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