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.