Yesterday

Yesterday was a beautiful, crisp October day. If it wasn't for the lack of bold and earthy colors and the whiff of sea salt in the air, I would have thought I was back in the heart of the country. In a molasses style meander in my backyard, soaking up the fresh air, a memory of the days before took siege of my consciousness; without any effort I stood taller there, next to my redwood facing Golden Gate Bridge, feeling as though my heals were roots stretching deeper and deeper into the sands of time, rebirthing ceaselessly into the past as if it were so recent it was now...

I swing open the screen door like a matador flailing his red cape away from the charging bull with grandiose exuberance and I bound, the ball of one foot briefly resting on the sand stone slab, then I bound again to where both feet plop onto the sun-baked grass. The blades are sharp on my soles at first as my body presses into the Earth and gains stature, but I can feel the comforting last bits of soft moisture in the soil where my feet press the most - at the heal - just as the day is about to reach it's hottest peak. I jump a short jump again in the same spot to see if I can hear the faint squish of mud and muck beneath the grass, and I do.

From the edge of the yard I can see a playground stretching an entire continent long, the whole thing covered in inevitable grass stains. These late summer days surrounding me fill me with a confidence that this yard is my kingdom - I - the royal Queen.

I step slowly around the border of my country, making sure I never lift my feet high enough to leave the uncut grass; it slices between my toes and tickles in just the right way that makes me feel warm and more me. I feel one with the land, and that seems important for a queen.

In one corner of my kingdom lies a mighty jungle projecting high into the clouds made of silver-gray bars, 2 swings on chains, and a slide where in the ladder leading to the top lives a nest of bumble bees. They stung me once in the belly button, a few months ago, but I am still not afraid. When I have friends over to play and they get scared of one, and they always do, I reach out my hand and let the bee land on me, then I slowly walk it to the garden. I am a powerful and protecting queen, and i am one with the land and the creatures in it, which seems to me to be quite important.

At the far end of the jungle I bend my knees, dig my toes into the dirt (which has dried out completely in the time I've taken to walk the eastern perimeters), and in a giant burst of life I extend my body and my fingers protrude into the sky and my soles finally lift of the ground like tail end of a rocket. As barely as could be, the tips of my fingers touch the first monkey bar and enough magical strength is procured to get the rest of my miniature palms firmly around the shiny rod. This is a procedure I've attempted countless times and have only succeed in two times prior to now, so in celebration I bob a few times, kicking into the air in front and behind me and refirming my grip for good measure, then I allow my body to dangle like dead weight so I can get a good look on how high I've jumped. I can feel my arms loosen out of their sockets ever so slightly which is a sensation I'm fond of even though it shortens the distance between my toes and the ground and dulls the affect of my epic feat without the aid of a ladder.

Thirty seconds or so pass in my outstretched position before a rush of gravity hits me and I fear I may lose all that I have worked for, so I kick and bob once quick, then jet my right arm out to take hold of the next bar. This sudden change in space creates a great momentum behind me, and instead of reaching my left arm out to the next consecutive bar, I skip one and reach a little further. I get there easily enough, but some tiny brownish-orange flecks of god-knows-what trickle down from under my right hand and into my hair and eyelashes; the toxin nearly paralyzes my pendulum between the spread out bars. The presence of the unknown substance so heavy on my eyelids sends me into lightning speed, and without any forethought I am swinging to each metal bar before me, more little flecks dropping down like bombs each grasp of the way, and I promptly exhale when I make it to the the last bar, then the ladder to the slide.

I'm safe and no bees come out.

I dust my face and hair to remove the brazen spots before I clap my hands to get the smell of rotten medal off them, then I exhale again with a light sigh mixed in, and I climb to the top of the ladder and rest on my butt. Immediately I learn how hot the medal is today and it sends a red urgency from under my checkered skirt to pointy tips of my pig tails, so I push myself forward and head down the slide. It grabs at my skin a little bit on the way, so the motion is more bumpy than smooth, but at least I'm not on fire anymore.

Back on the grass I continue my queenly duties and patrol near the sandbox next to the shed where I used to make mud pies with my neighbor (who's secretly my boyfriend but no one but me knows). The day I got stung in the belly button he got stung on the chin, and since then he won't play in my kingdom; the mud pies have long dried out and are now just messy piles of sand that rest on the ledge of the box. They certainly don't look edible now, so I keep walking.

Around my mother's gardens - one, an vegetable patch, and the other filled with flowers - are thin wooden beams that I hop on to extend my gymnastics lessons. On the balls of my feet again I tip toe around the brimming garden, watching for large splinters dangling out, but not worrying much about the tiny splinters I'm sure to get. When I complete the tour of the vegetable patch I bound over to the other planks to finish the rotation in the opposite direction.

My swirls around this part of my kingdom kick up a happy aroma of lilac, daffodil, blackberry, dirt, and a hint of dill. The constant scents of grass and maple leaf linger in the back of my nose and the concoction, all together, gives me an indescribable sense of freedom and sweetness, and brings me to reminisce about the last summer, and the summer before that. Somehow I know right here and now, this is the happiest I could ever be.

I end my walk around my kingdom with a slight detour around my neighbors willow tree and I love the way the branches wipe over my entire body when I walk beneath them. I figure eight around my dad's newly planted trees and their surrounding mulch, but when I'm around it my nose tickles in a really uncomfortable way, so I briskly skip along, up to the deck next to the sun porch where my afternoon began.

I sit there, on a step, and cast a soft, open gaze upon my vast countryside. The sun is warming me and I feel a light vale of sweat on my forehead, but it's not heavy enough to bother me or make me wipe it away. I can hear robins chirping in the trees and bells on bicycles from a block away. I can smell a grill and kosher franks cooking from the Jewish house two doors down. I can whiff a delicate top layer of the growing corn from the field even though it's an entire bike ride down the street, I swear - I cross my heart I can smell. God is carrying the smells to me here on this, the day of all days, and everything in my kingdom is as perfect as could be. I choose now to remember this feeling forever and carry it the pit of my heart always. Someday it will be useful to recall just how precious a sunny promenade is... how precious life is.

Tit For Tat, This and That

There's an idea wrapped around a painful emotion in my mind today, and it's circling around itself, spiraling, in fact, and it's about to jet out in splitters and fractioned sentences. I'm not sure if I can get it all out on one neat page the way my perfectionistic self would like, but here I am trying despite myself. And despite the words I emit, as much of a toxic stream of consciousness as it may seem, I hope you think I'm more clever and artistic than hopeless and strange by the end of this post. I may need proper validation of that. Of this.


I've been thinking about communication. What is it? How do I do it? It is a thing with so many minute parts, and there are so many versions and approaches to take to make it real. Sometimes I don't think I can put it together right. Even though I love writing, and some people say it's the strongest skill I have, and writing is obviously one way to share the innards of a mind, I've always felt that speaking my inner truth is strenuous, difficult, at times agonizing work that I am just not good at. No one really taught me how to do it... I always heard words and expressions and "I feel" statements, but those words seemed to echo as if it was just the residual effect of hitting on a hollow drum. I've always sensed that there was more to be heard at the heart of things, but I never did. And hence, I've learned to echo the echoes, and keep my feelings hostage within myself, protected under thick glass. The truth is in the bell jar.

In learning other languages, I've noticed a difference in how well I can hear the words versus how well I can speak them. In early stages of French speaking, I could hear it much better than I could let it out. My voice was timid, my accent was nonexistent, and the idea of speaking up promoted an anxiety my English-speaking mind had never known. It was through many painstaking years and classes against my will that I could come to a shift in French communication, and suddenly I could speak it with much greater ease than I could comprehend it auditorily. My professors would put on a very simple cassette recording and my ears would freeze over. "Je ne comprend pas! J'ecoute rien!! Zut alors!" I'd screech to no avail. Only after a few more intensive classes did I start to tie the two skill sets together, and hear and speak with equal mediocrity, though I still never trusted myself in what I heard or said. I'd question the words and myself constantly, "vraiment? vraiment?" I finished 6 years of study and 2 trips to Paris with a B average, then called it quits on French. I never really came close to mastering the art of listening and speaking with confidence.

I'm seeing now that my English skills are not so much up to par either, at least not to where I think they ought to be. I remember screaming at my mom when I was a teen that she was not listening to me. I'd bark, "I know you can HEAR me, you HEAR my words, but you are not LISTENING to the meaning of them!" Of course I'd say this relatively wise statement at the top of my lungs so the only thing my mom could actually take in was the speed of my verbose wind and a brief shower of sharp spit. I was convinced she just didn't care about whatever I had to say, it never occurred to me that my ability to say what I had to say was equally important, and even more to blame.

As I left my angst and rage and grew into adulthood I continued to tango with my communication skills. My listening abilities led often, but other times my voice could not be stopped. From where I stand now, I just hope that grad school will teach me the delicate dance and partnership between actively listening to sharing my point of view. I certainly don't have it down yet.

Example: I frequently entertain my urge to tell my roommate how to live in our apartment. I think a lot of my requests of her are valid, like when she has dinner parties and leaves the dishes over flowing in the sink, or when she leaves spilled coffee on the counter, or sneakily takes my personal travel mugs with her to work; all that said and felt, I recognize I'm still an asshole for telling her how to do things my way. I *try* to be sweet in my approach... I try to make small talk with her before I stab into her hygiene. I try to put my demands in the form of a question, like, "Can you please keep my scissors in the kitchen and stop taking them into your room," and if these petitions are left on padded paper and stuck to the fridge, I almost always conclude with a smiley face and a "love ya!"

I don't think she hears me in the way I think I'm speaking. She seems to keep taking my things and disrespecting my desires. She seems to refuse my need for control. I guess I can't blame her - my mode of wants and needs is probably a bit harsh, and in the land of the free, who really wants that kind of dictatorship?

It's funny how much easier it is for me to tell her what to do than the vice versa. She left me a note the other day in thick green marker that read "leave me your mail key so I can make a copy for myself" (she hasn't had her own mail key since she moved in 4 months ago), and underneath that message, in a different sized font and color, she wrote "and put a new trash bag in the bin after you take out the garbage." Never mind that the bin has been soaking in bleach to remove the mold spores, and that the absence of trash bag was quite intentional; never mind that she's been piling up coffee filters on the counter and letting the fruit flies have a field day; her communication to me left me bitter and a little extra spiteful. I tore the note off the fridge. I crumpled it and tossed it on the pile of coffee grounds. I left the bag out of the bin. And apparently I'm not very good at listening either.

Tit for tat, I suppose. Communication is a game of war masked in day clothes and dirty dishes. It's a mindless echo of things that don't really matter. I'm holding onto empty words and sticky notes and ignoring the heart at the center of things... or that a heart should be at the center of things.

I just can't seem to master my own language. I can't hear what I'm saying and I can't say, for sure, what I hear. I don't really know what I want to say, which means I don't really know how I feel, which is a pretty evident problem.

To make this matter worse, I'm also realizing that my emotional language might not be the same language or dialect of those around me. Ok sure we mostly speak English, but that doesn't mean we all "get" each other. My great friend Laura pointed me to Gary Chapman's 5 love languages, and although it stems from a Christian agenda, I found its basic concept interesting and basically true.

Chapman claims that there 5 ways (languages) people communicate their needs and wants and love, and each individual maintains just 1 general language... whether it's well received by others or not. The languages or styles are as follows:

• Words of Affirmation, in which bearers of this language feel love when they are complimented, encouraged, and appreciated.
• Quality Time, in which speakers desire personal and focused attention with their loved ones, that is void of distraction, and in which people can share thoughts and make memories.
• Receiving Gifts, in which people of this style feel most loved when they are given valuable symbols to associate love; the symbols could be of monetary value or not at all, but they are visible reminders of love.
• Acts of Service, in which random acts of kindness, as simple as doing chores without being told, or as detailed as planning a special getaway, give individuals the strongest feeling of love.
• Physical Touch, in which a person responds best to actual contact more than words or ideas. People who speak this language prefer hugs to advice, and can have very specific tastes on other touches from handshakes to sex.

I feel that I know a little bit about each of these languages; I can see myself in different scenarios where I'd respond in different styles. My first thought, though, if I had to pick just one way of loving, is through Quality Time. I'm comfortable taking someone aside, alone, and discussing all the bits that make me me and learning all the bits that make him/her her/him. Getting to know, say, a potential partner through a group outing or public effort makes me uneasy, as if I'd be on display. I like individualized attention - I like to give it with intention.

Unexpectedly however, the more I divulge this, the more I might be keen on symbols of love. I don't consider myself materialistic at all, and I always thought words were still more important to me than things. But... refer to previous posts and there is enough evidence to prove I do want love in a tangible form. The idea of love is hard for me to grasp, maybe because I've never really heard it before. But if someone could show it to me... and say, "Hey! This is it! This is something for you. It's something small. It's something cheap and manmade. It's something no one else may care about at all, but it's for you because I care," then I might be able to "get it." I don't want expensive things, but I think I want visible signs of affection. A mixed tape would suffice. Roses would work, too.

Do I want to give physical things to another as a display of my love? Well, not really. I'd still rather give my very attune attention and mind and voice. So STILL it seems I don't give and take, hear or speak, at the same accord. I'm an anomaly and an oxymoron. Maybe I'm just a moron. The verdict isn't out on that one yet.

The virtue in this long and ramped mind-tramping is that I am learning more about myself (hip-hip, hooray!) and that maybe if you know me, you are learning me even better now. Maybe I or you or we can make this or that better from this point onward... whether this or that is how we communicate, how we get along, how we understand each other, or how we don't.

It's a bit of type-vomit, I admit. What I'm saying is certainly not a pretty package. I'm frankly still confused and wanderlust in my mind. Maybe all this contemplation of talk and perception and love is just one monotonous note to get through the day. Maybe tomorrow will be even worse. Who can say?

But I'm letting my heart out of the bell jar here. This is my emotion in the truest way I can show it. I hope it’s decent looking enough. I hope you didn't mind. I hope I can move forward now, and continue this honest and in sync mode of communication.

If it's not good enough... well... I'll write more again soon. This will be this. And that will be that. tit for tit, tat for tat.

the era of burnt - creamsicle sky

If you asked me today what my favorite color is, I would indefinitely tell you that it's turquoise (not gray, as I often tell people, or as my previous bloggings would suggest. Those were lies.) Turquoise is deemed a color of protection, healing, attunement, fortune, and connection of the body to soul, earth to sky. Upon learning these details 4 minutes ago via google search, it makes good solid sense that I've recently been re-drawn to the color, albeit subconsciously, in my jewelry and clothing selections, for I may very well be spiritually shifting again and in need of an umph in protection and balance.

It was also not really any wonder that I pumped up the jets of my hot tub tonight after a grueling and - I'll put it bluntly - infuriating day of work today. I was too exhausted for dinner, but the bottle of Honey Moon sufficed as I slipped into the 99 degree and rising, Brominating cauldron on this hump-day's cold and foggy night. I kept the stereo off, the jets to a low to moderate oscillation, and the glowing underwater lights to the color setting turquoise.

The first 10 to 20 minutes in my bubbling turquoise pot was used for grievances and bitter sighs, and of course, beer bottle clenching. Seriously folks, I had a bad day. The idea and sound of 'getting in my hot tub' still seemed better than the actual result. If I were Yiddish, it would have been a rather ferklempt moment. My mind reeled and ruminated on the days events; my skin acclimated quickly and I was already absorbing more fog than steam; the alcohol had not yet hit my calorie deprived system. I was a bummed out gal in a luke warm bath.

But then I turned up the jets just a tid-bit higher, and the turquoise aura began to glow a little softer under the swirling chemical foam. I let my head rest back, and the rest of me floated upwards, bounding and buoyant. As my sight rested on the fog-ridden sky, that's when the world changed.

Perhaps it was my imagination... perhaps it was the booze... perhaps it was the magic of cone and rod polarization, but above the turquoise pool and me, the dark, cottony sky burned orange. It reminded me of sherbet, or a summer's creamsicle treat, just tainted with a burnt-out and tired hue, where exhaustion met Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory (sans the chocolate). So I gazed in awe and my brewing body buoyed.

I believe this time of my life to be an epic era of self discovery and spiritual transition. Although it sounds a bit egoic, I can sense that even my greatest challenges and frustrations - with work, living arrangements, minimalist income, relationships, and et cetera what-have-yous - are lessons towards my degree in wholeness. I may struggle at times; I may struggle often, as viewed from my parents, but I am learning and stretching and demanding more of myself in ways that cannot necessarily be seen. Chaotic? A bit. And chaos is my be.

Pema Chodron writes in When Things Fall Apart that there are 3 ways of dealing with chaos such as mine. You can 1- let chaos and suffering go (I envy anyone who can do this effectively and will pay money to be taught); 2- you can change your attitude about suffering, and use every day/moment with chaos and discontentment as a tool to learn compassion. Chodron states, "Instead of pushing it away, we can breathe it in with the wish that everyone could stop hurting, with the wish that people everywhere could experience contentment in their hearts. We could transform pain into joy." It may seem a little masochistic at first, but worth trying in the end; and 3- acknowledge and accept that darkness is a little bit everywhere always, "whether we regard our situation as heaven or hell depends on our perception."

The sky was burnt-creamsicle and perhaps a tad demonic at the end of a wretched, painful day. But then again, it's actually quite logical that the creepy, Gene Wilder-esque color was simply an opposing projection of the turquoise protection swirling everywhere around me.

I sat on my knees in the middle of the jacuzzi like in the eye of a tornado, calm, collected, while blue-green lit water hugged me from every direction. If this era of my life isn't profound or tale-worthy, in the spirit of a big-picture perception, than I simply don't know what is or would be.

What Love's Got To Do With It

Another best friend bit the dust. She got engaged at 24. She's never been happier.

And yes, I am a faithful friend and outrageously happy for her, of course! But her excitement was an unintentional dagger to my love life's esteem. 4 of my closest friends got engaged this year... my brother - who I NEVER thought would fall in love - got married... and I officially don't have any single friends left in Michigan. (Not an exaggeration.)

But before I get to the woe is me bit, let me remind my audience that I'm not a head case, not always, nor am I desperate or destitute or really that jealous of a young-20-something marriage. My eyes and ears have cracked open into a pretty nice reality since my death defying quest in Yosemite (see post below), and I'm aware of what I've got. Woe is certainly not me.

So, I'm single and I work too hard and I barely make enough money to sustain independence in San Francisco... three points on the frowny-face side of life. But but but but but! My infinite freedoms outweighs these bits. For example: since I don't have a hubby or needy boyfriend to get back home to at the end of the day, I can take leisurely drives home across the bay; my mind wanders to great places; I see fantastic sunsets; I connect with old friends. Today it was grossly foggy, but in my un-eager and wanderlust state, I felt like I was more driving into the center of a blurred Magic-Eye Puzzle than a dark and depressed city. While I've never seen the hidden-image of a Magic-Eye Puzzle, feeling like I was "in it" seemed even better. And even though my home is sometimes gray and blurred and down in the dumps and often anxious and often so irritatingly liberal that I want to regurgitate air and expensive and full of cute couples and mind-blowingly attractive men who don't prefer my gender... despite that, I'm in love with my town and my situation.

My brother doesn't want to get married because the chances of him getting divorced are just as great as him staying in love. I got mad when he explained this. How can someone make a decision on love based on the possibility of no-longer-in-love? What about the other side of things? What about the crazy, uninhibited love that you can't even imagine until it's booming all around you? Is it ok to give up on that possibility?

Girls, like those I took to Yosemite, prostitute themselves because their pimps promise love; and even though pimps manipulate and demoralize and break down young girls, they DO provide a sense of security that those vulnerable girls need. That's why they drink the kool-aid. It seems the only way to fix their altered understanding of love is to provide an overwhelmingly different and positive and better version of love. The idealized pimp love cannot be removed, it needs to be replaced and one-uped. Prostituting is ALL about love. It's something to think about.

So I'm the last of my friends to maintain single status; so I've never been super-duper, let's get married in love with someone; love has never been promised to me; so I make ends meat but nothing too tender. So it seems, from a fragmented point of view and a bit of unspoken backstory, that I was dealt the cold and heartless hand of cards. Maybe that's true.

BUT! Thanks to my beliefs in transcendentalism, and the time to practice it, I know things could be much worse for me - I don't see love in terms of loss, I don't need to sell myself off for a false sense of love, and I can feel a whole lot of love for the things that others might call nothing. I have long car rides, and interesting challenges to conquer, and romance budding all around me. I have freedom and independence and opportunity. I have potential for unstoppable passion. And in everything, in every nothing kind of thing, there is infinite love.

I've been wanting to open up more and FEEL something, and GIVE and GAIN some kind of tenderness. Maybe now's not my time to get married like the rest of my pals, but there's something to be said for the fierce freedom I'm wrapped up in. I'm growing and changing and bettering myself and my surroundings because of it. And it's got everything to do with love.

A White Reflection

"Cracker." "Cracker-lacquer." "White Breaded Bitch."

The girls I took out to Yosemite this year thought they knew me so well by first glance. What else did they need to know, anyway? I'm Caucasian - that much is evident. They knew I was educated because I used "5 dollar foot long big ass words" like "extremely." They knew I was fond of the wild - an entirely foreign place, an uncomfortable place, a presumably privileged place, compared to their comfortable cell blocks and prostituting allies. Everything I was, they thought was out there for the degrading. They took my identity. They smashed it with a hammer.

"Fucking Bitch. Fucking Fagot. I hate white people. Don't touch me, Bitch. Where's my dinner?"

In a round-table of questions on day 3, a girl asked the adults, "What's the stupidest thing you've ever done?"

Come here? Try on you? I was up first, and I knew what I was up against. These kids... these troubled, rebellious, and compassionless youth wanted to see if I could measure up to their crime and wrong doing. They were testing us all so they could feel better about their badness. As I opened my mouth to express where I come from and how I've personally dealt with problems and choices, I could taste the girls' disappointment, though it was still an expectation, that I have not had an abortion... that I never did so many drugs I had to be taken to the hospital... that I never crashed my parents car or held up a liquor store or was part of a drive by...

"I grew up in a moderately privileged, middle class home. Should I feel bad about that? I wasn't apart of a crowd that ever acted out in negative ways. Do they know what I'm saying? Is it too obvious that I'm labeling your actions as negative? I got straight As. The stupidest thing I did was get smart. I played sports. I don't mean I did tricks. I sang in the choir. Could I sound any more virginal? And my parents had extremely high expectations of me. Do you feel bad for me yet? I felt like there was always a lot of pressure to be a certain way, so instead of acting out and doing stupid things..."

The agency leader cut me off. "Even white, privileged kids do stupid things, though."

"Yes I know. I'm explaining me. Thanks. Should I finish?"

"Oh.... ok... shhh everyone, let her finish."

"So instead of doing drugs or staying out all night, I internalized the pain of my world. I didn't do many dumb things, but dumb things ate at me in a really deep and serious way..."

They all looked bored.

"...that I'm not at all comfortable talking about."

"That's fine," the agency leader jumped in. "My turn? I grew up in Compton..."

We might as well have been playing chess with the game of white versus black we were engaged in. I started with my pawn, while she busted out her queen. Did I even have a chance at winning anyone over?

"Fucking white people. I can't wait to get away from you people. I'm never doing shit like this again."

At the end of the trip I asked one of the girls what their favorite moment of the week was. She said it was best when she called me a cracker on the first day. I was so proud she got something out of the backpacking experience!

I was happy to get back into Oakland and out of the woods, which I certainly never thought I'd say or think or type. I was elated to separate from the violence that overtook me in the back-country. I began to drool over the idea of independently kicking it on cement blocks for the next few days, knowing there was no way I'd be as attacked in the city as I was in the wild with those girls. I survived! I put down my pack; I thought a poignant, "Well fuck you, too."

But their attacks left scars and bruises and endless echoes.

"Bitch. Fagot. Did you do my laundry? Where it at, Nigga? Fucking cracker. "

I wanted to lose myself any way I could. If I could get lost enough, maybe I'd be renewed. And suddenly, in my detaching, I felt the itch to rebel. I wanted to get pierced. Get tattooed. Dye my hair blue. Cut it all off. Get drunk. Get stoned. Screw around. Throw some eggs at cars.

"Hella Cracker-Bitch!"

I told the hair dresser to do anything to my head to make me look less white, and I showed him the scar from where my eyebrow ring used to be. "I'm not as sweet as I look, truth be told," I announced. But the gay little hair dresser man didn't seem to believe me.

Why was I trying so hard to deny who I was? I AM sweet. I DO have blonde hair and blue eyes. I DO have white skin. Why did I feel bad about it? Is it really anything to feel guilty or ashamed about?

The stupidest thing I ever did as a teen was the same stupid thing I was doing a decade post. These girls popped pills... but I popped pain and digested it until my head spun and I passed out. Reverting is no game.

A few days out of the woods, I'm realizing again that I didn't need to prove myself to them then, and I don't need to prove myself to anyone now. I've been some places. I've seen some crap. I've done some shit. And I'm white! There is no paradox here. I'm is what I'm is, and that's good enough. Those girls and their adult leader are free to judge.... I can deal with that, because in the end of the day I know I'm not wearing a mask to conceal my identity or emotions.

Take it or leave it, I've got strength, guts, and pride. I'm Wonder Bread Woman, and I fly to the tune of honky-tonk, Bitch. Would you like milk with that?

My Buddy and Me

My job is my best friend. its there for me, always. it gives me little gifts. it comments on nearly all of my facebook status updates. i dream about it. i talk in my sleep about it. its usually the first thing i think of when i wake up. i spend an hour a day to see it. i stay late not to leave it. i want more people to know how awesome my best friend is, and i fear that it will leave me for someone better. sometimes i want more from it, but i think that's normal. i don't have time for anyone or anything else but my best friend. I'm strongly considering moving in with it. it makes me laugh. it makes me proud. it rarely makes me cry. sometimes it makes me nervous just because i care so much and want the best for it. i can see myself growing old with it. maybe. my buddy and me... my only friend really.

the word you are search for is LOSER.

Bizarro Meredith

Where Superman changes in a locked room rather than a phone booth and swims at the speed of thunder, where rain drips up, where clocks tick counter clock wise, where dogs meow, where squeezing orange juice turns it into oranges. Where?

Bizarro World.

Where everything that should be isn't and versa vise. It's downside up and outside in and entirely irresponsible. It's where I live.

When Elaine met Bizarro-Jerry and his friends in Season 8, she wasn't disappointed, rather, she stepped into a new world suspiciously surprised. The rudeness and foul kookiness of her real-life friends had vanished like a resolved haunting, and suddenly things were working out. Bizarro-Kramer had good ideas. Bizarro-George read important literature. Bizarro-Jerry appreciated people asking before taking his olives. And this Bizarro World made sense. Ok, maybe a little daunting, but it was a relief if nothing else. It was bizarre but wonderful...

My old world made more sense. Where I came from, people where sparingly rude, they were sweet. They smiled and even made eye contact with strangers as they walked down the street. Friends called each other to say hi. Leaves changed colors. We used air conditioning in the summer and heat in the winter. It was an unashamed community, where even though things were tough and wealth was unpopular, love was unbound and made the grass grow green.

I stepped into a new world solely with suspicion. I was greeted with a "May God Bless Your Soul," and it was downhill and spiraling from there.

Nay, things in my world are not as I suspected. California projects itself like sunshine and reckless optimism as if it were a sugary bottled drink for kids that everyone's addicted to. All summer long there are festivals and parades and peasant skirts that float on Birkenstock wearing girls who twirl. There are mountains and oceans and bridges and skylines in the same line of sight. It's a state marked 'go-lucky.'

Lies! Dirty, rotten conspiracy of a land! People who've grown here have gotten so much sun they have all dried out and flaked. Their twirls and floating are not just drug induced, but crazy-induced. The sun is a mirage. Today, July 20, in the middle of summer, I turned on my heater, wore socks to bed, and hid from fog. WTF?

I, the same person I was before, but perhaps a little older and more experienced, have not been introduced to a single soul who wants to offer friendship, rather than just take it. I have not met a man who cares to see me beyond the obvious. In all this milk and golden honey, I have not found a comfort to sustain me.

This state is Bizarro. We have a non-American actor for a governor! That's backwards! And everyone underneath is just as cracked. No one tells it like it is. No one loves for the sake of loving. No one cares. Everyone is a soulless facebook friend. Everything is an ultimate and absolute. Bizarro World is an unfortunate reality and the saddest of stories. I am still surprised by my disappointment. There needs to be a better ending than this or where I feel headed.

• Jerry: Yeah. Like Bizarro Superman. Superman's exact opposite, who lives in the backwards bizarro world. Up is down, down is up. He says "Hello" when he leaves, "Good bye" when he arrives.
• Elaine: Shouldn't he say "bad bye"?
• Jerry: No, it's still goodbye.
• Elaine: Does he live underwater?
• Jerry: No.
• Elaine: Is he black?
• Jerry: Look, just forget the whole thing, all right?

As a character in this Bizarro World, let me just say: me so not happy, me want to cry.

Je Voudrais...

• A man to bring me flowers, especially the kind that are real red, not painted red, especially an attractive man
  
• The raccoon to leave my apartment
• My weekends to be endlessly open and void of work calls
• Old friends to remember my name
• To feel like I make as much money as I deserve
• Zero calorie ice cream
• Friends to request my presence rather than vise versa
• A mustang GT convertible
• To be 15 pounds lighter
• Clarity
• Better internet reception in my bedroom
• Friendships to last forever
• More family near by
• To be really really good at something, anything, not just decent at a few things
• To have more energy
• Even hotter summers
• Time to go a little slower
• Recognition
• My chicken pox scar in between my eyebrows to go away
• Perscriptions to be waaaaay less money, for everyone, especially me
• To stop losing so much hair
• Companionship
• To learn something new everyday, without the aid of TV
• To swim with dolphins, as hippy as it sounds
• A bar where everyone knows my name
• Bitter East-Coasters who move to CA to stay in CA
• More people to use their hands to give directions and illustrate locations
• Hope to not be a delusion
• More Allisons and Amys and Andreas and Anilas...
• A pull from my gut
• To make another soundtrack for my life
• Flight of the Concords, season 2
• Raw passion
• A good cry
• Je voudrais la bonne vie boheme
  

Random Thought of the Day

*click me, I speak for myself*

Random Thought of the Day

What a young man said whilst chatting with me on an online dating site, in full pursuit:

"i've extended more effort than i'm comfortable with already"

and that was just after 5 minutes! What is the world coming to?!!

Random Picture of the Day

Sunset behind fog behind neighbor's house
San Francisco

Random Thought of the Day

My hand writing is better than this.

What's Behind Door # 2

It was cloudy today. Pretty much all day. And I wore sunglasses. I guess there was just enough light on the highway that I felt more comfortable under shields rather than squinting and straining and stressing my tired and sleep deprived eyes. Behind the $15 tinted glass, I felt safer and a little more invincible than the normal Tuesday morning kick-off. But it made me think...

In 13th grade, in some generic and mandatory religion class where our narrow minded and single scoped professors tried to teach young minds the importance of perspective and the value of WWJD, my fellow pupils and I were given an assignment to present our world view. Since I had grown up in a Catholic home in a conservative middle class town where I only knew 3 black students, 1 Latina exchange student, and a modest handful of Asian hybrids, and was attending a private college made up entirely of tall blond and Christian Reformed Dutch kids from Holland, MI proper, I didn't completely understand the meaning of world-view. My professor made his request a second time, "tell the class about how you see the world." But how could I say anything different from what every other person in the class would say... we are all the same, and we see the same thing... and we always have seen this...

Then leaving the student union one day, as I began my exit out of 2 sets of doors made of tinted glass and as I reached for my sunglasses, the light of my world view dawned on me. It was an entirely new thought than I was accustomed to, and I had no idea how to express the intuitive idea in words let alone in a visual presentation. I remember drawing a squirrel three times in different shades of brown crayon to get my point across, but I'm pretty sure my mind was lost in translation. I remember saying I was an optimist, but I'm pretty sure I said it with a cynical smirk and a worry that my professor was grading me on my believability. 7 years later I'm trying to say it all again, because what I found to be true then is my concrete reality today. Well, as concrete as fog can be.

What I realized there in the quaint student union that Autumn day was not just my world perspective, but that I simply HAD perspective, and that I was aware of the lenses I had on to see reality. What's more, I was aware that my lens was not in and of itself reality.

From inside the building looking out through the 2 sets of doors, the outside appeared dark and muddled. It seemed uncertain, as if the doors were a kind of grace period and the world was not quite ready for viewing.

As I strut ever closer to uncertainty and opened the first set of doors, life beyond then and there became slightly more clear, more definite, more as I'd expect it to be. It was still a shade of gray, and still a little vague, but I could see the objects and life beyond the glass, so I knew "life" was more than tinted glass.

At last I pulled open the second set of doors and revealed the natural world - the bronze and orange painted trees and wilting flowers and a squirrel gathering it's wants and needs along the sidewalk. A quiet, breathless 'awe' escaped me. Life is beautiful. Smell that Earth! See this radiant light! Feel this warmth! But wait...

Though my reality felt good, it occurred to me - what if that was not all there was? What if all that amazing liveliness surrounding me was still just a vague belief in what "was"... what was real? What if I could remove yet another barrier of tinted glass in my mind to reveal something even more vibrant, more intense, more true? What would that be like?! What would it smell and feel like?

Suddenly I wanted this new reality with a kind of urgency that I had only known previously in long car rides after drinking a large beverage. I wanted to believe that even when things are good, they could be better. I conceived that even when things are as they are and life is at a stand-still stability, there could be more - much more - going on than what we mere mortals perceive. The goodness and immeasurable beauty that is beyond our usual grasp but still present and waiting patiently could maybe be called, for a lack of a better word, God. And all we have to do to see this joyous and happy thing that is everywhere is take off our personal shades.



On I-580 Eastbound, I kept my cobalt at a steady 70, my stereo pumping out Jack Johnson and banana pancakes, and my view of the world behind a comfortable pair of $15 sunglasses. I wondered what other drivers thought of me as I coasted along in the gray, being that it was just so unnecessary to shield my eyes from so bland a light.

But it was easier with my shades on. It was early, and I am young - too young for so much squinting and striving and struggling my way through the deep, bending questions of capital R - Reality. It was still too early to even poke at the metaphor, so I kept my glasses on the entire route.

What I'm grateful for, however, is the mind to know the difference between manipulated light and true enlightenment. I know that I'm in my comfort zone. I haven't been trying to see God very hard lately... I haven't put down my anxiety or baggage to let things simply be, or be brightly. I'm coasting along, trying to force life to look as good as it can look. Perhaps that's good enough for now. I know, at least, that there is a better Now waiting for me when I'm ready... when I'm ready to stop controlling the wheel, get out of my comfort bubble, lay down my heavy constructs of what "should" or "should not" be, and just get down to being.

Can you imagine? What would that be like?! What would it smell and feel like?

In time I'll take what's behind door #2, the mysterious prize package for life, and for asking questions of myself that are beyond me, because whatever life brings, as long as I'm toting my world view with me, in all it's brown squirrels and optimism, the view of the world will be great.

Random Thought of the Day

Everything is real. Everything.

Random Thought of the Day

A touch from you would make my heart melt into tomato soup.

Random Thought of the Day

i forgot what it was... something about being tired? and holding a hundred responsibilities in my two bare hands? hmmm....

Oh yeah: I'm a superhero but it feels like death.

Random Thought of the Day

Things get better when you least expect it and you've already stopped caring and trying.

"If you get invited to your first orgy, don't just show up nude. That's a common mistake. You have to let nudity 'happen.'"
Jack Handey

All, Nothing, and Shades of Gray

I gasped for air and inhaled a deep dark corner of the ocean. One second I was bouncing, buoyant, as if I was on the moon and without gravity, and the next I was impaled by the sharp rush of water like my life had been hooked and was being reeled in, towards Davey Jones Locker, perhaps, but away from my body. One second - neon and technicolor. The next - a heavy black that sat on me, crushing my heart - heavier than the weight of an endearing man laying across my body, heavier than the stress and burdens of work, heavier than hearing the news of someone I love dying, heavier than all of it put together because the life dying was my own. I collapsed. And I sank even deeper within myself, incommunicado.

Screaming, I woke up.

I am not surprised in the least that I am dreaming of the fragility of deep sea diving. It is one of my favorite symbols in movies, like in the Graduate and The Diving Bell and the Butterfly: trapped, isolated with thoughts, under the weight of the world and unbearable expectations, it's an image I've innately understood since I left my parents' house at 18. The only irony is that I've been waking up screaming my whole life.

My reality, made up of Hollywood symbolism, is literally overwhelming. And the other idioms that fit the bill... keep 'em coming:

• Hang in there
• Hanging by a thread
• Keep your head above water
• The light at the end of the tunnel
• Don't burst my bubble
• Between the devil and the deep blue sea
• Still waters run deep
• Water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink
• With bated breath
• It's all or nothing
  

As a deep sea diver, you are hanging by a thread... or a thin tube pumped and pressed with a limited amount of life-giving, life-taking oxygen. Underwater, down down down below the surface of things, you can find an entirely new world of beautiful, energetic, and colorful life forms that, too, appear fragile like they're hanging on the ledge of existence and possibly completely unreal all together. You can see all this because you're bating breath from a tiny rubber hose. But if it's cut, and if that bubble bursts, well then... water, water everywhere, and you're drinking every deadly drop. From all to nothing.

J'ai vingt-cinq ans. Pas beaucoup. C'est tot pour aller de tellement a rien.

But the siege of deep water happens more often than I'd like.

There are times, like this, that I stop and wonder if I have a seriously dysfunctional personality. Perhaps I'm borderline. Perhaps I'm rigid and chronically depressed. (But don't use this series of blog entries as a judge of this character.) Or maybe saying I'm seriously flawed is just another way to illustrate my dramatic, overly emotional perception of the norm. Now that that's said, the truth is kind of obvious, but still, I'm facing a problem, whether it's completely within me, completely in the cards I've been dealt, or a little of each...

left or right, right or wrong, black or white, high or low, good or bad, single or in love, popular or alone, starving or full, bored or overwhelmed, clean and spotless or dirty and dishevelled, with you or without you, it's always everything or nothing.

A close friend hasn't spoken to me in weeks and I believe it's with grave intention, and it's solely my own problem. She stopped speaking to me when I hung up on her. Take that as you will, but I was hurt, and it wasn't the first time feeling that way with her. Hurt me once, shame on you; but hurt me twice and you know the rest. I can't help but initiate my fight or flight response. I'm eager to survive after all, there's only that thin hose of life to suck on and it's hard to fight for everything under the circumstances. Then again, choosing flight is a double edged sword when you're already under water. I just sink some more.

Online dating has certainly not helped my condition. It's a cyber sea of faces and profiles and the only way to swim through it all is to be harsh, judgemental, and quick witted. Click a pic and it's a simple yes or no. Any man who's caught in that gray fuzzy area of attraction would have to blow my mind in the first two sentences of his puzzled together persona, but even then, I'll always know he was just a 'maybe.' I agree this approach to romance is obscene and unfair. I couldn't dare pretend otherwise. When it works, though, boy it works - I won't have to buy groceries for weeks because all my meals are eaten out on the town. When it doesn't work, it fails me miserably - it's $30 wasted on ugly pictures, and I know... I just know... they're all thinking the same of me. And even if it wasn't about the money or the fact I've resigned to dating internet profiles, it's still a game of picking the petals off flowers: He loves me; he loves me not. The gray area is faint and looks more like unfortunate white nothingness than vibrant, red hot love. Doom and gloom.

I am twenty five. Not old. It's too early to go from so much to nothing.

But I'm under siege. I'm trying to survive under an ocean of self-induced pressure. Gotta be somebody, and I mean, I've really got to BE somebody. I don't exactly know why, but I could blame my upbringing. I could blame society for deciding nonprofit work was not as significant or valuable as "engineer," "doctor," or "oceanographer." It's either all that, or it's just me. It's me thinking like a beatnik, trying to make a story of my life, trying to figure out all the answers to life on my own before due time. I decided to write a memoir at 22. All or nothing makes for epic tales, unless you get more nothing than everything, and that's how things seem to be. For now.

I don't want to sink in this life, and I don't always want to escape situations in this world I've just begun to create for myself. Rather than let the pressure of being a 20 something burst my bubble, I vow to keep my head above water... when I can... and I vow to add idioms ad nauseam. I vow, like the graduate, to just float along for a while and see how it goes. I'm putting on my rose colored glasses and seeing shades of gray. I still don't know what the deal is with my friend or dating or even my career, but I can take comfort in knowing that gray is my favorite color, and with it, I'm breathing easy.

Life is a bowl of cherries

I finished a book this afternoon - What Is The What - while listening to old man music like Bob Dylan and Tom Waits. I sound like such an old woman.

I cried reading the last few chapters, which really didn't surprise me because I've found many things recently to have such emotional hold over me that I shyly release myself in the determined and full-hearted moment. I became misty watching Sex in the City last night. I teared up watching Jon and Kate + Eight this morning. And this afternoon I turned into a small, flowing creek for Valentino Achak Deng and his words produced by dear Dave Eggers. Turning the final page and soaking in the final few words, an even greater sadness took hold of me. To be honest, this too did not really surprise me, as finishing a book is always a little depressing - you find yourself so deep within it, so engrossed, so consumed by the mold of the characters and the binding of the pages that you can easily forget there is life outside the story that you have to go back to eventually. In my old woman state and ridiculous sensitivity, I did not really want to get back to anything of my own.

After a big sigh, I grabbed a bowl of cherries and my laptop. I turned up the volume for Bobby D., then I thumbed to the doggy eared pages I had so recently read and typed up my favorite lines... the Whats of What Is The What.

But we're no longer rain, I said, we're no longer seeds. We're men. Now we can stand and decide. This is our first chance to chose our own unknown. I'm so proud of everything we've done, my brothers, and if we're fortunate enough to fly and land in a new place, we must continue. As impossible as it sounds, we must keep walking. And yes, there has been suffering, but now there will be grace. There has been pain but now there will be serenity. No one has been tried as we have been tried, and now this is our reward, whether it be heaven or something less than that.

This journey was an act of reckless faith.

In my own reality, it's Memorial Day, a day where folks across the city and country are given a day off to remember we are a nation still in war before they kick up their heels and barbecue in the park with friends.

In my own reality, I am curled up in white linen and staring out my window towards the park, wishing again and again I had more friends to embrace and parade with on this blank canvas of a Monday. I'm left clutching at my comforter, in all its irony, wanting to strangle it until somehow the people I desire draw closer and the ones I detest slink away. I wonder if this approach has ever worked for anyone... do I even have a chance?

This is part of my journey of reckless faith; this is my chapter of absenteeism, hugged by empty pages. This is something I've got to march through like a little Lost Girl, which is exactly what I am, even though I'm simultaneously so very very old. After a history of mild tribulation I made it to the promise land, where one goes to get beat up a bit more before heaven. Ah, sweet and succulent Samsara! How good you are to me! -Engulfing me in flames of loneliness until I'm burnt, dead, and ready for the Truth, a real holy land.

I don't want my readers to be confused - I am not putting myself on par with the real Lost Boys and Girls. My life has been nothing but peaches and sunshine compared to Valentino Achak Deng's. Blame my overt emotions and wild empathy to find the deep rooted parallels of our very opposite lives, but it's also like the book said,

Humans are divided between those who can still look through the eyes of youth and those who cannot. Though it causes me frequent pain, I find it very easy to place myself in the shoes of almost any boy and can conjure my own youth with an ease that is troublesome.

The process of being young is indeed troublesome. Like so many, I abandoned the life I once knew with a grand escape route and I planted myself in new dirt. It's true that I am no longer a seed, but it would be entirely inacurate to call myself grown. I may carry the wisdom of my ancestors, and I may have been raised to speak dogmatically and unnecessarily proud, but it is striking how little and raw I can still feel.

Why have so many of my friends sharply turned away from me?
- It's happened 5 times in 2 years, without knowing or just cause.

Why have grown men played childish games with my heart?
- It's happened too many times to count, leaving me with little but stone where my love should be.

Why do people ignore my calls? Why am I a receiver of pain, but never the receiver of an apology? Why is it so hard to maintain and keep a steady happiness here? Why am I a backbone for so many others - a sponge for their struggles - yet still so disposable?

Why is a sense of family so hard to recreate?

Fierce independence is said to be a virtue, but it feels like a million pounds upon my shoulders and shackled to my ankles. I feel like I was born to do more than exist like this and struggle like this and so merely 'hang in there' like this. I feel like I've survived my past for more than this. But where is my reward? Where is my heaven? Or is this the "something less than that"?

It's not that I'm negative or ungrateful. Disregard my previous posts and gripes and tramping word-vomit ventilation. I am blessed. I am extremely privileged. In brief, escaping, collapsible moments of time, I am sometimes overjoyed. Yet still, more often and moreover, I am a little Lost Girl, just typing to keep the sound of my mantra in tact - my march in motion. Perhaps someday...

Until then, I'm going to nessle in white linen. I'm going to scowell out my window from time to time and hope that you will forgive me. I'm going to dive deep into the secrets of my mind where all that wisdom of my ansectors lays, and eventually my reckless faith with reach its reward. If hundreds of little Lost Boys can do it...

then my life is just a bowl of cherries, and I'm onto another book.

A Right To Bear Arms

As my dear friend and 4 year pen pal, Elizabeth, stated in her last letter regarding an author, "She annoyed me a bit with her repetitiveness; I hope you're not offended."

I thus apologize early on then for what you're about to fall victim to. My cyclical and unremitting (and verbose) state of blog can easily be summed up with June 29, 2008's previously dictated emotion. Like Elizabeth, I hope you're not offended, but history does indeed repeat itself until your lesson's learned. So here we go again:

I went rock climbing on Friday evening with some teens dubbed "at risk," and as I drove one family home, a young woman gasped with surprise about how much her hands stung. This comment cued my heroic tales of gymnastics and the persistent pain my gym mates and I endured. I told her of calluses and all that they're good for, and all that they're not, then I cautiously looked at my own hands on the dark evening road, spot lighted by the horizon's full moon. The skin was pealing, once again, on the pads of my joints, and I hummed a quick "hm" at the affinity of my told-again story and my broken record life. I'm ripping again...

Is it every full moon that I'm required to "dust it off, wrap it up, and grow some thicker skin" or is it just by coincidence that my melodic cries repeat themselves in a monthly pattern out of sync with even my hormones?

I think at one point my thick skin got tired of rejuvenating on something else's time line, be it nature's, biology's, or God's. And at that point, when bad things - or even just slightly lame things happened, my callouses just began to strip away, layer by ceaseless layer.

These days of great independence, I feel nothing but naked. I'm still on my own after nearly 3 years in this town. I'm on my 4th apartment, I'm on my 5th job, and in this wee bit of time, if you add it all up, I believe I'm on my 9th life. My thick-skinned armor and pride has apparently been quietly pealing away like so many other things, perhaps in the shower.

In my car, on my phone, on a Monday, I spoke to another dear friend named Allison. I explained that in a multi-hundred mile radius, I don't know anyone who could give me a hug; not just a hug, I guess, because I'm sure I could find someone to uncomfortably put their arms around me, but a powerful bear hug, with deep, thoughtful, consoling intention... THAT I don't know where to find. It occurred to me then that the thing required for strength and endurance, for pride and protection is not thick skin, it's not money, it's not a promotion, it's not my ego, and it's not long runner legs. It's not necessarily a successful relationship, though I don't think having one would hurt. It's not even knowing I have two hand fulls of friends in this town to call homies - which I don't.

A hug is the armor I'm missing the most. It seems like the only thing that will protect me from the dangers of reality, and the only thing that can positively ward off typical to toxic misfortunes. It's my constitution, damn it! I have a right to protection - and all the warmth and safety two arms could possibly provide.

If I have to say it a thousand... a million more times from this moment forward, I will not be ashamed. Be not offended: the truest way to achieve a winning state is exercise one's right to Bear Arms.

Me and All My Friends

Quarter of a century day - and so many amazing things took place!

I woke up with a man in my sheets. We laid there in the dim morning light, rays sifting through blinds in the background like a gentle call to get up and start a beautiful, fantastic birthday day.

We went out for lunch so I could get my first sandwich in 40 days; ever since Lent consumed me, I hadn't eaten bread (forget about tortillas and cereal and pita, those don't count as breads in my book). Great things come to those who wait in dire and urging times. I was titillated with the long last opportunity and company to divulge.

I took my new-found slice of heaven, made of focaccia, to Golden Gate Park and the Botanical Gardens, where we strolled straight to a bench on an off-beaten path next to purple and yellow wild flowers. There is where I bit into the heaven and let the herbs and flavors and juices slowly melt into my taste buds, awakening a part of me that felt rejected and near dead. In bread-coma, we laid down, intertwined on the wooden stoop, oblivious to other passer-bys. When I closed my eyes, I simply imagined that their oowing and awing for the bright, unexpected flower color was really for how adorable we looked together, resting in the uninhibited afternoon sun.

On the way home we stopped at a shop and we bought birthday irises in a shade blue to match my eyes. We took them home and let them open in the north facing light in my window, under the glow of Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. From there we drank mimosas and made a cake, decorating each other's noses with the creamy chocolate frosting. It was fabulous and romantic.

The day was slipping by like silk on skin so to embrace and celebrate with maximum joy, we took our mimosas to the hot tub. The sun had then set and the air had cooled down, leaving the hot air and steam from the jacuzzi jets mixing with the droopy eyed evening sky in a delicate tango that tickled my nose and brought tears to my eyes. There was perhaps no better way to end the day.

Today was my birthday. My 25th anniversary. The silver.

I'm just thankful that in my new wisdom, I have an unstoppable and youthful imagination. Because in my 25th year reality, I woke up with someone in my sheets, but he slept in the dark, frigged living room while I was in my bedroom. He left hungover without breakfast, and I took myself to lunch. I definitely did walk to that park and to that bench, where after crying underneath my aviators from my loneliness and jealousy of happy couples and families celebrating their holiday, I passed out on the bench like a drunken homeless man, shameless and flatulent without a moment's hesitation. I bought myself flowers. I made my own birthday cake. I drank 3 mimosas, consisting of the cheapest champagne Safeway had to offer. I argued with my landlord for use of the hot tub, and used my sadness as a weapon, telling him it's my birthday and I just need a way to relax. It was the truth, and I think the watery, red eyes helped me get my wants.

It's my birthday and other than my landlord and my brand new roommate who just came home, I haven't seen anyone I'd recognize. There were some calls from my immediate family and some posts on facebook - though there were fewer this year than last - but the echoing voices via satellite failed to impress real love on me. I feel like my 25 year old heart is fossilizing under my own eyes. Without any friends and family and romantic interests to brush off the dust around me, I am just growing older and more fragile at a rate faster than time. By 2010 I'll be nothing.

Maybe my silver is a silver lining... I did wake up hungover with a friend around. I did get to eat bread and nap among the flowers, and eat sugar and drink champagne and soak in a glowing hot tub in the San Francisco night sky. That's positive. But there may be no better time than now to quote my favorite movie and book and adventurer, Christopher McCandless, aka Alexander Super-tramp (Into the Wild) - -

Happiness is only real when shared.

I feel that. Me and ALL my friends, we feel that today.

What I won't be missin'

the smell lingers.

S For Vendetta

S is for Sara, which I've decided is Synonymous with bull Shit. I've known dozens of Sara's, Some with meaningless H's attached, and only a minuscule percentage of these women-like creatures have been worthy of my respect. Sara Ashcraft. She's a good one. I don't talk to her anymore... but Still, that's one out of many I don't hate, So it's worth mentioning. The most recent Saras of my life are ugly and dirty and most definitely confused with another 4 letter word with the Same beginning.

S is for Sex in the City, which blocks out the endless pollution of "I'll Be There For You" from the full Friends DVD series, which Bull Shit watches on repeat and nothing else. It Started 4 months ago and I thought it'd be harmless, but as the Song goes, "no one told you life was going to be this way..." So thank GOD Sex in the City trumps Shit.

S is for Sixteen and Slamming doors. S is for Stupid passive aggressive and caddy behavior. All three of these Special words, in combination with a lame roommate, prove me witness to the most callow and Senseless Situation I hath ever Seen. I am one quarter of a century old, which is too old to revert to the Social mistakes once made in high School. I passed drama then, but I'll Skip it now if that's all the Same to you. Besides, my home is not my job.

S, perhaps most of all, is for Survival. And maybe for good Stories, too. Either way, I am happy to end this chapter like So. In fact, I recently found myself Sifting through old notes, Scraps, and private memorabilia when I rediscovered a 7-up ad that promoted "Change it up!" The ad is colorful and happy and Sums me rather Simply, yet true, So it Stuck to me. I've collected a number of ridiculous tales in my 2-point-Something years of life in SF; and Surprisingly my heart is Still beating and I am Still Smiling, and the insanity of everyone else will continue to Slip off me like oil on water. I'm not a Sadist. This bull Shit and Sex in the City trumping Star-crossed Situation is just one more battle Scar - my medallion of warfare. And from here on out, I am Sure to be Super, Splendid, and fucking fantastic. You can bet your S on it.

I really need to know...

"I'm stretching again, but my resilience is long gone and I can't bounce back. It's tiresome dragging around the excess, yet I'm unsure whether it's safe to cut it off. What if it houses my essence, or the directional portion of my id?"

They say every 7 years you're a completely new person. They say that every year - every day for that matter - you are physically different from the time before. That makes sense considering my hair has been falling out in handfuls and silent waves that lay across my carpet like shadowy ghosts upon the shore. (Scary.)

I'm shedding. But it's not just my hair. I shower, of course, and when there are witnesses near when I'm through (which is rare), they'll comment on the red lines reaching across my arms and back and chest. "You're scratched!" they'll proclaim as if they discovered some forbidden treasure to my personal life; but they're wrong. It's just the marks I receive from delicately pealing back my old skin. I know the image seems more tragic than my words admit, but I'm pretty sure I bathe and lather and rinse like most others. I have a loofa and I sud it with Oil of Olay moisturizing body wash, yet all I have to do is attend to an itch with the passing of my finger and a trail of skin comes pealing away, resting in the pit of my nail. By the time my shower is over I look like a shiney victim of sado-masachism and there's a body caught in my drain. And every day it's the same. Goodbye Old Meredith, hello New.

It's growing hard to keep up with my development. I've realized for quite some time that my head forges through reality at a rate just beyond what my body will allow - that's why I walk like a ram surging forward, brow heavy, eye on some invisible target. As I drive and press onward, omniously knowing, the rest of me tails behind a little lackluster. The resilience to maintain my form fades out like watercolor, yet holds heavy in the past like a cautioning anchor unwilling to let freedom fly.

At this moment I'm really not sure what I am. Transitioning from old to new seems more strenuous than ever before, even though they say it's a revolving and reoccuring cycle of life and death.

I would like a cut off point.

I would like to know that who I was 3 years ago was a different me, a stupider me, a me that would of course make those silly mistakes. And I would like to know that here, in this era, I am wise and able and if nothing else, deserving of the things hard working adults are owed. Have I not trudged around with an excess long enough? Am I not West enough? Am I not brave enough? When can I say "I am new. I am now exactly here in this fresh moment without a shadow for bagage."?

Well, if the skin in the drain or the hair on my carpet house the directional portion of my id, so be it, let it sit, let it stay. I feel ready to break out into my new self even if it means wanderlust and overwhelmed engagement of the present. I'm eager to face a new reality. I'm excited to see what things await me, and I'm quite keen on having my body in line with my head. It's time to pause the pressing foward, and simply relish in the now with a sparkling new wide-eyed wonderment.

I'd like to know that it's safe for me to stand here, bare, without my anchor... but I do know that it's time for a new adventure. So here I am.

Perplexed and Puzzled

Sitting on the slope of Alamo Square facing a row of painted ladies, I am stricken by how perfectly the pieces fit together. The roofs fade into another, the complementing colors of each door and shutter cast along the San Francisco street like a very befitting rainbow. Is it one house or many?

He grabbed my hand, if nothing but to compare the length of my thumb to his, but once our fingers touched they locked like two puzzle pieces that belonged to no other. Are we designed to be this way or is it forced or by mistake, like all the other tries before this?

In my apartment, 2000 tiny cardboard cut outs with jagged, squiggley edges decorate my kitchen table. 2000 specs of a Starry Night, scattered and confused but in my touch. I bought the puzzle as a means to get away from the norm of my computer and my cellar-room walls, and to remind me of the virtue, patience. It is a worthy pursuit, especially considering the like colors, repetitive edges, and limited space. I'm still wishing upon stars to find the matter an accomplishment. And this, too, is befitting.

The question pokes at me: What fits?

My life was picked up and put back down on the edge of the world, in a pointed corner on a hill dubbed Frisco. The houses and skyline and trees all certainly fit together with a balanced equilibrium that on a regular basis brings happy tears to my eyes; yet me within this puzzle, I doubt my place.

In my home, or space presumed a home, I'm next to another piece that looks like it should match. It's the same color and shape and age... and for over a year I've tried to connect my ends to its. For over a year now I've felt that even though I should fit here with her, and even though we're close with very little space between us to suggest it's wrong, some pieces simply do not go together. The looks deceived me. My personal puzzle will never be complete with this mismatch jammed inside me.

So I seek outside my self for matching neighbors and connection. I seek solidarity from friends and dates and fingers intertwined in mine. What troubles me is that it's still so hard to tell if these ties are true, and correct, and meant to be as if it were written in the starry night... or is everything in this city forced for me?

I can't find the last edge piece of my puzzle. I'd feel a lot better if I knew it even existed and could contain all the other loose ends. But at a certain point, you have to work on the tiny aspects in the core, and get to the external surrounding in its own time. I don't know if the whole thing will work out. I don't know if all the houses at Alamo Square are connected - I don't know if that hand in mine is meant to BE mine - I don't know if my apartment will ever be my home - I don't know if San Francisco is the place I fit in general.

I do know that I can only take it one step and one piece at a time. It's a practice in patience, after all. I vow to my self and to the knowing thing within me that even when the pieces get mismatched, I will fix them, and some sweet day, I'll have the big picture in place.