Wednesday, April 23, 2008

a dollop of daisy


And I quote:

"INFJs are deeply concerned about their relations with individuals as well as the state of humanity at large. They are, in fact, sometimes mistaken for extroverts because they appear so outgoing and are so genuinely interested in people -- a product of the Feeling function they most readily show to the world. On the contrary, INFJs are true introverts, who can only be emotionally intimate and fulfilled with a chosen few from among their long-term friends, family, or obvious "soul mates." While instinctively courting the personal and organizational demands continually made upon them by others, at intervals INFJs will suddenly withdraw into themselves, sometimes shutting out even their intimates. This apparent paradox is a necessary escape valve for them, providing both time to rebuild their depleted resources and a filter to prevent the emotional overload to which they are so susceptible as inherent "givers." As a pattern of behavior, it is perhaps the most confusing aspect of the enigmatic INFJ character to outsiders, and hence the most often misunderstood -- particularly by those who have little experience with this rare type."

All of this (me) is a multi layered bean dip, most certainly. From an areal view, from way up high on your floating ego, I might look like a casserole dish filled with cheese.

I am not merely cheese.

So for everyone out there who doesn't quite understand my quick and poorly thought out analogies, I will dissect: Underneath the the surface layer - where I smilingly go to work and get things done and no one's got a clue - there are beans. B-b-b-beans. Yes, the magical fruit where the more ya eat the more ya toot. I gots em. And my frank beans (puns are always intended) want to let you in on a secret... they're trying to hide! If you saw refried beans at the surface of everything you wouldn't want to eat ever again!!!

Spread a little thinner: I'm a natural born introvert. Not even one of those born again kinds. I need alone time all the way from my skin down to my marrow. Alone time is my beans. It might not look like a main ingredient, but I come a whole lot better if it's there. So forgive me once in a while if I run and hide. I'm just making myself taste better for the next time.

What else is in my dip? Mmmmm, guac. Those great green gobs of avocado, smashed up with some onion and tomato, plopped into the mix before and after the beans, oooooooo-eeeeeeeeee! I'm takin' you all the way to #2, babes. I know how to get you digestin, jumpin, pinchin, squeezin, runnin, (waddlin if you're not fast enough), droppin, sighin and relievin. They call it the magic trick.

Spread a little tinner: I'll lay it right out here - I'm a survivor of hereditary bad mood. My dad has it. He got it from his mother. My brothers have it too. My mom's a circumstantial bad moodian who's circumstantially dealt with it my entire life. Thus? Be it learned or genetic, guac is my depression. It lays low. It's mushy and green. It smells bad and turns an even awfuller color if you unearth it for too long. It's best to keep it hidden for a special, sultry surprise cuz without it you'd be disappointed. Oddly enough, my guac makes the whole package just that much more appealing. Though, you can have too much of a good thing. It's a balancing act; best let me have my small quantities tucked away below the surface.

Cheese, beans, guacamole. Multi layered, INFJ, me.

I'm pleading with my inside outsiders now. Please understand what a bean dip is! Look at me from a different angle if you have to. Get a chip and dive right in if you're daring. I've got some ingredients working for me that, lone, are not necessarily crowd pleasers. But like it or not, it's all a part of who I am.

If you don't value my alone time... if you can't handle my occasional bad mood... don't touch my bean dip.

No, plain ol' bean dip doesn't often give back much in the way of friendship. But that's where my INFJ skills come in handy, with a sprinkling of cheese (corny jokes and laughter), a dollop of Daisy, and a pinch of "olive juice"...

...hopefully I'm making friendship with bean dip a bit more worthwhile.

Friday, April 18, 2008

love is a cannibal

This was bound to happen. For days upon weeks upon four months I've been expecting this very thing to happen, and I've told family and friends and coworkers to watch out for this day... this day I am sick.
One of my favorite songs (of all time, history of the world kind of thing) is by Emiliana Torrini. "Heartstopper":

You said I began
This messy state of love affair
And I drink too much and smoke too fast
And this city's cleared my innocence

Coffee is pouring out my ears
It's the only thing they have in here
And my heart stops beating...


Well. I gave up the coffee this week, and now the only thing I've left to pour out is snot - to the nth degree. I've been waiting for this to happen! yet I'm frustrated... poor, sick little me.

My head's been falling heavy on my pillow. The sickness in me has forced my already top heavy stature straight to my head and it's become hard to - as they say - keep my chin up. What's prompted this inevitable infection? Has it been my apathetic approach to health and nutrition? The extra 20 hours of work I drag through weekly? The 5 hours of nightly snooze? The 13.1 miles I raced in the hills of Santa Cruz? The 6 crisises I diverted in suicidal teens? Do ya think this is adding up for me???

When it comes down to it, I'm not even sure that the above poisonous concoction is what's putting me out. Work and running, saving lives and enjoying a chocolate shake from Burger King once in a while... these were all things that used to make me feel alive. And now, ah yes, now. Somewhere in the line from past to present there was a shift in tolerance. Suddenly I can't handle the adversity that life naturally provides. The result? Drum roll anyone? Sinus implosion.

But I think I know what has happened here. My chaos is a four letter word that started with pink and red crayons in kindergarten, attached with sparkles and glitter and whimsical delight; and it'll ends in death. I'm talking about LOVE. --such a bitch.

Things were going really really well for me a while back. I was promoted at work, picked up a few projects, felt the grace of success with intermittent appreciation from others. I had a boyfriend (and a few on the back burner) and I was contented in a nice house with a parking space... La de da and me oh my, life was pleasant! I loved it!

I loved it too hard!! That's what happens to the brave and open. Folks like me are drawn to reckless love with our open hearts like a shark is to a pin drop of blood in the ocean. When you love - you become vulnerable to all of life's miseries. In reverse, it seems, when you're sheltered and a bit more cold... cautious... it's easier to get by sans emotional agony. It's a way of life I wish I could try on for size, but it'd be silly to, it's much too small.

I've had an open heart in a couple of recent (bad) relationships, and I've certainly had an open heart for the young people I work with. I've moved to a new apartment and had an open heart towards the girls I've lived with... Anyone could find me walking through Golden Gate Park or riding the N (or as I normally am, plum in my car to and fro the RWC), and no matter where I am, I'm being there vulnerably. Openly. Lovingly.

It's gotten me this far. My love has been pouring out, and organically, life's made it scab and try to heal; me being so effervescently rash, I've been picking at it and opening love up again. I've made my wounds visible, and in backlash, love's let in some harsh realities... which are now eating me from the inside out. I didn't quite expect love to look so indistinguishably like mucus trying to escape, but life is tricky like that. In the end - assuming this moment is all there ever is or will be - the sticky love I've tried to give is trapped within me, and will soon consume me whole.

From the book/film Feast of Love, a woman answers a man the question, "Why are you smiling?":

Looking out the window, an unusual man, an innocent man, an open-hearted man. Someone who has given tremendous love, but never had it returned, not in the way he deserves.

Regardless if I'm man or woman, love is feasting on me.