs, things I didn't know before starting the position. It is possible to learn these programs, and once learned, no one, not even a negative manager can take those skills away.
Daniel Pink writes in A Whole New Mind that story telling is one of those high-touch, high-concept skills that can't be easily replicated in Asian markets, where systematized, logical work can be done via computer, for much less money. Maybe journalism jobs are disappearing and maybe it's no longer a viable career option for me; but if what Pink says is true, there must be room for some solace in his words. After all, I'm a story teller, and it's true that my voice cannot be easily, or cheaply reproduced by someone else.
So, right now, I'm trying to self analyze and figure out how I can learn from this failure. The most dangerous thing I could do would be to latch on to this experience the next time I'm working a new job and facing a critique. I don't want to create a self-fulfilling prophecy like "if I get critiqued, I'll be worried about my job, which will make me worry more, which will harm the quality of my work, which will inevitably lead to someone firing me because my work's gotten worse." This is the mantra I need to stay away from. I need to realize that events, although linked, do happen in finite, separate times, and are unique to themselves. They may be linked by a thread, but experiences are not like dominoes. Just because one thing falls through doesn't mean that it pushes everything ahead of it to fall through as well.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
The Card
Seattle-----April 2010
That's strange, the maid changed the stuff in the bathroom.
What? What's wrong with the bathroom, I said as I walked across the hotel we had booked for our stay. There on the counter was a lavender teddy bear and a card behind it. I carefully opened the envelope, savoring every moment of this impromptu gift. The card was beautiful, some shade between purple and lavender with an iridescent gold embossing in the background color. A blazing sun on the front and red Chinese characters covered the front of the card. I opened it and there he'd written about how proud he was that I had successfully pitched two articles to a publication.
I was so touched. Earlier that day, he had secretly purchased this gift as I was preoccupied in trying to find the right card for my friend's wedding.
I remember slowly reading the card when I opened it, stunned that a man could be so proud of me, could love me so much that he would commend me for being me. For simply doing what I do.
I'm no longer with him but I still have the card, tucked away safely in a beautiful box where I keep treasured mementos.
I was reminded of him, his love and the moment we shared in the hotel, when I opened the card I'd got from Annie last week. It was the same card, with love written all over it. She was congratulating me for getting my job at the Saban Clinic.
It's not lost on me that they both picked the same card. Of course they would, because they both love(d) me.
We aren't together any longer, but I still have his card.
That's strange, the maid changed the stuff in the bathroom.
What? What's wrong with the bathroom, I said as I walked across the hotel we had booked for our stay. There on the counter was a lavender teddy bear and a card behind it. I carefully opened the envelope, savoring every moment of this impromptu gift. The card was beautiful, some shade between purple and lavender with an iridescent gold embossing in the background color. A blazing sun on the front and red Chinese characters covered the front of the card. I opened it and there he'd written about how proud he was that I had successfully pitched two articles to a publication.
I was so touched. Earlier that day, he had secretly purchased this gift as I was preoccupied in trying to find the right card for my friend's wedding.
I remember slowly reading the card when I opened it, stunned that a man could be so proud of me, could love me so much that he would commend me for being me. For simply doing what I do.
I'm no longer with him but I still have the card, tucked away safely in a beautiful box where I keep treasured mementos.
I was reminded of him, his love and the moment we shared in the hotel, when I opened the card I'd got from Annie last week. It was the same card, with love written all over it. She was congratulating me for getting my job at the Saban Clinic.
It's not lost on me that they both picked the same card. Of course they would, because they both love(d) me.
We aren't together any longer, but I still have his card.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
1886 Bar Opens in Pasadena's Raymond Restaurant
December 12, 2010
1886 @ The Raymond
Pasadena’s Raymond Restaurant has gotten just a bit hipper and chicer with the recent opening of it’s 1886 Bar. Housed in what used to be the caretaker’s cottage of the old Raymond Hotel property, the restaurant has been serving upscale food amidst Pasadena architectural history for years; now it’s serving equally decadent and period appropriate cocktails too.
1886 is the latest brain-child of Aidan Demarest and Marcos Tello (of First and Hope, Edison fame) who created the drink menu featuring cocktails inspired by the turn of the century history of the building. The bartenders serve classic, neat cocktails with whiskey, bourbon and gin bases that differentiate this bar from the more trendy-mix-anything-try-anything-type watering holes. One bartender described 1886 Bar as “The Varnish of Pasadena.”
Fall into the luxurious padded suede banquet and sip a drink with throwbacks to Pasadena, like the Orange Grove Cocktail or the Rose Parade Punch, a drink that mixes roses, cucumbers, gin and soda.
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