the flying fish bistro

Clicking the Refresh

2011-01-26T14:08:00.000-08:00

I need a refresh button for my life, and I'm going to be brave enough to click it.

That's a fucking turrible metaphor but whatever. It's been a very long few weeks. I have known for a long time now that Texas is wonderful. But it is not for me right now. I hate being so far away from my family, and not having the money to get home whenever I want. It's not that I can't stand being away from them, it's more that I can't get back to them if need/want be.

FINALLY, fourteen months after I moved to Austin, I got the chance to go home for a late Christmas. It was the most stressful vacation I've ever taken in my life. It was so hard to try to see everyone I needed to see, and then get to spend the time with people I wanted to see. (You know what I'm talking about: duty vs. the self.)

On top of it all, I met someone who has changed my perspective on a lot of things. Naturally, I wanted to spend time with him, which resulted in lack of sleep, and some interesting situations - (oh hey, I want to spend time with you, but I have this family obligation . . . sooo, wanna go to brunch with EIGHTEEN family members?? Oh shit.)

So.

I came back to Austin completely unsettled and unhappy. My plane landed, and my wheels were turning already. Plotting and planning. All of my Zen places are back home, and I decided concretely that it is just not worth it to stay so far away when it's painful to come home, and painful to be so far away. I'm not a masochist, really. Besides that, there are a lot of cool opportunities waiting for me. So, fuck it. I'm going home. (That sounds a little like Steve Urkel: I don't have to take this. I'm going home! Ha!)

Delve a Little Deeper

All right, those are superficial reasons. Here are some more in depth thoughts that I've put in my pipe to smoke. The past 18 months have fucking sucked. For 8 of those months, I waited tables to make enough money to eat and occasionally make a payment. I've NEVER had that problem, and I know what it's like to fall on hard times. Painful. Embarrassing. A major sense of failure. Now, I'm working 2 jobs (thankfully), and have nothing to show for it, except bags under my eyes and a generally bad attitude. Oh, and brain farts from lack of sleep. Always exciting. Pfft.

I don't read anymore, I don't do the things that I'm passionate about. My dog probably thinks I've abandoned him because even when I am home, I'm asleep. I swear, he's plotting how to kill me in his furry brain. He's so cute when he plots. ;)

I'm neglecting my mind, my spirit, my body. I have a gym membership, but when you work as much as I do, the last thing you want to do is exert more energy. Bad idea. Jessie needs to sweat. It gives me think time, and an outlet, and I miss that.

In short, I need to stop. I need to re-focus, re-center. Get grounded, and stop spinning my wheels when I'm so solidly in neutral. Figure out my next moves when I'm not drowning in frustration.

I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not even funny anymore when I write. That bothers me to no end. I'm working on it. This is a good move, and crazy Jess is just beneath the surface. Nah, she's here. She's just tying up some loose ends.

If a Jessie Falls in Ohio, Do You Hear it in Austin?

2011-01-17T10:59:00.001-08:00

Well, I've never completed a 180 so quickly in my life.

I'm Just Unsettled

2010-12-31T13:21:00.000-08:00

If you know me, you know that I have an uncanny ability to shake things up. I don't ever let things just settle - especially myself. I think that settling for something, instead of reaching and attempting, can be equated to failure. I hear people say, "well I settled for this . . . " or "I guess I'll just settle for that . . ."

I don't understand. I don't want to settle for anything. I don't care if it's settling for a Pop Tart when you want a Streudel! Go get your damn streudel and be happy that you hunted, tried, and won! Bite into that baby! I want to fly, to excel, to be challenged, and to succeed at everything. Everything is an adventure, and nothing is static.

A prime example of my frustration is looking at people I went to high school with. Holy crap! Some have taken the same type of mentality that I have, and done some extraordinary things, but many others have just stopped progressing, evolving, or changing. What is the value in that?

Last night, I had a lengthy conversation with a customer at Chili's. He is a police officer/paramedic/ICU/flight nurse, who works in a hospital and teaches. He just turned 40, and is constantly learning and challenging the status quo. That, I can appreciate and I'm happy to meet people with similar afflictions.

I say affliction because sometimes I get so frustrated with myself, and my inability to just stop and appreciate where I am right now. My body is on my sofa, but my head is at work tonight, at how I'm going to raise the money I need to enroll in grad school. I can't imagine putting in my 40 hours, going home, and saying 'well, that's my life'. My head is always elsewhere. It's in how I'm going to build my business in the upcoming year, and where the hell I'm going to put the kayak I just bought.

Have I ever kayaked? Nope. But I want to. And so I went out and got what I needed to do so. I didn't just sit around and wonder how I could ever possibly do it, only to never have it come to fruition. I became a kayak-hunting cheetah, unafraid to reach out and grab my kill. Er, my kayak. It's a prime example of what I'm talking about.

I guess I'll never stop reaching, and I think the frustration is that there's a war inside of me, wondering if I'll ever find my settling place. And I also wonder on which plane or level I'll find it.

365

2010-12-31T01:02:00.000-08:00

This time last year, I was trying in vain to hide two black eyes which I received courtesy of a rabid American soldier. It had been a crappy ending to a really weird year. It started off in Indiana, moved to Charlotte, ended up in Austin.

I think the way I spent New Year's Eve last year was indicative of how I spent this year. I spent most of my time hunting for a job, worrying about how I was going to make ends meet, worried and stressed, stressed and worried. I wasted so much time worrying that it feels like I forgot to experience my life.

Everyone talks about how 'this year is going to be different', and how they're going to become a completely different person in the year to come. I wish them luck, and I absolutely see the value in having renewed hopes for the future. I love the cyclical nature of new beginnings; they just keep coming around and newness or rebirth can happen at any moment you choose.

My hopes are pretty simple, and my plan is even more simple. My hopes are simply that this year is better than last year, and that a renewed sense of peace and wholeness will pervade my life. I hope that I continue to take positive steps toward a better life and a secure future by remembering that I can't solve everything at once, and problems are more easily solved when I realize that most problems are small. I hope that I keep in mind that it is best to take everything one moment, and one step at a time.

I plan to usher in the new year with a sense of peace, awareness, and knowledge of my own internal awakening. Maybe if I invite a little more Zen into my life now, perhaps it will linger and grow in the next year. It's all about hope and renewal.

#9, 10, 11

2010-12-16T14:06:00.001-08:00

#9 Jump off of a really high bridge, into a body of water below. (I'm a little terrified of heights)

#10 Submit a few stories to get published. Send them everywhere, and not be afraid to put myself out there.

#11 Be in New York for Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. #9, 10, 11

The Last 365 of 20-Something

2010-12-16T13:46:00.000-08:00

Today is my birthday. I am 29. Not in the "Hey, I'm 40, but it's cute to say that I'm 29' kind of way - I'm actually 29. The first day of the final year of my twenties.

THIS is a sexy age to be. I've come to a few major decisions regarding this year. I'm going to LIVE, and live well, and live like the seat of my pants are on fire.

I'm still working on the details.

I have come up with a short list of things I want to do. My aunt Kathy remarked on my Facebook page that I have really lived whereas others have just dreamed. I agree, to a point, but I still don't feel like I've taken the huge bite out of life that I would like. I still feel like, if I were sitting in a room with my friends and we shared life experiences, I would still be behind in the game.

For example, SEVERAL of my friends have spent extended amounts of time overseas. I don't even have a passport.

That's #1. Get a passport.

Now here's a short list of a brain dump of things that I will check off my bucket list before the big 3-0.

#2 Use the passport. Go anywhere. I don't care, anywhere.

#3 Skydive. Fuck it. Fall and hope the chute opens. (Maybe I'll do this toward the end of this upcoming year, just in case.)

#4 Learn to climb.

#4 Turn off the t.v. Actually, sell the t.v., and listen to music, books, silence. Whatever. (This isn't a financial hardship because I paid $25 for it at Goodwill).

#5 Have a threesome. Yeah, I said it. :)

#6 Go to Mardi Gras. And do it up. Beads, beads, everywhere beads! Pee in the streets! Get dirrrty, and totally lose myself in the fantasy of it all.

#7 Get a motorcycle.

#8 Walk a meditation path at night, by candle light.

What else? What's on your bucket list that I can steal in the last year of my twenties?

The Grass is Greener, The Snow is Whiter . . .

2010-12-12T17:04:00.000-08:00

I'm prepping for Christmas. By that, I mean I'm making candles for clients, and for my family as gifts, wrapping the gifts I've bought, and getting them ready to ship back home.

I'll be home for Christmas, only in my dreams. But before you feel too completely terrible for me, know that I'll be going home to the Arctic in January.

Everyone says I'm crazy, but I can't wait for some snow! I love the crunch of it on my boots, and the feel of a warm scarf and hat, and gloves. But lately, I've been really mulling over what it means to go home for a visit.

I'm one of the rare few who doesn't despise where I'm from. But I've more been thinking about what it's going to be like to wake up on Christmas morning, with not much to do. I suppose I'll put on a pot of coffee, and snuggle with Foster for a while. Probably take him to the dog park.

But then what? It's weird to think of spending Christmas alone, when I grew up in a family that is so steeped in tradition that it seems inconceivable that I won't be there for it, two years in a row. Not that I'm particularly torn up about it - it's just food for thought. There was a time when I couldn't imagine not being home.

But, the times, they are a'changin'.

I guess I might be jealous. All my friends are paired off, some spending their first Christmas with their boyfriends, fiances, lovers, etc. This is the time of year (especially) to have someone special in your life. This past year there have been a couple of strong candidates (I'm sure you all remember Bob . . . and the gym rat. Ugh.), but nothing that has stuck to the wall just yet. But at the same time, I don't just want any ole guy in my life just to have someone. I guess I'm looking for someone with a future full of possibilities.

Though there is a new strong possibility lurking around, I'm also learning from recent history and taking things slowly. Part of me wants to leap into the water; the part that is still licking its wounds is clinging tightly to the shore. This is not a bad thing, for sure!

Maybe it's all right to spend Christmas alone; I'm not alone truly, after all. But if you want to swing by my place and have some Christmas coffee and baked goods, Foster's and my door is always open.

Well, it's December . . .

2010-12-11T13:30:00.001-08:00

And I have not much to show for this year. It's almost over, and all I can really say is that I hope to seal the end of this year with a kiss, wish it peace in the history books, and look ahead.

My birthday is this month, and I dread it. It's not the 'getting older' part that bothers me. It's the fact that this year was a year of little accomplishment. It was a year of struggling, taking one step forward, and five steps back. It's been a year of emotionally trying relationships, and of reaching out to get your hand smacked.

It's been a year of 'so close, and yet so far'. And today, I feel so far. I've treaded water, and kept my head above it, but other than that I don't have anything to show for myself. My pockets have been turned inside out, as have my heartstrings, and my patience for disingenuous people has disappeared completely.

I ran into people who have fooled me, and who have fooled themselves. They left me feeling empty for a long time, these two types of people. They made me tired, and weary of the people who will walk into my future. I just kept running into them, and it wore me down. I hope they have a better year as well, but it's hard to hope that when those are the people who never change, or better themselves.

This year has been a call. I'm flopping my cards on the table, acknowledging my losses, gathering my belongings, and exiting the table. Perhaps I will find a better game at a better table next year.

Coming Into My Own

2010-11-05T08:49:00.001-07:00

I am very fond of saying everything comes full circle, always. That gives me incredible peace of mind when things go to shit, and I can't think of one instance where that saying hasn't held true.

Everything comes full circle, ALWAYS. Similarly, (thanks to the Stones for this) you can't always get what you want, but you get what you need.

I got what I thought I needed yesterday, and it came as a letter on my doorstep. I've had a few very long days lately, with working two jobs and filling candle orders in my "spare" time. Yesterday was one of them, and when I got home my ass was dragging almost to the ground. All I wanted to do was catch a nap and make some candles - until I turned the corner and saw a Target bag perched on my doorstep.

Instantly, I knew it was from Bob. How couldn't it be? I had just, not 10 minutes before, praised myself for letting him go out of my heart. Oh sweet Irony, you are an uber bitch.

With mildly trembling hands, I reached down and peeked into the bag. A note on ivory card stock, handwritten, sat on top. Well, this should be interesting.

It was. Everything Bob wrote in the letter was everything I felt & knew in my heart. Bob had in fact, farted himself awake. He freaked out, and scared himself. His letter sounded agonizing, and while part of me appreciated that, the other part felt sorry for him. I know what I'm about, and I know what I want. He had it, but couldn't give it to me. Conversely, Bob thought he knew what he wanted, and either got it and it scared him (think puppy chasing a car - what do you do if you catch the damn thing?); or he thought he knew what I wanted and it scared him.

I went through a few emotions last night, beginning with sadness & tears, shifting into anger (how does he get to come to my house, and just drop something off?), and now into peace and a warm heart toward him.

How?! You might ask, and you are correct in asking.

Bob is human, I am human. Shit happens. He's obviously sorry, and I accept that. We are nothing if we don't move forward and learn. All I want to do is hug Bob, tell him that it's all okay, and that I've been hurt before and will be again. The point is to learn from experience, and bring that into whatever is ahead. I could be bitter and harbor a grudge, but my God that takes so much energy, and he's sorry, and I'm sorry.

It's all good, my friends. It hurts a little still, but I know in my heart that it's all good. I will remain positive for the future, and yes, the door is still open for Bob. He's welcome to walk through it, as a friend, as a potential partner, or just as a casual acquaintance. Either way the wind blows, I'm at peace with it.

I've said what I needed to say, and heard (most of) what I wanted to hear, because after all:

You can't always get what you want.
Everything comes full circle, always.

Choose your ending.

2010-10-29T17:55:00.000-07:00

Still, my rocket has no brakes.

I have been thinking a little more about this concept, and I think it also has a lot to do not only with fear, but what you do with that fear. Fear can paralyze you, and you can either stay paralyzed and become stagnant, and satisfied with "enough".

Or you can take that fear, really feel it, internalize it, make it yours (own it, really), and move the hell on with it.

I battle fear every day. My job doesn't pay anything but the bills. For 8 months, I didn't have a job to speak of, and my credit score dropped two hundred points. I am incredibly ashamed of that, but it was either eat or pay a bill.

My credit score was a point of pride; my parents didn't do a great job of keeping their scores in check due to a number of issues. My issue was that I lost my job. For a good few months, the inertia paralyzed me. My mind kept spinning, but I was terrified to do anything about it. I stopped moving, slamming on the brakes because I was scared to make the wrong move. For the first time in my life, I learned what real fear is, and how it can stop you dead in your tracks. I also (theoretically) knew things would change, get better. I knew that I had a choice.

Here's the part where you either have a rocket or you don't: you either wake up one morning, and set NEW goals, change and adjust - work your ass off and get out of that rut you're in, or you don't. And if you don't - if you wallow in the inertia, lose yourself in it and never crawl out of that black hole, then what do you have?

Paralysis. Lack of movement, lack of growth. Atrophy, both mental and emotional.

People who have rockets, and especially rockets without brakes can't possibly sit in an inert state for long. I'm not sure what pushes us on.

Conversely, I'm not sure what makes someone want to stay and marinate in that paralyzing fear forever. It just doesn't sound appealing to me.

I need to check to be sure my rocket has enough fuel, because it sure as hell doesn't have brakes.

A Rocket With No Brakes

2010-10-29T10:53:00.000-07:00

(Thank you Heather for that amazing term. I hope you don't mind that I am borrowing it - I just think it suits us both nicely!)

Today, a friend said that neither of our rockets have brakes. Let that mental picture take shape, and I'll tell you what my imagination shows: Me, with those old-school goggles and a leather helmet, dark curls flying back behind me while I jet down a sidewalk screaming in delight and terror! That's what life should be like for those brave enough to say 'fuck you' to brakes. I've never been a firm believer in them, because most people life life with one foot on the pedal.

But you know what's great? I had no idea that that was who I was, until someone else pointed it out.

I'm rootless, always looking for the next step and wondering what amazing thing is around the corner. I've never looked around and said 'this is enough, and I will pursue no more'. Sometimes I get so frustrated about it, though.

Why can't I just be satisfied? Why can't I just settle on one thing and be happy with what I have? And the picture came slightly more into focus with Heather's simple statement. Some people have no rocket; my rocket has no brakes.

Even with climbing shoes, I'm not gripping the terrain

2010-10-25T07:14:00.000-07:00

I can't get into a routine. I started working at Backwoods Equipment Co. on August 2, and since then my world keeps performing somersaults, leaving me to just grip the sides with my knees, and hold on while it tumbles. Not unlike riding that damn mechanical bull in New Orleans - damn you, Jack Daniel!

I have experienced so many changes over the past weeks, and I really want a routine. Something like this would be great: Work out, go to work, have lunch, go home, play with Foster, read, go to bed.

Rinse. Repeat.

But it hasn't been that way, and I am still very hopeful that it will happen. I feel like I'm merely riding out an unending storm, hunkered down while the wind and rain howl and beat at my back. Like the Irish proverb says, I'm really hoping to have a gentle wind at my back, and the sun on my face soon. However, I have guests in town the next two weeks, and after dropping this past weekend's guest off at the airport, my apartment is still a mess (not his fault). I haven't finished moving in yet, and it's really bugging me. Pictures are still unhung; clothes are still not put away; it still smells like an empty apartment, even though I filled a few candle orders last weekend. (My other other other job, lol).

But, if you know me at all you know that I never really settle in/down/for anything. Sooo . . . we'll see how long I feel like I'm slipping, until I feel like I'm gripping and climbing. I have the feeling that this won't last forever - it never does for me. While I'm still gripping the world with clenched knees and fists, riding out the never-ending storm, I'm still trying to decide whether always being unsettled is a good thing or not.

Help! I'm Slipping!

2010-10-22T09:22:00.000-07:00

I made a mistake this morning - one I knew was coming for a few days, and I'm powerless to stop myself. My motto has always been this:

"I'd rather look back and think 'I can't believe I did that' as opposed to 'Gee, I wonder what would have happened if . . .'".

But sometimes it's so ridiculous to just jump in and do whatever you want, willy nilly. I used to have no regard for the consequences, and it seems like all I'm facing these days are consequences of seeminly innocuous past happenings.

I made the mistake of looking at Bob's photo today. At first it was a passing glance as I was going to delete some old files. Then I stopped and looked; then I fell, like Alice in a nightmarish wonderland, wondering what on earth happened, falling down the rabbit hole and into the Sepia-toned past. Searching around, I realized that the brutality of the ending is what has kept this wound open.

I need a reason, and that will give me closure. And looking into my heart right now, I see that it doesn't know time. It knows beats and moments, moments which correlate with my memories of those great moments that I'm now bleeding over. It knows when to speed up, and when to even out into a smooth cadence. It knows when it's hurt, and when to just let go for a moment.

My heart knows all these things, but doesn't know why it doesn't feel these radical impulses and glowing feelings anymore. It probably wonders why it hasn't pounded in delight recently.

For my heart, I'm sorry. I have no answers.

Pfft! Was that you or me?

2010-10-19T20:02:00.001-07:00

You've farted yourself awake. I know you have. Sometimes it's funny; sometimes it's shocking; other times it's terrifying. Think of the repercussions!

1.) You've been married or with a partner for a while, or you're shameless. You not only wake yourself up, but if by some small miracle your partner manages to sleep through it - you throw them an elbow and in a stage whisper, ask "Did you HEAR that?"

2.) You're sleeping alone, and it jerks you awake. You think it was just a dream, but feel oddly relieved. You nestle your head back into the pillow, feeling lighter, and fall back into peaceful slumber.

3.) Oh, and there's that other time . . . absolute terror. It's happened to me twice in my life (that I can recall). The first time happened when I was dating a guy named Mark who lived downtown in a gorgeous apartment. He had a huge, comfy bed, and apparently I was super relaxed. I jerked awake and watched him intently for a couple of seconds, checking for signs of false slumber. There were none. I was safe.

The second time was with a more recent relationship, and again he slept through it, but I was mortified, thinking all sorts of things ranging from "Omigod I think I shook the bed" to "How on earth did he sleep through that?!" to "Oh God, I hope it was just gas . . . "

Now that you've had your chuckles, consider this: Bob farted himself awake. Now, go with me on this as we review the facts together:

He gave me his garage door opener, saying "I want you to feel like this is your home".

He asked me to spend every night with him, NOT the other way around (though of course I said yes - duh).

He said very serious things, such as "We have all the time in the world", and other things that still remain between us. Though I don't know why I feel the allegiance, and need to keep it that way.

He made me coffee in the morning.

His parents knew my name; I spoke with his dad on the phone; I had a candle making date with his dad.

I won't go on, because it's even making me uncomfortable, but the point is this: I wasn't the only one who fell hard and fell fast. But whereas I told myself 'Jess, you are always guarded - just push those walls down and jump in!', he did all those things and my theory is that he (metaphorically) farted himself awake.

He looked around, caught himself, but maybe he checked and there was more there than he had hoped for. Gents, here's a hint: If you fart yourself awake, just go with it still. You'll be marked, regardless.

I know when to shut up & listen

2010-10-19T11:29:00.000-07:00

Believe it or not, I know when to shut up. And when to listen to people wiser than myself. Today I got an earful from one of those wonderful people, and what she had to say was both exciting and terrifying.

And I don't know what to do with it. But I did hear her, and internalize her thoughts and her advice. Now, what do I do with it?

Ooh, and another thing!

2010-10-18T18:50:00.000-07:00

The whole point of my earlier blog got lost in my ramblings. As I was talking to Emali about the whole ugly episode, she said something that struck serious gold, and I'd like to share it with you now.

So many times in the past, I hear people blather on and on, and on again about "I'm going to do things for myself" and "really work on me". Well what the hell does that mean, anyway?

Seriously. Take time off from what? Who on earth means that much to someone that they need to "take time off" from dating afterward in order to get themselves "right" again?

Okay, I've been humbled. I had said those things before, those things that people say when they feel the need to work on themselves. I was lying every time. But do you know what I realized just about 10 days ago?

I'm taking time away from having a relationship. I fell too fast. What's missing, that that happened so quickly, and hurt me so much?

I'm taking time off. And I'm rediscovering what I love about myself; dusting off the things that make me happy. I didn't say I'm taking time off from dating, though. I think an integral part of discovering myself is meeting new people, and seeing what new friends have to offer.

But I'm not expecting anything, and not planning for anything, except where I am going and what I want from life. "Life" is such a big word. What do I want for tonight? Or tomorrow?

There's real beauty in that, and I guess I feel a little freedom - for as long as it lasts because after all, I'm human, and I'm fallible.

Humor & The Sad Thing

2010-10-18T14:34:00.000-07:00

I finally did it! I looked back on Bob's odd behavior, and tried to diagnose it with Emali, and I actually laughed at it! I laughed out loud, a lot. It really was the oddest "dump" I've ever had ( I know that sounds gross, but you know what I mean. POO)

But looking back at it, whatever happened wasn't my fault, and while there's a major tender spot there, some of it was downright funny. Such as?

He helped me move my super heavy, solid oak furniture in the pitch darkness. He put up my refugee dog and myself. He said, often "We have all the time in the world". (That one still hurts - I believed him.) He bent over backwards. He had a couple interesting slips of the tongue. I thought all of it was adorable, and took very little of it seriously.

But why do all these things to then dump me by silent treatment?! Oh well. I got a coffee mug out of it.

It's a pimpy coffee mug, too. And if he wants it back, he knows where to get it - with the cost of an explanation, while I sit, bemused like the Godfather. I may even stuff some cotton balls in my cheeks for effect - don't put it past me, my friends.

Even though it's now laughable, and I've gotten to the "big picture" of it all, I flipped through my e mail today, and there was a photo of him, wearing a tie I love. It hurt. And the sad thing is, my door really is open still. I'm not sure what the ratio of curiosity is to the fact that I care a lot about him - but I'm willing to rip off the band-aid in order to let him in again.

Meh. It is what it is.

Connections

2010-10-17T14:43:00.000-07:00

I've been feeling very homesick these past few days. And I swear, this is the last time I'll mention it - it's because I got dumped.

Ok, to clarify: it wasn't a "boyfriend/girlfriend" relationship, but it was headed that way in my opinion. So I guess it's the abrupt end to the beautiful possibilities that has my head spun around so hard. Regardless, suddenly being lonely has friends & family coming out of the woodwork to comfort and entertain me. Problem is, they're mostly back home in Indiana.

This morning I was so homesick, tears kept threatening. But I swear I'm tired of crying. I need to connect with this city, and make it an anchor. I can't keep idealizing "home" as this 22-hour away place. I mean to say, it will always be home, but God I'm so wistful about it when I'm stressed.

I have resolved to connect more with Austin, and the people in it. The Long Center has some sort of writers' workshop; I have a membership to a kick-ass gym; I work downtown. What the hell am I crying about? (Don't worry, I won't re-cap for you).

I need to buck up, go out and meet people. While a large part of me wants to say that, and charge back to my apartment, I am going to meet a new friend at Town Lake for some dog walking and coffee. It's a brave new day for our little soldier. ;) Who even cares about tomorrow?

2010-10-16T19:08:00.000-07:00

Not So, Monotony.

I planned for a monotonous, chill day today. I planned to sleep in, lie around in my jammies, drink coffee, then drink Jack (maybe), make some candles to fill a few orders, and maybe finally organize my new pad.

I drugged myself to sleep at 8 p.m. last night - though the body needed rest, the mind wasn't willing. Sigh. An old friend called his mind "the hampster on the wheel" and mine has been more and more like that lately. Hence, NyQuil. And the mixed berry flavor was delightful as well :)

I woke up, feeling as though I had slept the day away at 9:30 a.m. Nine-fucking-thirty. I used to sail right through that hour, and sleep until noon, but not the case now - and to be honest, I dig it. I like the morning, and its simplicitous beauty.

Moving forward, I coffeed, I candled, I chilled. I felt like I accomplished nothing. I was bored. I watched some t.v. Made some more candles. Made lunch, such as it was, and still felt the burning need to get up and do something. My thought was, how did I do this all day? The act of nothing.

The truth is: I worked on my small business website; I filled a couple of orders from paying customers, who may tell their friends about me. I did some laundry, which goes a long way in seeing the floor of my apartment. I started some grad school applications, and considered my alma mater as well. I experiemented with scent and color, all in a shapely glass palette with my name on it. I thought of a business venture between my sister and myself, and mentally laid out some plans. In my jammies. On the couch. But whatever :)

I've realized that monotony like this is, in the end, very profitable - if not monetarily, then spiritually and mentally. It was a quiet day, but I did a lot. The fact that this is what I call boredom or monotony is a fact worth looking into and exploring. In short, retrospect has made me very accomplished today, even if I was accomplished in my jammies.

2010-10-16T10:21:00.000-07:00

The thing about me is I'm resilient. A dear family friend says that I'm the most resilient person she's ever known. And I didn't believe her until . . . right about now. And there's even some self-doubt still, but I'm starting to believe that.

I don't know why I let this guy hurt me so much, and there will come a point when I'll stop to think about it; to learn from it. And the next experience will be better. God I hope the next experience will be better.

See, the problem is that I know what I want. And for a short time, he gave it to me, no strings attached. Should I have been leery? I don't know. I don't want to be one of those people who never lets anything in for fear of being hurt. I've been that person, and I don't want to go back.

My ex (who is still a wonderful friend) told me just to let the pain in, and work itself back out again. The thing about heart pain like that, is that even though it hurts while it's happening, it leaves smears of wisdom and care that you take with you to the next experience.

What have I learned so far? I will never just leave a person hanging, wondering what happened. I'll have the decency to tell them it's not working. And I'll do my best to be up front. In short, I won't be the asshole Bob turned out to be. It's just baffling how well he hid it.

Oh well, I have a date tonight. ;) And while I have exactly ZERO expectations, it'll be nice just to have a drink, a drink at face value.

In the interest of my sanity

2010-10-15T06:34:00.001-07:00

I went out for drinks last night. After I left work (90 minutes after quitting time), I decided to take Foster for a walk down Congress Avenue, to enjoy the night, and of course do some people watching. Watching all the life flicker around myself and my beloved pup, I realized people weave in and out. And just when I needed it the most, the warm presence of an old friend wove its way back in.

I thought to myself, what am I going to do to occupy my time after this? And like a lame ass, I tossed all my grand plans aside and snuggled with Foster. The top of his sleek, furry head has been a little too damp with my tears lately, and though I wanted to give him a break, I wanted the comfort.

Like I said, this is an unusual situation for me. Foster is not used to watching his mommy cry, and I'm sure as hell not used to this. Yuck! Normally, I'm a dating prizefighter with one of those big, gaudy "gold" belts. I'm the fucking dating champion! Never been knocked out. Until now.

Regardless, I found myself doing the WORST thing I could do, and I'll now divulge today's crazy: I re-read his texts. At first, looking for signs of trouble, then basking in the bittersweet glow of how it was.

LOL, I know! I know! LAME. I want to shake myself! I can laugh at it today, and I was fully aware of my complete lameness as it was happening. The only thing I can say is that most of us have been there before, and I have finally been dragged into joining the melodramatic ranks. Sigh.

Anyway, just as the tears were knocking on the door, I got a text from a good friend who I haven't seen in a while. We ended up meeting for drinks, and he's been recently dumped (though in a more genteel way: she actually SAID something to him. How nice!) so we had some common ground. There's something in the way we laughed and talked easily that made me feel much better. No pretense (he knew I was a mess); no attempt on his part to be Rico Suave. It's so nice to hang out with a sexy male friend without fear.

And guess what? After we had drinks, he made me coffee too.

Crazy is on a break.

2010-10-14T06:53:00.000-07:00

Shayla, ma'am, I'm writing on this blog first because I know you're going through withdrawals. :)

That said, I'm on a fucking break. I give! I'm throwing my hands into the air, and shaking angry fists at ye gods above! "I defy you, stars!" Somewhat dramatic? Of course. What else would you expect? But all Montague quoting aside, I've come to a painful conclusion.

I'm done dating for a while. Yes, I always have the best stories, and yes they are all (sadly) true. And yes, generally I am the one to dance away, whistling, better off for the experiences, tucking them away for a time when I could use the wisdom and truths again. But times are changing. I'm growing up, learning, coming to learn the pleasure of sharing myself with someone special - someone who takes my breath away. Had I ever had that before? I have come close a couple of times in the past.

This time? Ugh, this time was different.

Jess fell. That shit hurts, and I'm bruised and sore now, sitting on the ground, taking stock of my sore body, rubbing at the bruises and wondering how on earth I got here. I have always kept a pretty tough dating exterior, ensuring that the select few I let in were let go before they could slice and scratch at my heart. Little known fact about the Jess: her heart has had enough pain and trauma in her young life to choke a horse. And though usually entertaining for other people, she runs for sheer protection. I try to keep the Jess's heart wrapped up in a protective cocoon, to save her from situations like this. (I'm sure you see the meta aspect of all this?)

Details! You clamor for details! Ok, fine. It's simple, I guess.

I met a boy. I opened up to said boy; we'll call the boy Bob. Bob's a fine name. I met Bob. I pushed down my personal walls, and opened my whole self to Bob. I fell HARD for Bob. Bob (I thought) fell hard for me. He said so anyway. Bob opened doors; Bob opened his home during one of the toughest two-week spans in recent history, and Bob made me coffee in the morning. He gave me his garage door opener. Bob had book cases full of well-thumbed volumes. You see where I'm going with this?

In an absolutely stunning span of time, I fell like a tree in a hurricane. I'm not ashamed to admit it now; it doesn't ever hurt anything to admit you're human; fallible, and to the point of love-able. Kids, I was right there, standing on the edge of a precipice, peering over the side and thinking (for once) "You know what? I can do this. And I can love it!" I closed my eyes, stepped off, and dove. Fuck it. Just jump Jess.

And just like that, he was gone. No calls, no texts, no nada. So here I am, on the ground, wiping away dirt-smudged tears, taking stock of myself and my bruised heart and mind. And make no mistake, this is a different hurt than I've probably ever felt, though I haven't given myself permission to really delve deeply into my psyche to find out. But it feels different. I'm mourning something that, in its short tenure, was a dream. I had, for a short time, grasped the mirage of my dreams.

And like all mirages, I'm left feeling emptier, clutching at nothing but air and a broken heart.

माय करे

2010-06-24T23:24:00.000-07:00

Today has been a really rough day. I'm just emotionally drained, and my head hurts. Thinking is inevitable, though, and I can't stop it. There are too many options to consider, too much stress lying squarely on my shoulders. I need a decision, and I need something to give. I haven't even given myself permission to write, so everything is bottled up and threatening to explode like those stupid (and AWESOME) volcanoes that kids used to perennially enter into science fairs. Hope springs eternal, I guess.

My frustration is . . . overwhelming. What do I want out of life? I'm at the point where I want some stability, and the thought of a plan. An outline. A fucking flow chart. Something that will tell me where to go, and what I shouldn't waste my time on. My endeavours thus far have been worthwhile (to me, anyway). Most people probably think I'm nuts for doing so many different things, and constantly seeking out new experiences. It's not even really a choice.

I'm driven. I am kind of tired of being driven - I'm ready to drive. No, wait, let's take that metaphor a bit further - I'd even go so far as to say I'm ready to be a passenger. There are many times (becoming more frequent) when I'm envious of the people who know their whole lives exactly what they want, and how they'll go about it. I could use a dose of that right now - but Charles reminded me today that I have a lot of really great options from which to choose.

And for those who know me best, I would hope that they know that I'm not as wishy-washy as I seem. I have seen and done a lot, and life is short. I just don't want to miss anything.

But while I'm busy not missing anything, what am I missing? Isn't there something to be said about direction? I want to find out!

And it's already a successful day

2010-05-25T09:38:00.000-07:00

I seem to have a hard time learning in a non-traditional environment. One summer when I was working my way through my bachelor's degree, I took 5 summer courses. Three of them were online, and I finished one of them in a few hours. Of course, it was a magazine writing class, and all the professor gave us was a list of topics. I let my imagination fly, and my fingers follow suit, and before I knew it, I had achieved an A in one evening. I'm afraid I've had a jaded view of online learning ever since.

The more I try online courses, however, the more I realize what an anomaly that class was. Or, more appropriately, that the course suited my particular talents. Now I'm in online courses for my Texas real estate license. I'm finding it to be a huge pain in the ass. Sitting down and taking time to read legal terms is frustrating. Frustrating because I like to know exactly what I'm doing and talking about; I hate being anything except at the top of my game. Being the least knowledgeable person at a business table is very low on my priority list! So . . . how is this a successful day?

I've made my own personal list of the things I need to get done, and the things I need to learn in order to feel successful. (And to gain licensure). The thing I've learned over the past few weeks is that success is learning what I need to do in order to be successful, and looking inward to find the tools I need in order to do that.

I'm rambling, but learning how I learn has made today a success. ;)

Nickel For Your Thoughts?

2010-05-24T05:45:00.000-07:00

All right, all right, I'm up. It's 7:45, and I've been up for a few minutes, ripping myself awake with the knowledge that some people have been awake for hours. HOURS, I think to myself, while digging down to find the motivation to keep my eyes open and my body erect.

I've got miles to go before I sleep (again) . . . you'll have to forgive me. Robert Frost is my favorite poet, and that's . . . nevermind. I'm trying to wake up my body, so I start making my bed, all the while jamming out to a little music for motivation. But while I make my bed, my mind reverts back to a time when I'm not more than a pipsqueak, trotting after my great grandpa at their smoke-filled, dated Indiana farmhouse house.

Grandpa Joe was my hero - one of those people who shimmer into and out of your life and leave a trail of stardust in your eyes. He gave me direction, gave me love, and made me feel like the light he was to me, and even gave me a pipsqueak-sized set of overalls to match his. I love him purely, and without question - something I find sort of intimidating in my adult life to accomplish. We used to go on these walks in the summertime, back across a plain stone bridge over a creek. I would sit and swing my feet over the creek while he wandered and told me stories, limericks, jokes, whatever came to mind. In general, he wasn't a big talker, so a lot of the time we would just sit side by side in silence, enjoying the day and each other's company. Even as a kiddo, I listened, and I knew this guy was something special. I didn't, of course, realize that those lapses into silence, and some of the wandering away was due to his slow descent into Alzheimer's. Eventually, silence filled his life, and stole the light out of his twinkling, faded blue eyes.

I lived with my great grandparents off and on through my childhood, and got to spend a lot of quality time learning from these two amazing people. (The word 'amazing' is often overused; I flip back through my memories, and feel amazed that I got a chance to really know these people.) Often, in the mornings, Grandpa Joe would ask me in his gruff voice, "Do you want to earn a nickel?" I was, of course, eager.

So, we would stand on opposite sides of his and Grandma's bed, and while she cooked breakfast, he and I would meticulously make up the bed. His gnarled fingers would so tenderly tuck the sheets in beneath the pillows, freshly fluffed, and I would do my best to mimic his moves. By the time we finished, there was one perfect side, and one not so perfect one, but it never mattered. We would have breakfast, and we would go on about our day. Sometimes we would walk; sometimes we would listen to eight-tracks of Elvis. It didn't really matter.

You know, I never saw a nickel of that money. That never mattered either.

I just want to sulk

2010-04-01T18:21:00.000-07:00

I put on a dress. I had a shitty day, and he was gone for two weeks, so I came home and put on a dress. I feel fat and emotional, and hate hormones. And I missed him. All day I could have cried, for no reason. Holding back the tears took monumental effort, and so I came home and got ready. He barely said goodbye when he left, and let me know he was leaving when he was packing, and his roommate took him to the airport, even though I was available to do it. I didn't get to drive him to the airport; I don't know that it occurred to him that I wanted to kiss him and tell him to be safe. I have struggled for my adult life to feel special enough to warrant affection, and to let it in. Growing up, I was taught by example that everyone else in the room is more important than I am, and that's followed me for a long time. Usually, I just keep everyone on the surface, but that only works for so long. I was taught to say, 'no I don't need that', or 'no, that's okay, do what makes you happy. Don't worry about me,' which ultimately translates to 'my feelings aren't that important. I'm the cool chick.' I don't know how. I just don't know how to say my thoughts and opinions are just as important - and even worse, I don't know how to believe it myself. And now he's back, and I put on a dress, emotional and fat, and I don't feel overly special. It's not his fault. Maybe I'm oversensitive. But I'm in a dress, alone.

Just when it was all looking up, a bird flew by

2010-03-10T19:31:00.000-08:00

I lifted my eyes toward the sun; its rays shone down on me as I tilted my head toward it to receive its blessing. All seemed right and well - the clouds were gone, darkness melted away, and just as I relaxed and allowed myself to receive its beauty openly, a raven swooped down from the heavens and crapped on my head.

Sonofabitch.

I feel like I have been under a lot of pressure to be the perfect mix of lover and friend, and I think I'm being judged - a lot. I've been walking on egg shells, and I still manage to hurt the people I care most about. Is it that I need to change, or that the climate around me is changing? The things I used to understand to be kosher are now inappropriate, but I need some explanation, some clarity before I can proceed down a different road. That fucking road is bumpy and dusty, and yet it's challenging and fresh. Truth be told, minus the flowers and pomp, I'm scared to death. I'm afraid that I've found something worth fighting for; ghosts, history, fear, walls don't belong in this scenario. But how does one rid herself of these unappealing features, when nobody is gently reminding her that she doesn't need to use them anymore? All that's happening is that the walls are slowly building themselves back up, one shovel full of mortar and one layer of brick at a time. I can almost hear the scrape of it as it grows, stone upon stone. And somehow I feel bound, powerless to stop it like the archetypal maiden in distress. Cinderella didn't have abusive exes, or a history that would instill disgust into any slithering tabloid journalist. I mean, who actually believes that shit? Some days, it's certainly not me who believes - but worse, I know it. I now it because it's been burned white-hot into the very marrow of my bones.

But truth be told, that's my story. My story is on the shelf, too unbelievable to be read seriously. Therefore, I have a lot of baggage, and all I know how to do is be one of the guys. Nobody was ever really interested in getting to know that other side - the one who dreams, and hopes, and plans how she'll fall in love, or come to see a lover as a true life partner. She dreams of romance, and of her love requiting the feeling and embracing every one of her failures, and every one of her shortcomings, just as she would of his. She is the girl who sits in the middle of a field, or in a glade listening to the sounds of nature, oblivious to the fact that I'm even around in their neck of the neighborhood. She is the girl who attempts to write the lyrics to what she hears buzzing around her. She's the girl who finds romance in a touch, the way a blade of grass allows itself to be caressed by her hand as a spring breeze breathes around her. She's the girl with her leather bound notebook empty because she hasn't yet decided which story to tell today. This girl is waiting for her prince to come, but most of the time he's out drinking with his buddies, and fails to see these other qualities. So then she deconstructs, becomes that tough, run of the mill chick who is simply one of the guys.

I feel like every time I reach out to open myself up to the sun, to show it who I really am and what I'm capable of if properly nurtured, I get burned. Cliche, yes. I need nurture. I need nature. I need love, unconditional. I need clarity. I need to hear, and to listen to what he has to say. What is his heart telling him? How far up or down are his walls? Does he feel like I do, that we need to talk things through, and shift gears into something more smooth and less bumpy and unpleasant. To what degree does he want me to change? To what degree do I want to change him? Truth be told, I want to be let in on his little secrets - I want to know why he's been changing on a dime lately. And why everything I do irks him. Everything I do irks him, and that makes me feel like less than someone special. It makes me feel small, unimportant and unworthy. Does he know he's doing that to me? He's been tightly wound, stressed, looking down on me, and then snuggling with me until I think I'm the only person in his world. It's the looking down on me, and not treating me in a romantic way (i.e. having a real date?) When we're together, his attention seems to be all on me, but something is missing. I want to start at square one, then proceed. Right now I feel like I'm focusing every ounce of attention I have, just to keep my head above water, and to stop the smatter, scrape and push of mortar and brick from enveloping me completely.

Rainy days are made for books and coffee . . .

2010-02-05T09:13:00.000-08:00

And snuggling. But since I had to be up at the butt crack of 8, snuggling was out of the question. Seriously, who even knew that there was an 8 in the a.m. too?! But all joking aside, I woke up in my new bedroom, which is huge and cavernous, and the sky was overcast and dripping. My room was a little chilly, so I was snuggled under warm blankets while Foster snoozed next to me. What a perfect way to wake up! If only there was time to hunker down for a while and spoon the dog!

If you don't have pets, I suggest you get one just for the snuggle factor. (If there's a hairy man in your bed, you can use him too, but I suggest the dog over the dude in most cases.) Regardless, I had to get up, rip myself out of my warm cocoon, and get ready for an interview. Emali had to be out of the house a few minutes before me, so there was a mad pants-and-bra dash to get dressed and get out the door. I made coffee before we had to go our separate ways, and that seems to be the thing that connects us in the morning. It's sort of our ritual to drink at least one cup of that hot, steaming goodness together before we run our separate ways for the day. The interview lasted 10 minutes, and it took me 20 minutes to get there.

And that's the way things go, I guess. The bright side is that I am now fully awake, and have accomplished many things thus far today, and will have more things done before noon. But right now, I'm sitting at the coffee shop working on my little Mac, sipping on steaming coffee, occasionally gazing out the bank of windows at this gloomy, rainy day. And you know what? It's wonderful! One of the girls who works here is reading Lolita, and I read it for the first time last summer. So of course, we had a mini book discussion, leading into Catcher in the Rye, and how much we love the characters as much as the plots, adding that both books are life and perspective-on-life changers. Books bring strangers together, and now I have two new friends, because we are all reading and drinking coffee on a rainy day in Austin.

Confucius say: Three days of rain makes one really appreciate the sun. Take that little nugget for what you will, but I think that, metaphorically speaking, there's some real truth to it.

Twelve Years and Wondering

2010-01-30T14:15:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting at a local coffee shop, working on getting a job, working on moving my things to Austin from Charlotte, thinking about moving my stuff from Indiana to Austin, hoping to get my favorite from Orlando to Austin, and it occurred to me. On February 2, it will be 12 years since I was in a major car accident. Normally, I don't dwell on such things, but I was just contemplating the blessings that I have received since then.

That moment, on a freezing cold, bright and clear February day, I was sixteen, huddled in my letter jacket and heading home from track practice when I pulled out in front of a semi truck. I remember it now, and it's making my palms sweat, and my eyes sting just a little. I saw it coming, I inhaled a sharp breath, and felt with my whole being, the crash, pop, the metal twist, the explosion of glass and the crack of my pelvis as it split into two. I felt myself spin and jerk, and I knew I was going to die. I watched the front of the truck as it penetrated the passenger side, then it miraculously climbed onto the hood and avoided my frail, expendable body. I spun; the truck flipped, spilling tons of grain into a vacant field. My truck spun almost until it his Allison What's-Her-Name's driveway, an eighth of a mile from the intersection.

People rushed toward me as I kicked my way out of my mom's Chevy Blazer, broken pelvis and all, the door covered in bloody scratch marks and debris. I stood up before someone told me not to. Then my world went dark, and I lost my sight. My first thought was that I would never see my dad's smile again. That memory still makes me teary, and I was overcome as someone led me back into my demolished truck. Slowly, as my blood pressure evened out again, my sight came back like a numb limb that has been slept on too long. I sat there, on my mom's leather seat, thinking 'oh boy I'm in trouble', and 'Oh God, I need to tell Emali that I'm okay'. I'm not quite sure which thought took precedence, but they were both in the forefront of my mind.

Eventually, sirens made their presence known, along with the medics I had known since childhood. They laughed with me, and comforted me while we made our way to the hospital. When we wheeled into the trauma bay (I ended up working that the same hospital's ER later on), Bill and Kyle were there waiting for me. Two guys from my high school who knew I was in trouble, and came to help me. I'll never forget that.

My parents showed up; Emali and her parents showed up. I heard her family coming all the way down the hall, and I remember being overwhelmed with sorrow that I had put them through that, again. I miss that closeness. But everybody was there, and three days later, I was released from the hospital, with a broken pelvis and a concussion.

It's been twelve years, and I have never forgotten how lucky I am, and how blessed I am for everything that happened that day. I don't usually wax poetic about such things, but I am so blessed to be here, so blessed to have the opportunity to walk every day (the docs thought I was paralyzed for a bit), I have the opportunity to express myself, to hug my family and friends, to express my love, to chase my dreams, to be thankful for every small thing that comes my way. I am especially thankful for my two guardian angels, and for all the people who were there to catch me when I fell.

All these years later, the overwhelming sense of blessing and awe are as powerful as they were back then. Good God, thanks.

Saturday Night Fever

2010-01-23T19:22:00.000-08:00

No, I'm not wearing a polyester suit, and there are definitely no disco balls hanging from my living room ceiling. I do, however, have a different sort of fever this evening.

I left work at my menial, mind numbing job this afternoon with a new resolve to bully my way into a successful position. Today was particularly annoying; people suck, and I am a servant/server to idiots. This isn't just my imagination - people, en masse, are dumb, and it's frustrating when they are bossing me around. What's even more frustrating is when people don't tip. Do they not realize that I get paid two dollars per hour? Do they also realize that I'm being cheerful in order to milk them for a good tip? Hello! This is not rocket science. And I'm a little pissy tonight - there is a silver lining, however.

Every day that I walk into work, tie an apron around my waist, glue a smile onto my face, and pretend that I love everybody (even when they suck), I come that much closer to opening a door - a door to that internship, or to that job, or I meet that person who knows a guy who knows a guy, etc. I hold firm to that hope, even if it smells like baby back ribs.

So tonight, when all of my peers are out having drinks and relaxing away their Saturday nights, I am on my computer, searching and applying for jobs that will open doors. I'm researching small business loans, and I'm setting up appointments for graduate programs. I scheduled two meetings with graduate admissions folks at both UT and St. Edward's here in Austin. I'm just going and going in hopes that next week a door will open. So, come on people! Help a sister out.

All I wanted to do is nap!

2010-01-13T12:43:00.000-08:00

I wanted to get up this morning and have a productive day of job hunting, following up on internships, and wowing the world with my personality. Instead, I woke up at noon, feeling like absolute crap for the fourth day in a row. I still feel like I have recently been hit by a truck, and a fever has now presented itself into my pajama-wearing life. This sucks.

So in between moping and sneezing, I worked on a band bio and hit a wall. So then I thought to myself, Self, you need a nap before you go to wait tables tonight. So as I lay me down to sleep, pulling my Lambie over my eyes (a blindfold of sorts), I hear someone rap-rap-rapping at my chamber door. No, it was not a raven, but I do quoth that it was my landlord.

The very same landlord who didn't know about Em's puppy Zeke, or my baby Foster. Ooh boy, did my butt cheeks clench when I heard her key turn in the door! I felt like a naughty kiddo who just got busted for coloring a crayon self-portrait on my bedroom wall. I was trapped - and forced to tell the truth to a complete stranger. She's lucky I didn't sneeze on her.

Well, at least now the dog's out of the bag, and I can be free to let the dogs bark at the door, whenever anyone knocks at it. Be it a raven, or a mean landlord.

And then, it hit me

2010-01-12T21:13:00.000-08:00

The other day, I came home from my eleventh straight day of work, and I took a nap. Three hours later (!) I woke up with a raging head cold. I read a study once where the final conclusion was this: the body knows when it can relax and heal, so it suppresses any illness that comes along until that time when it can be dealt with efficiently.

Well played, body, well played.

I had so many errands to run yesterday, including dropping off some serious cash to my future landlord here in Austin. Did I do it? Nah. I slept and drank tea. But do you know what else I did? I ran, and I ran further than I had in a while. Then I lifted weights, and felt so incredibly accomplished. And then when I woke up this morning, I felt like I had gotten hit by a Mack truck. Oh, dear God.

So, guess what I did today? I worked, and then slept through Emali's run, and then I woke up feeling like crap. But after I woke up fully, I dragged my sick ass out the door and took off for a run, and though I really wanted to stop and crawl home, I made it!

Right now you're thinking, 'big effing deal', and that's probably what I would think, were I reading this out of nowhere. But there is a point, I promise.

Point being, I've not pushed my body in years. Even back in high school, I was the first one to stop running, or to say 'fuck it' when things got too tough. I realize that there is a distinct parallelism between body and mind. I need to keep pushing my body, that's true, but what about my mind? I've kind of let things slide since this summer.

I haven't challenged myself, and it's high time that I do. So, as I sit here coughing myself to death after a run I probably shouldn't have taken, I realize it's time to step up my goal game a notch or ten. The question is, where do I go from here?

Pobriety? Poredom?

2010-01-12T08:32:00.000-08:00

Either way, I'm poor. Let's review: Jessie had a good job, Jessie lost her job, Jessie became a nomad for a while, and then Jessie landed back in Austin, TX - quite a ways away from where she began, in Charlotte, NC.

So, now all my worldly dreams have come true: I'm poor as hell and waiting tables at the very same restaurant where I used to work before I left Texas in order to finish my Bachelor's degree. Hmm, now there's a full circle.

To be continued . . .

Reference sites

2010-01-09T23:53:00.000-08:00

I got so wrapped up that I forgot to add my websites. Whew! All this sex talk and I've got the vapors! Anyway, here are some links just in case you would like to begin a sexual revolution of your own. This is by no means comprehensive, but a good start.

http://www.netdoctor.co.uk/sex_relationships/facts/orgasmtrouble.htm

http://dodsonandross.com/

http://dodsonandross.com/blogs/eric-amaranth (This is a blogger, Eric Amaranth, who explores the male perspective of sex, and he does it in a very fun way! You'd be surprised.)

http://dodsonandross.com/sexfeature/bitches-bisexual-dykes (No, this isn't just about bisexuality - it's about a woman's sexual power)

Whore, Party of One?

2010-01-09T23:10:00.000-08:00

I am a whore.

Okay, I'm a reformed whore. (?) What the hell kind of sense does that make?

WARNING: This is a graphic blog entry, sexual and raw in nature, and is not intended for the faint of heart, or those plagued with random cases of the 'vapors'. Of course, if you already read my blog, this is nothing new. Please, continue.

The funny thing about the term 'whore' is that it usually carries a negative connotation; I look at things a little bit differently, and it has served me interestingly, if not well. In high school, I looked at sex through pure, innocent eyes. I wanted to wait until I was married, or in a secure relationship before I gave myself away. My parents didn't talk about sex.

Do you remember the sex talk you had with your parents? Here's mine:

Mom: Have you had sex?
Jess: Umm, no. (With nobody except my right hand, that is. Of course, I omitted this.)
Mom: Do you know about sex?
Jess: I think so?
Mom: DON'T EVER LET ANYONE STICK ANYTHING IN YOU.
Jess: Good talk, Mom.
Dad: Scratches head, turns red and runs.

That night, I flipped my bedcovers back to find a couple of circa 1962 sexual education pamphlets tucked under my pillow. I read them, and getting excited by the 'anatomical diagrams', got off to my very first porn. Thank you, sexual education pamphlets.

From then on, I was more than a little confused about sex, so I secretly consulted with my dad's "hidden stash" of Hustler and Playboy magazines. My first honest thought: So every woman is a lesbian? My second thought: Penises are intriguing.

Then came Kurt. Aah, the first real boyfriend, the one I wanted to make sweet, beautiful, perfect love with. I envisioned a picnic on a warm June day; flowers, wine, assorted luncheon meats (it WAS a picnic), and of course, Kurt dressed like the cover of a Harlequin romance novel, his long hair ruffled by the breeze . . . Instead, I got a basement at 4 a.m., and the bemused thought of: Really? That's what all the fuss is about? Clearly I did it all wrong!

The natural next step was to consult Cosmo, which of course, had all the answers. Oh dear God, what a mistake. Suddenly, I was trying to pose like a supermodel while in the throes; desperately trying to remember all the tips in the 'touch him this way, and he'll BEG for more' section. All the while, and this has carried on up until very recently, I didn't enjoy sex.

(WAIT. Let me be clear. I almost always have enjoyed my sexual experiences, but have never mentally and emotionally let myself go enough for a man to get me off. That has happened by accident, of course, but I always closed the most intimate and wonderful part of myself off. Which, I believe, is why I used to go through sex partners like underpants. The other explanation, of course, is that I really enjoyed a sexual buffet.)

The thing is, I am 28, and in the middle of a sexual/sensual revolution. Since the only person I want to have sex with is a few states away, I have plenty of time on my hands (giggity) to figure out what makes me happy - and more importantly, how I can convey these things to him. You may ask, 'Why Jess, is this important now? Why not years ago when you were just a junior whore?' The answer is that in my life, I continue to evolve. And now that sex is being denied me, I can do nothing but explore my sexuality. And frankly, this is the best gift I could give myself.

I used to have sex with different men, with the thought that one will magically know and understand my body with zero prompting from me. And HE would be 'the one'. Silly, yes, but every little girl has her fantasy (some girls dream about their wedding day - I dream of orgasms and fast cars; books, and well-read, articulate men). Regardless, I had an AHA! moment about a month ago.

The problem wasn't with these men; the problem lay with me and my unwillingness to explore, and to let my guard down. My personality requires that I read about something before I understand it, and absorb it into my life, so I checked out a few web sites (links to follow) for some education. I think the best advice I got from these sites wasn't advice at all; it was the knowledge that sex "is like a dance; it's about giving and taking, and the partnership of two people". I had lived so many years thinking that I was a second-class citizen in the bedroom, and that my sole purpose was to blow his mind, and if I got off, all the better. But that's a bit of nonsense now, isn't it?

Now, really, think of it. Sex is like a dance. It's about giving, and taking. It's about exploration, and learning about one another in a safe, open way. I guess that instead of eating from the man buffet (i.e. being a traditional 'whore'), it's more satisfying to open up to one repeatedly, explore and enjoy the dance.

John, come dip me ;)

Playful Mind . . . Playful Body

2009-12-17T20:14:00.000-08:00

Today is the last day of having short hair. That’s right, I said it. Actually I said it last night, and a girl said, “Umm, how is that possible?” I smirked and said, “Girl, I’m getting my first weave!” One of the perks of having a best friend who’s also a hair stylist. And being playful with my mind and body.

I don’t understand people who say tattoos, piercings, and hair dye (among other modifications) are so bad for you. You know who you are! Let’s face it; if women in the stone ages had the options we do now, they would be walking around with different hair or their caveman’s name tattooed on their foreheads. Think about it for a second. It’s a basic trait of the sexes: we want to improve ourselves to fit either our own version of ourselves, or what we think will attract the hottest mates.

But for the moment, let’s examine my weave. It’s really just an example of the transformation I’ve been going through for the past few months – or arguably, for my whole life. Ever since I was old enough to buy hair dye or get tattoos and piercings, I have played with my self-image. The first time I dyed my hair black, my sister’s best friend Lucas was sitting in the kitchen.

“You look like a vampire, Jess. Wash it out.” I didn’t. I proudly wore it, even though people teased me mercilessly. The most odd part of my first hair dyeing experience is that my hair is naturally almost black anyway. What was the difference? Since that time, I have had my hair dyed red, purple, and even bleached blonde. Why not?

There is a song lyric that mentions having ‘fake hair, fake eyes, fake nails – what on you is real?’ To which, I argue, the person underneath is real. That is the version of a woman that works for her, so get over it. That’s my theory.

Now, let’s move onto tattoos. Emali and I used to say we never wanted tattoos that could be seen under our wedding dresses. Well, the older I get, the more I realize that I don’t need to look like someone else’s version of perfect: I do however, need to be my version of perfect. (There is also body makeup, but we won’t get into that right now.)

UPDATE: This weave thing is not for the faint of heart. This is PAINFUL! The hair is actually braided and sewn into my scalp, and for those who have tattoos, it feels like the gun is stuck in my scalp. Chew on that. I’m drinking a Corona in hopes that the pain will be numbed. Anyone have a flask of whiskey?

To be continued . . . .

Falling

2009-12-12T01:02:00.000-08:00

Aah, Sleep, you wiley thing. I am awake, wide awake, and Kendall Payne's 'Scratch' speaks so much truth in my ears. And Johnny Lang's 'Breakin' Me' does the same. I can't turn the music off, because usually it lulls me to sleep. Not tonight! Damn!

Regardless, I decided to do something useful with my past-midnight time. I'm looking through my old blogs, and two themes keep throwing themselves in front of me like teens in a suicide pact jumping in front of a train: searching and the opposite sex. Not necessarily in that order, I guess. I can't believe it, but they actually seem to be tethered together by a common underlying theme.

I want a soft place to land.

Strength and The Sweetest Thing . . .

2009-12-11T23:58:00.000-08:00

. . . is a pineapple, according to me. I'm not sure if I've written about my Pineapple Philosophy, but it goes like this: I am a pineapple. I have a lot of defensive prickles, but if someone takes the time to push past those, they'll find a lot of real sweetness inside. So, I'm lying here on Emali's couch crying a little, evaluating things, listening to ridiculously painful music (the likes of Destiny's Child's 'Emotion' and Des'ree's 'Kissing You') thinking of someone's lips, desperately trying to keep my heart above water. You see, painful waves of feeling (fucking 'f' word) keep washing into my heart, relentlessly peeling back layers of prickles. These waves, these waves, they keep me off balance.

I have the feeling that I shouldn't allow myself to feel these things, it's my instinct to keep them at arm's length, hand outstretched, palm sternly on the chest of the heart of all this bittersweetness. It's probably not the smartest thing, says my head. The same head that holds the eyes that keep leaking warm, salty tears which stream down my cheeks, landing on my chest. Odd, I think, that the tears keep landing on the chest that hold my heart, thus feeding the waves. It's a time worn feeling, but crash go the waves, unfailing, lapping at my defenses.

Half of the time I don't realize that they're there, those walls. But it's nights like these, when it's pointed out to me that I - what am I? What do I write to describe myself? I'm a witty literatus, endlessly cowering behind clever banter and quick, verbose returns - am afraid, like a child hiding behind stone, brick, and mortar, all carefully placed and meticulously stacked in order to save myself - from what? From looking like a fool - that fool who lunges for something, opening up, showing the pineapple innards, only to be denied it and hurt. What does it really cost, though, should I be hurt again? Failure (or heartbreak) is just another spade full of mortar, smudged onto a brick and stragetically placed, plugging the potential hole that I have already decided will end up there. Aah, cynicism, my old friend. Hello.

I don't know how to show how I feel. I almost wrote that I don't know how to feel, but that's not true. The tears and open, raw sensation in my chest can attest to that. My heart hurts, my head is clouded, and I am frustrated. When I worked at the hospital, I used to watch recovering stroke victims struggle and strain, desperately trying to open up and tell me what they wanted, what they needed, and I pitied them. Now I pity me. I am the same. Worse, actually, because it's a self imposed prison.

Luckily I have Emali's help. She is so strong, and she patiently teaches me how to feel, and to express myself. She is patient and kind, like love. The way she is with her Angel amazes me. I would have shut down and walked away time and time again, when it got too hard. Express yourself or walk away? Emali takes fear and love (intertwined) by the hand, shows it what she is, and breathes life back into it. Jessie, however, drops the hand and steps away, like feelings are the business end of a gun and the safety is off. I would dance away from the peril time and time again, but Emali, in her gentle manner, taps her forehead to the barrel and says, 'I can handle this, and so can you'.

It would appear that I have a lot to learn in the ways of feeling and strength and bravery.

After the fall from grace?

2009-12-02T14:15:00.000-08:00

Life has a tendency to grow and develop just in time to crumble and leave one feeling more desolate than ever. The higher you climb, the harder you fall, I guess.

But what then? What happens after the fall, after your butt hits the ground and your are bruised and covered in dust and disappointment? Do you lie there and wallow in self pity, rolling in the dusty earth, crying about how you fell? Or do you get your ass up, dust your pants off, look around and say "What now?" I would love to say that I just jumped up off the dusty ground and looked for the next best opportunity.

I didn't.

I wallowed, and I cried, and I acted like a big, silly baby. I went home to Mommy, to be held in the arms of my family until I could get my mind back together again. Never before this recent set of struggles had I even believed that my bubble could burst. I always thought I would land softly and spring back immediately.

Just last night, as I lie awake on my best friend's couch, I thought to myself, Have I hit my knees enough yet? Is this the bottom? Have I fallen far enough? When again will I have the strength to get up and stand up proudly and with purpose? I can safely say that after three months of feeling lost, that I am just now beginning to get my ass up off of the ground, and am taking stock of my dusty rump, and the bumps and bruises which resulted from my fall.

But I wonder, when will I stand tall again?

The beauty of not knowing anything

2009-10-26T10:22:00.000-07:00

A month ago I was lost.

A week ago I was lost.

Today I am lost.

Today, I'm happily lost, wandering through a sunny autumn park, sipping leisurely on a cup of my favorite FAVORITE coffee. Old Crown's house blend, brewed by Mike on Anthony Blvd. in Fort Wayne. A month ago, if someone would have told me I was at my favorite park in Indiana, sipping on my favorite home brewed coffee, I would have laughed and called them cuckoo. But here I am, and I have a smile on my face. Here's why:

I lost my job, and though it was not entirely unexpected, it was still a kick in the skirt. And I thought to myself, why not take a couple weeks and spend it with family and old friends in Indiana? Then, the company who owes me a few grand, has not paid me. Oh, and unemployment hasn't gone through yet, either. Therefore I am at the mercy of credit. Not a good feeling - so I decided to stay in Indiana through Christmas. Maybe in 8 weeks I'll get my head on straight. Maybe not. Who knows, really?

But as I wandered through frustration and nerves, I realize that all this worry is draining the energy right out of me, and my mind is whirring around without the luxury of getting anywhere; no conclusions are to be had when I'm in this state. And that makes me even more frustrated. But here's the positive:

I opened my eyes to the possibilities that other venues have to offer, and looked around. My sister and I have similar goals (neither of us want to work for other people, and we would like to start our own business), and I would love to work for myself - that way when I don't get paid, it's my fault ; )

Last week I went to Defiance Ohio to visit my friend Rebecca, who recently opened her own shop. She's an artist, and a Jane of all trades, and her beautiful, eclectic shop reflects that. But more importantly, Rebecca has business sense. And if I were working full time at a meaningless job, I wouldn't be able to do what we are doing - I'll be working for her, learning from her how to run a small business, how to make soaps and candles, and possibly even metal work. There's nothing like learning at the hip of a master. And I wouldn't have this blessing in my life if it weren't for losing my job, not getting paid, and therefore being "stuck" in Indiana.

It's a funny little world, isn't it?

Quick thought

2009-10-24T10:03:00.000-07:00

Have you ever laughed so hard you cracked your back? I just did, and it felt great!

Step Away From The TORNADO, continued.

2009-10-16T12:00:00.001-07:00

I'm always seeing about guys. And though I keep cycling through poor sucker after poor sucker, I haven't yet found what I'm looking for. Wait - I'm onto something - I haven't yet found what I'm looking for in many aspects of my life. Ok, in ALL aspects of my life. I love it, and I hate it. I love that I am restless and brave enough to keep searching, and not just able to settle on something less than what I need. Notice I omitted the word want there; I need something more than what I want, which is not exactly a fine line, I think. But anyway, I digress.

The same points I'm proud to have, are also the ones that sometimes keep me up at night, and keep me in a flurry of motion, never landing on anything that enables me to hit my Zen point. Hmm. There's another thought. Which comes first? The Zen or the happiness? Perhaps I should flip the way I approach things, and take on a more Zen-like point of view.

Sidenote: I am in Old Crown Coffee in fort Wayne, and there are 3 super delicious boys to look at. Speaking of digression, it's like a dude buffet. I could sample them all, and still be searching for something, which is exactly my point. Baaah!

My mother reminded me of this fact the other day, and I quote: "By the time I was your age, I was married with two kids." That knot in my stomach came right back with full force because I don't know if I want to have kids. Ever. Marriage sounds nice, but turning away from the sexy dude buffet sounds a little worrisome. My parents' marriage ended twice in divorce. Now my dad is married to another woman, and my mom is still searching. Does that mean I have no hope? What does it mean that my mom sister and I are all without partner? Does it matter at all, in the end? These are all ideals, floating around in free space, and every time I reach up to take hold of the thoughts and wrap my mind around them, they float away, nebulous. Perhaps I am just lost.

But is anyone ever truly found? Is this 'time off' just another way of the fates watch me chase my tail like a squirrel in the park? Much like most people who care to stop and look, and evaluate, I am lost. But kind of happy in the delirium of the nebulous interspacial place of "no idea".

Step Away From The TORNADO

2009-10-10T08:31:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I shake my head at myself in bewilderment, and say, "Oh Jessie." That's sometimes all I really can do because, very often, I surprise the hell out of even myself. Let's recap:

I moved to Charlotte on June 1, with the intention to develop "roots" there, insert myself into the community and make that place my home. I worked for a good friend of mine while I interviewed for my dream job - of the Charlotte Jess, anyway - and I landed that job after 6 weeks of interviews. It would have been my highest salary, paid benefits, and a paid-for MBA. So you can see why that would be a dream job? Security and opportunity. Six weeks later, the company I worked for went under.

I am, psychologically, wrecked. So I loaded Foster into my car and headed back to Indiana. For some clarity, and some peace of mind, and of yeah, to see about a guy. To see about some residual feelings that snuck up on me and cuffed me upside the head.

PLEASE HOLD. TAKING MY MOM OUT TO LUNCH FOR HER BIRTHDAY ; ) DON'T WORRY, I'LL FINISH. :)

Deliver Me

2009-10-08T10:56:00.000-07:00

Deliver me from confusion.

Deliver me from unemployment.

Deliver me from a job that I hate.

Deliver me from an unfulfilling life.

Deliver to me a man who is fun, silly, smart, and who thinks I rock (because I do).

Deliver to me the sense that no matter what's happening, there's always time to dance, and to make love.

Deliver me from having hate in my heart.

Deliver me from building walls around the best parts of myself.

Deliver me from ever losing my sense of curiosity and imagination.

Deliver me a check for a million dollars.

Deliver me from squandering what I do have.

Deliver me the sense that where I am is where I am supposed to be.

Deliver me peace.

Deliver me wine.

Deliver me fantastic friendships that grow and bloom.

Deliver me a poet's heart, a warrior's skill, and a shrewd investor's mind.

Deliver me from ever losing sight of the beauty in everyday things.

Deliver me the desire to actually eat my 5 veggies per day, and not 5 donuts for breakfast.

And finally, deliver me pizza within 30 minutes.

The Difference

2009-10-04T11:33:00.000-07:00

Have I only posted 50-something times on this blog? Has it only been since January?

January seems like a lifetime ago - happier, simpler, and I was reaching for something about which I was so certain. Aah, we've hit on something - another mirage? Another house of mirrors named Certainty? Yes. I look back through dusky memories of January, February, March when I was sitting on top of a bubble that would never pop, most certainly. Sitting in a class of 6 or 7 peers, clad in scarves, galoshes, gloves and winter hats.

Mary Ann, a colorful memory of green and purple. A Mardi Gras of life and art and ideas against the fire red of her hair and freckles, her apple-green eyes gently prod, saying 'keep going, keep pushing, keep thinking'. Her color lights up the otherwise drab room like a single firecracker in the night.

Meghann sits calmly, tranquilly sipping hot tea with her scarf bound around her neck, a thoughtful smile dancing on her face. Her eyes miss nothing, though. She reminds me of those Victorian beauties who just exude placidness and wonder. Her mien stands in direct opposition to mine, I think. Maybe that's why I appreciate her so much.

Michelle was so unsure in the beginning, as we all dragged ourselves into the classroom on a snowy, freezing night in January. Michelle's eyes are so much like baby blue lasers that I can't help but to look at them and be mesmerized. She's an optometrist. Figures. She was so unsure in the beginning, and so were "we" I think. A scientist! But then she started to talk, and piece the beauty of the world together in her own way, a way sort of different from my own, but sort of the same, and it was like watching puzzle pieces move themselves into place. Her ideas inspired me to think differently.

Dawn. Dawn was always one step away from greatness, and one step away from teaching all of us. She was the one with the most to balance in her life, I think. so much happening, so much to take care of. I have myself to take care of, and sometimes I even fail at that. The failure to do what Dawn always could and did do is why I am writing this afternoon, I guess. I didn't and don't do it. I sit and ponder, dying to make sense of things, and end up spinning my wheels until I'm so frustrated that I can only sit motionless. Everything has crashed to the ground, and I need to pick up the pieces. I need to move into action, scrape myself up off the ground and dust myself off.

My mind is paralyzed. Motion seems impossible, even painful. So why do I keep thinking of those nights in Mary Ann's class, and of the peers I think so highly of? What's the difference, anyway?

Looking for Something with Kendall Payne

2009-10-04T11:18:00.000-07:00

I keep moving around, looking for my place. My space. That place where I can be profound and move people with my words, change the world with my words. How do you dream, when you can't fall asleep? I move and I move and I move, and once I get to where I'm going, I realize that I am still ordinary. I am still small, and am still impactless. I'd like to know if you'd be open to start from scratch. I used to think that I was special, and only I have proved me wrong. I thought I could change the world with a song, but I have ended up in India(na) with no map to guide me home.

What is this feeling that started in the center of my stomach, and radiated out to my heart, and reached into my brain to stir up pain and wanderlust and wondering. I feel pain and uncertainty. Is it so easy to trust in what I feel? If it were then I would have trusted it by now. No wait, that's wrong. I probably wouldn't. I am not a trusting person, especially not in myself. I usually get things wrong in my own life. Go left! Inside, that guttural place, says it, screams it, whispers it in quiet, hopeless desperation. And I go right, defiant. Defiantly seeking, moving, twisting, writhing, running, running, running away, long dress trailing behind my bare feet as I escape, and escape again. Looking for my place, looking for my space. Does it exist? Where do I exist? Do I exist at all? Sometimes I think not - I am a ghost, a filmy, flimsy recreation of what I should be, projected onto the world where I should be. Where do I exist in full color? Am I tangible? What do I reach out to touch, and in touching do I obtain? Obtain what? Mirages, mirror images in a house of mirrors? Reaching, reaching, reaching out into nothingness. What have I obtained by running, running, reaching, reaching?

To Jessie: I'd like to know if you'd be open to giving yourself a second chance?

Poof! And the bubble went boom

2009-09-21T17:56:00.000-07:00

My head hurts, and not for lack of caffeine. It's stress induced. I'm on the brink of losing my job. Here, now, at what Ben Bernacke calls the end of the recession I am staring into the murky abyss of unemployment.

Simply put, this sucks.

It has been a dream of a year, moving to Charlotte. I have a great roommate, lots of new friends and what seemed like an open door to a new career, a reimbursed MBA, and some great experience.

Wait, what is that? Is the room moving? I'm sliiiiding - nope. That's just the rug being pulled out from underneath me. Fuuuuuucccckkk.

Hey, on the plus side I got accepted into my MBA program. Hah! Excellent irony. What's a girl to do?

Rebirth

2009-08-23T17:41:00.000-07:00

This past week has been very busy and mentally straining. Don't get me wrong - it was a GREAT week! I started my new job with First Legacy Investors, a company that is willing to pay for my MBA, and that is about as supportive as can be. I'm very impressed, and even more excited to dig into a new job. The problem is that I have never done the work before, and I have never worked in finance, so there are challenges there.

The problem is that I don't know everything, right now! Granted, my new boss and my co workers understand and embrace that, but I hate being the person in the room who has no idea what is really happening behind the scenes. I know I'll learn, and that it will take time, but something inside me just wants to explode onto the financial scene and impress the hell out of everyone. LOL

I start my second week tomorrow, and I'm going to walk in with the same attitude I had in the beginning, and I'm going to wow myself by Friday. Refocus.

Looking for the bright side

2009-08-10T11:33:00.000-07:00

Dating sucks. Meeting new men, sitting across the table from them, trying to get to know them and trying to believe that they aren't pigs who want to get into your pants then leave - that sucks.

It's frustrating.

And it's disheartening.

I'm past the stage of being a friend with benefits, and good riddance to it. And I'm tired of people looking at me that way. How do I make it stop?

Pet Peeves, Off The Leash

2009-08-09T20:36:00.000-07:00

People who say 'people that . . . " You immediately sound ridiculous and not credible as a person. Ugh! People are 'whos' not 'thats'.

Misspellings on common, everyday words, such as awesome (spelled in many cases 'awsome'). To be awesome, the object must create awe or be awe inspiring for some reason or another.

Misuse of words: 'Irregardless' is not a word - 'regardless' is.

People who don't treat others with respect. Two times recently, I have been on dates and the guys have referred to me as 'bitch'. Trust me, I don't dispute the fact that I can be a bitch if I need/want to, but really? Let's think of another adjective people. And it's in passing - not that I've done anything bitchy. It's more like this: "So I said to myself, I should give this bitch a chance", or (and this is my favorite), "Whatever, biatch."

Anyone care to shed some light on this stupidity?

Work Funnies

2009-08-04T12:15:00.001-07:00

Classic Work Day Funnies

So this customer's mom is having surgery, so he's pushing a new roof back a couple weeks.

Ran: "So, can we just nail your mother to the roof? And if you go that route, can we do the work?"
Ko: "Well that's only about a 10 year shingle there."
Ron: "But if we nailed your mother to the roof, how much rain could she stop? Compared to our product?"
Ran: "Nailing your mother to the roof is not a wise decision. You should probably go ahead and let us do your roof."
Jessie: I've got nothing, but I'm damn impressed.

Yet one more thing I don't understand . . .

2009-07-31T20:00:00.000-07:00

So I've just sat on my arse watching the NCIS marathon - well, not all of it of course - and USA network keeps showing previews starring some girl who just lost her husband, and she keeps saying, "I lovED him". Keep watching every show about a dead person, and they'll continue to say loved in the past tense.

I know that this sounds trite and probably quite silly, but actors and actresses say this all the time in fictitious shows, and it makes me curious as to who feels this way? Think about it.

Jessie, after finding out that her loving and ridiculously sexy husband died in a freak tennis racket accident. For some reason, detectives think the grieving widow had something to do with it, and she gasps with her hand to her chest and says, "but I LOVED him". If I were her sexy dead hubby, I would haunt that bitch's ass in a heartbeat. What the hell does she mean, she looooveeddd me? I'm still lying on a slab, and I haven't even been buried and that shallow hoebag is saying she doesn't love me anymore? Have you ever heard of rigor mortis? (Sorry, bad joke.) Point being, when does love or feeling stop? And who is writing this shit???

And even more to the point, why the hell am I paying attention?? Uh oh.

Finally!

2009-07-31T11:37:00.000-07:00

I finally added a blog specifically for fiction/non fiction/poetry stuff I've written. Some are good, some suck, and some are just silly. But I love them all the same. So peruse, enjoy, and leave comments. ;)

http://flyingfisherette.blogspot.com/

A Thousand Directions, None The Same

2009-07-30T22:52:00.000-07:00

Ready for stream of consciousness? If not, turn back now. If you've never read the likes of Woolf or Kerouac, you may be unfamiliar with the term 'stream of consciousness'. In that case, let me explain: it's a polite term for the mental shits you get at times. My favorite Virginia Woolf entry is in To The Lighthouse, when time passes from the perspective of the empty house. The title of the chapter? Time Passes. Ironic. Easily the most beautiful thing I read in my undergraduate career. I want to buy Waiting by Ha Jin again, because I let the damn thing get rain soaked. That was another beautiful book. Patience is a virtue I don't really have, but Waiting has an abundance of patience oozing from the main character.

Foster is snoring at the foot of my bed, and I love that dog more'n my luggage. "You know I love you more'n my luggage." - Clairee, Steel Magnolias. Excellent movie. The only time I've seen my grandmother cry is when we watched that movie together. I miss her Christmas cookies - only 5 more months!

Do you know what one of my biggest pet peeves is? When people say, "People that . . . ." People are 'whos' and not 'thats', and that's just common sense - to me anyway.

Tonight I saw the stars. Really stopped and saw them for the first time in a while. It's just the simple things that are the most amazing. The stars watch us as we lead our temporary lives with what I'm sure is infinite, bemused patience. Stars that shine, people who look at the stars. I looked up and stared until my neck hurt. I was sitting at Caribou Coffee on East Blvd. at 11 o'clock p.m. sharing a coffee while the breeze caressed my skin like silk on satin. It was probably 75 degrees outside, with a small baby's breath of breeze. The night critters were singing and serenading anyone willing to listen, and I am listening. It's beautiful, transcendent and timeless. Evenings like tonight are made for people like me who are willing to feel its beauty.

I need to clean my room, but I think that this is probably not constructive at the moment. I should probably sleep, but I'm listening to good music, but I prefer to listen to Foster snore. That's a lot of 'buts' in one sentence. Canine innocence. Adorable. Life affirming. But then there's Jonny Lang and Portishead, which are my music choices for this evening. No idea why, except that they feel good on my ears.

Flibbertigibbets & Portishead

2009-07-30T22:18:00.000-07:00

Fact: The book in my bathroom is called Woe Is I, and it's all about grammar and word usage. I love that book, and it's filled with fun facts.
Fact: The book on my nightstand is To Kill A Mockingbird and I'm enjoying the hell out of Harper Lee.
Fact: Foster is sleeping right next to me and I'm listening to Jonny Lang, loving the evening I had. If I ever doubt that I made the wrong decision about moving (which I never do, by the way - but this is theoretical), it's nights like tonight that affirm my place in the world. Beauty is everywhere on evenings like this, when the universe seems to just wrap you in her loving arms and lead.

Yesterday was a complete fucktard-filled fiasco, featuring myself as the lead fucktard of course. Who else? As Jessie goes tripping through life, she's pretty congenial as a rule. But there are times - say, after a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a bloody Mary, and of course half a dozen or so Fiji Moons, when Jessie becomes a bleeding moron. And I paid for it all day. Oh holy hangover . . . .

But of course, today is a new day and whatnot, so after working from home today, I decided to check out this local band. Although there was an ulterior motive associated with my seeing this band, a pleasant thing happened. (You were wondering when the heck I was going to get to the point, weren't you?) An old friend got in touch with me out of nowhere. We chatted, and he decided to come with me to this dive bar. I hadn't seen him in probably 2 years, and he hadn't cut his hair in about that amount of time, so while his keeps getting longer, mine mysteriously keeps getting shorter. Complete hair role reversal. I love it! Here's the thing that blew my mind, though: we got along so well, it was almost surreal.

That's not to say we had friction before, but it was like a rebirth of friendship, of kinship and an acknowledgement of the thing I needed the most today. I am always amazed at what the world has to offer me in a mere moment. And I guess I should open my eyes to the possibilities a little more often.

Passionate. Stupid, But Passionate . . .

2009-07-30T01:49:00.001-07:00

Oh, Jessie. Will there ever be a time when you decide that it's a good idea to hold your cards to your chest? Boy, does that sound like a good idea. But where practicality is - well, practical - I am not.

Hint: Drinks do not help. STOP TALKING after you've had the right amount of drinks, no matter how passionately how you feel about whatever it is you're babbling about. Really, shut up. SHUT UP. Rinse, and repeat.

The Infamous Leftie Rogue Fiasco Continues . . .

2009-07-24T07:43:00.000-07:00

So after Heather, Angela and I left the Planet Hollywood pool and made our way to our hotel room to change, it seemed I could not live down the rogue leftie experience. Damn you, cannonball!!

That, however, did not last. As it turns out, Ang and Heather both had quite the buzz going, and though I couldn't steer the conversation anywhere else, I of course had to laugh at the international nip show. But as we got into the elevator, swimsuits still dripping with pool water, an amazing thing happened.

The elevator door opened, and one tall and quite handsome guy was standing in the elevator. Alone. Schweet. Then the 3 Stooges enter and push floor 17. The man-stud was on floor 14 or some nonsense. So the three of us chattered and laughed, and my sister looks at Stud and says, "Wow. I feel sorry for you having to ride along with us - " And then she hit the floor.

No, really. As the elevator began to move, my darling sister slipped in her own pool water puddle and landed on the marble elevator floor. Heather laughed so hard that she too fell in her own pool water puddle, and landed next to Angela dear. Jessie somehow remained standing, and just looked at Stud, shrugging my shoulders and laughing like a lunatic on methamphetamine. I had the wherewithal to hold onto that nifty little rail that the elevator men so generously supply, however. Stud laughed uncomfortably and stepped over two bodies and got off on his floor.

Yesss, Jessie remained standing for the remainder of the elevator ride.

SO THEN

We all got ready to go out that evening and Heather put on this adorable one-shouldered black & white shirt over white pants. She looked very cute for a night out on the Vegas strip, and we walked across the street to The Bellagio to watch the water & light show, along with a few thousand other tourists. It was water, and there were lights. Super. But I had an adult beverage riding shotgun with me, and so the show got better as time wore on. At a loss for something to do post light/water show, we decided to run back across the 6 lane street to our hotel for some gambling fun. So, the Walk sign flashes, and Heather, Angela and I jog across the street, when we hear, "Hey!! Nice chest!!" Of course, there are like 3 THOUSAND people in traffic with us, but Heather yells back, "Thanks!!" and keeps running.

I turn around to investigate the commotion, and what sight greets my eyes??? Heather's leftie - swinging outside of her shirt, bobbing up and down with her steps. HAHAHAHAHA! Vengeance is sweet!!

Oh Heather, you'll never live that one down.

Well. Daddy always said that's a deep thought

2009-07-24T07:21:00.000-07:00

I hate to sound cliche here, but thank goodness it's Friday. This has been quite the mentally draining week, and for many reasons. I applied to an MBA program here in Charlotte through DeVry University (golf claps or poetry reading snaps here - thanks.), and though I have applied to grad school before, and been accepted thankyouverymuch, I forgot what an inane pain in the arse it is. Can't I just scan my retina somewhere so that my entire academic, personal, and professional history is given and I can finally stop repeating myself, and touting my accomplishments to whomever will listen? How about a pint of blood, while they're at it? Perhaps a strand of my DNA for kicks?

Okay, I'm being slightly overdramatic. I can admit that, but if I've been accepted into one program, wherein lies the difficulty with switching me over? I oversimplify. Eh, oh well. It's my blog, and I can cry if I want to. ;)

Also, it's just been a busy work week, and I'm still not caught up completely. However, I do feel pretty accomplished in that area so I can afford to stop, relax, and breathe a little bit.

It's been a great, busy week! I started a running program, and for those of you who know me personally, I have never claimed to be a runner. But there's something very freeing in the experience and I find myself compelled to run, even on my 'off' days. It forces focus, and pushes every needless issue out of my mind. Also, I am forced to listen to my body, and pay attention to it, and I understand now that I haven't been paying enough heed to it lately. So I am making up for lost time, as it were. Shayla, I understand now why you run, or used to if you don't anymore.

Also new this week: I have a second interview for a finance company - a perfect fit for me, actually, so I am really hoping to dazzle my interviewers on Tuesday. Excellent. Still shopping for that ultimate power suit. ; )

Also in the Jessie Newsreel: I am spending a Friday in a wonderful way. I am babysitting the V-Dub, known as baby Violet to you. She's 7 months old, and the most fascinating kid. She's so expressive and funny, and she's my little darling for the whole day. It's amazing how much babies force you to stop and enjoy the simplicity of life, and of love. Today she grabbed her grandpa's beard and ran her fingers through it, completely mesmerized by this new texture. She grinned and giggled, and fussed a little about it. And now, even though she has her own toy cell phone, she's still in love with mine. I just laugh, because the odds are good that I'll break it way before she does.

With age does not come grace to the hopeless.

Baby V-Dub also loves jeans, and if I look away for a second, she entertains herself by scratching against the grain of my jeans, and by taste testing them at my knees.

All information comes in through the mouth, her grandpa says. And I think he's right.

I have a lot to be thankful for, and even though it's been a banner week on the whole, thank God the weekend is almost here! That's a time to relax, reorganize, and for God's sake, take a breather.

All Right, FINE!

2009-07-21T21:17:00.000-07:00

Everybody keeps telling me to add more funny stories, so let me think of one. DISCLAIMER!!! If you thought little of me before, please keep reading. These embarrassing (and yet hilarious) stories can't possibly make you think more of me. And yet, I fall on the sword.

Picture it: Vegas, 2009. My sister, her friend Heather, and I decided to start drinking at 10 a.m. by the pool. We started with 48 ounce daiquiris . . . or 24 ounce, but who the hell cares after a couple?? The math works out anyway. So it's hot as hell with the oven on, and Ang and Heather decide to take an icy cold dip in the pool. Heather yells, "Come on Jess! Cannonball!!" I debate for ooh, maybe a tenth of a second, and decide 'why the hell not?' So I stand, adjust my bikini, take a running leap, and

SPLASH!!

I break the surface, my short black hair glistening in the sunlight. I feel glamourous, I feel wonderful, I hear laughter . . . more laughter. And yet, more laughter. And a little hooting. But I'm a little buzzed, and a little slow on the uptake so I look to my loving sister and my trusted friend for the answer.

"You're leftie is hanging out!! Check your top!" It's like slow motion, when you know something is terribly wrong, but you just can't get to it fast enough. One heartbeat - thud - two heartbeats - THUD THUD - yup, that leftie is quite the escape artist, especially post cannonball.

Picture it: YMCA Ballantyne gym, today. I'm warming up on the treadmill while listening to some good, thumping music, mentally prepping for the impending doom of a run. My steps quicken, and the mill treads more quickly as I beat out a cadence of steps and fall into the rhythm and the pace of this run. I'm feeling more confident: my strides are equal and smooth, my form feels good, I'm gaining an understanding of my body as that of a runner. I smile inwardly, and - crack - something else happens outwardly. Thank God nobody else was around. I just hope that everyone else had their earphones in. . . .

Gigglehood and Refreshment

2009-07-08T21:08:00.000-07:00

Obviously gigglehood is made up, but in the Dictionary of Jess, it means the state of laughter and gaiety which results from surrounding yourself with people who appreciate you, and make you laugh. That's gigglehood. I'm in a decently regular state of gigglehood, but refreshment on the other hand is harder to come by.

Once again I read from the Dictionary of Jess: Refreshment is the state of surprise or happy shock that comes with honesty or pleasant behavior from another person. (See also Unexpected.) Even when the truths that you hear may hurt temporarily, the refreshment that comes with honesty is, well, refreshing and unexpected. It's a universal truth; apply it to everyday life. ; )

And yet again. . .

2009-07-07T08:52:00.001-07:00

I feel that my perspective may make me a selfish person. Who doesn't want to spend time with her family? It's not that I don't, but I'm not sure that I can be completely myself around them. Weird, huh? Or maybe everyone feels that way. Ha! Who knows? I think it's funny as hell, and yet sad as hell. But that's a fault of being human. We don't understand each other completely. And if we did, I'm not sure that would be healthy, either.

But I got to thinking again, about a different aspect of this stagnation that can be involved in having static models of the people around us. I look at my parents - they're divorced, they don't know each other at all anymore. My mom said recently, "Whenever I see him, it's like I'm looking at a stranger." They were best friends when they got married, but something broke. Did they stop looking at each other with a sense of wonder? They stopped learning about each other, and about the new things they learned individually, and about new interests, new dreams, old dreams.

They forgot about each other because they saw each other every day. But then again, did they ever really see each other? I don't think they did, and that makes me sad, but I also take it as a learning experience. I couldn't ever do that to myself. I couldn't be with someone who stopped looking at me with a sense of - I don't want to say awe or wonder because that sounds arrogant - hunger, maybe. Hunger to learn, to understand, to gain new perspective. Because I always want to learn new things about people. New aspects, new facets to the diamond. I guess I'm just anti-static and pro-plastic.

Maybe I should get that printed on a t-shirt. ; )

New Things!

2009-07-07T08:21:00.000-07:00

First order of business: I'm adding a new blog that is for my misc. fiction writings only. These are things I haven't attempted to publish, and are in bits and pieces. Read them for what they're worth. Give me comments and FEEDBACK please! They're in pieces for a reason: I haven't showed them in a public forum, so please check them out, and give me honest criticism and perhaps next steps for them. ; )

First & a half order of business: My biggest pet-peeve is when someone says, "people that". People are who's, not that's.

Second order of business: I am probably the happiest I have ever been. I made a new friend today at Dilworth Coffee, and I adore the perspective of new people. He is a middle-aged man named Keith, and he works from coffee shops on his computer. He's self-employed, and comes to network. He is a very interesting person, but he asked me this: "Why did you move back to Charlotte?" The simple answer is that it's my home.

I feel complete here, and I feel like I'm home, and I'm meeting new people and loving it! It's interesting how just one simple shift can change a perspective so completely. It's funny how that works. I can't even expand on it more, though I would like to. It's just a click I feel with the city, with the people I've met, with the area surrounding me. It's a nice fit.

But Keith posed another interesting question: "Do you want your family to move here?" Hmm. That took some intense pondering. I like the distance. I think the distance between my family and myself is really what the doctor ordered because they have preconceived notions of me (and rightfully so; they've known me for, I don't know, ever), but the trappings that come with such a knowledge is a blinder of sorts. I am always learning, discovering, challenging, and understanding new things. My family seems to not respect this, or maybe they don't want to let go of the stock notion. And I'm sure I'm the same way, but i think I have a better understanding of what it is to be plastic (not like a water bottle, but plastic as opposed to static). People don't stay the same, though they may seem to to the people who are closest to them. This is the danger of people who are too close, especially family. So I guess the answer is yes and no. I love the space. I feel like I can blossom without the entanglements of preconceived notions. More in a minute.

The Phantom

2009-07-01T20:55:00.000-07:00

Last month, the week I moved to Charlotte in fact, I bought one balcony level, center stage ticket to see Phantom of the Opera. I think I spent around $80 for absolutely wonderful seating. Today, weeks later, was the day to watch, to sit in the theatre while actors & actresses dissolved into their characters, weaving an unbreakable spell for me. I sat wedged between two men: the first, a slight, scrawny man who was wearing a suit one size too big. He smelled pleasantly of cologne, heat and the cocktail he held. The man on the other side wore a flannel shirt and khaki pants. There I was in the middle of these two men in a little black dress and spiky heels. Interesting combination all the same. As the stage grew dark and the spotlights clicked on, I realized that the telling of this story could have come from an unlikely source: the chandelier. JD (my roommate) warned me about the chandelier, and to expect fireworks but I wasn't prepared for the pop! of the monstrous lighting fixture, or to watch it begin to fly and swing overhead. I was instantly enchanted by the story.

The artistry of The Phantom is something I haven't been witness to in a long time. The last play/musical I saw was Swing! back in 2002, I think. Is that really true? Thinking back I think so, but I think a lot so let me think about it. Regardless, the sheer mesmerization that occurred immediately was totally worth the money, the wait, the self consciousness of Jess in a little black dress and spiky black heels (which would put me at roughly 6'2". Oh my.), and worth everything. Immediately I was pushed and tugged back into another time, reminiscent of Poe or Shelley, back to the gothic romance of organs, candles, and eerie, disturbing music followed by daunting and haunting laughter of the phantom. In short, I was a kid in a gothic revival candy store. All I was missing was a skull shaped lollipop.

This Phantom was a menagerie of wonder, of creativity, of dark, forbidding love. In truth, I found Phantom to be one of the most truthful romances I've witnessed. I remember being about age 13 when my friend Abby flew to New York to visit her aunt, where they saw the Broadway production of Phantom. She came back singing "Music of the Night", and whenever I find myself humming benignly, I tend to be humming that. It's so melodramatic, tugging at something bittersweet inside. That's beauty, the connection between music and genuine feeling.

As Phantom took Christine past the lake to his home, I was mesmerized. But when he began to sing, a few small, hot tears welled up and slid down my face - I was so hopelessly moved, as though my heart and his were connected. I would venture to say that every person in the audience who was paying attention felt that same sort of tug. It was wonderful.

And when Phantom let Christine go at the end, he was so devastated and heart broken. I cried a few more tears. The romance of it all! Here's the thing: romance novels are stupid. They're unrealistic with their neatly tied happy endings. Stories like this, like Phantom, like Lolita (yes, I would go so far as to add Lolita here) are truth, at the core. There's a sad, sometimes horrible truth that comes with real love. I wanted to comfort the phantom, and to tell him it will all be fine, even though: a.) it wouldn't be fine; and b.) he's a murderous raving lunatic.

In the end, all I can say is that was the best $80 I ever spent, and I am throughly enchanted by the Phantom. Escaping into a dream world even for 2.5 hours was just what the Angel of Music ordered. Those 2+ hours will stay with me indefinitely. Bravo!

I want!

2009-07-01T20:48:00.000-07:00

I want to take Foster for a run on the beach.

I want to start a writing group for survivors of abuse.

I want to invite everyone to write for my group, regardless.

I want thighs that could double as a sexy vice.

I want to sleep without waking up at 4 a.m. Two nights in a row is plenty!

I want for my sister's house in Atlanta to be sold.

I want to buy a motorcycle. I want to not die on that motorcycle. Though, I know there are worse things than death. Paralysis.

I want to see Phantom of the Opera again . . . and again after that.

I want to go roller skating with regular skates - not the roller blades that suck.

I want for my roommate to not snore so much.

In lieu of the aforementioned 'want' coming true, I want more ear plugs.

I want to appreciate everything, and not remove myself from the moment.

Mainly, I want everyone I love to know that I do. I think they know, but I guess I'll just have to say it again until I'm sure. Sheesh, that could take quite a while!

Pineapples

2009-07-01T20:14:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning dreading the day. Rather, dreading the upheaval that comes with living an "adult" life. Not many things are simple, the way I would like them to be, but I also think the intricacy of the web we weave has its innate beauty. The smallness of the world is so beautiful, and I think that if we drew upon the intimacy of our surroundings, we would be much happier.

I take a lot of risks, and I do that because I am driven to. I'm driven to actively seek my happiness and my inner sanctity instead of just waiting for it to tap me on the shoulder, buy me a latte and unfold the mysteries of my life for me. My friends say I'm crazy, and they're absolutely right! But it's an awesome kind of crazy. I do things now because I don't want to regret not doing them later. So what if I look back and say, 'damn I probably shouldn't have done that', and believe me, I have said that - many times. And still . . . .

If you know me at all, you have heard me say these things many times before. What makes tonight so different? I'm asking myself the same question. Perhaps that I haven't explained that there's another size to the coin - an equal, profoundly different side that complements the first. Maybe I haven't brought it up because I never thought of myself as one-sided; apparently others do consider that to be the case, so I feel as though I have to explain myself.

Wait, rewind for a moment. Explain myself? Why? I feel like a kid again who was just called on the carpet to explain some shameful action. I have nothing to be ashamed of. But now I feel like a puppy who has just been smacked on the nose for some treachery. I feel shy tonight, and introverted. That happens more often than a casual acquaintance would think when/if they consider me at all. People see what they want to see, but I would like to illustrate the other side of the coin.

"You're definitely a partier." LOL, what a great misconception. Easily remedied. Since I moved to Charlotte I have been out more than ever, getting to know people and as my best friend puts it, "putting myself out there for the first time." When a new acquaintance said that to me, I giggled and felt a little stab of pain as well. I thought, wow, what a funny mistake. For years I battled myself to go out, relax, and have a good time. For a reference, ask Emali, lol. My twenty-second birthday was met by me, lying in bed, while Emali knocked on my door - everyone was going out to celebrate my birthday, but I wanted to stay home and chill out. I didn't want all eyes on me. I wanted safety, comfort.

I do take risks, that's true. But what I want more than anything is safety, comfort, and the knowledge that I have a home and friends, neither of which can be taken from me on a whim. It's so funny, this dichotomy. I can't explain it properly, and so I babble. I want people around me who don't assume they know me, and people who see through the sarcastic shell to find the sweetness inside. I'll go back to a self-description that has worked well for me in recent years: I'm like a pineapple. You've just gotta fight to get past the prickles to get to the real truth of what I am. That's it, that's the only way I know to say it.

How Others See . . . .

2009-06-25T06:40:00.000-07:00

Last night was Mix at 6, a Wednesday night tradition where I do business. It's a shopping center/office complex with a lot of good things to offer, including a live band and plenty of interaction. In short, I'll never be lonely here in Charlotte as long as there's wine and a band. And wine. And sushi. That's the mix of last night. But my point is?

I recently began working out at the Ballantyne YMCA, which is located right where I work. It's a small Y, but it's bright and light, lined with windows and great exercise equipment. Really, all it's missing is a pool (bummer, I know). So I've been working out either before or after work. Yesterday I chose to sleep in rather than get up super ridiculously early to work out. So my day went like this: meetings, meetings, computer work, meetings, Mix @ 6. At 5 p.m., I got my ass to the gym for a quick workout (hint: the first time I make an excuse is the beginning of the end for a work out. I know this about myself, and am trying to fix that), then made it to the Mix @ 6:30. That's fine.

The group I met was like, "wow you're crazy! Making it to the gym, and you look great!" (I was so sweaty, even though I showered after sweating and re-applied makeup). Then compliments began raining down on my head like I had missed a thunderstorm on the weather report. I honestly didn't know how to take them. I'm not great at accepting compliments anyway, but this was abnormal. Four of us at the table, 3 directing super happy pretty-girl compliments at me. It was weird. Pleasant, but weird. I felt like interjecting, and telling them that I was a big fat fraud.

I started working out because I gained 30 pounds.
I put makeup on as war paint, and because I'm having a monumental breakout. Ugh!
I dress nicely now because I just bought all new "big kid clothes" because I worked in a hospital for 5 years. Scrubs don't fit the business world very well, or so they tell me.

Does everyone feel this way at some point or another? I think probably, but it still feels like I'm the only fraud slinking around here. ; )

In The Light Of A Brand New Day . . . .

2009-06-21T15:04:00.000-07:00

I'm so glad I didn't confront the person who made me feel invisible. Normally I'm quite an up front, in-your-face person with an outgoing personality, but for once (Thank God!) I did the right thing and kept my big trap shut. There are certain things you can change, but how others see you is up to them - not you. Not me. As far as how it makes me feel when someone sees me as something I'm not, what can I do about that? I'm pretty multifaceted, but what I feel makes up the core of me is not exactly what others see. I'm speaking in generalities, I know, but you know what I'm talking about. This happens to everyone. If we could wear our hearts on our sleeves all the time, perhaps we would be seen more clearly by others.

But maybe that's not always such a good thing, being seen 100 percent clearly by others. Sometimes I need to be secretive, and keep things to myself. Last night I did keep things to myself, and here in the light of day (and sobriety) I'm glad I made the right decision. Looks like I may be growing up a little bit after all.

Invisible

2009-06-20T21:22:00.000-07:00

I hate being invisible, and sometimes it's hard for me to understand how the real me cannot be seen when I feel as though I display myself pretty well. Decently, at least. As far as identity crises go, I think that I'm a pretty good candidate for therapy. At least a rudimentary psychoanalysis. Do they give out coupons for that sort of thing? I wonder.

Here's how I've been seen by others lately: "Wow, I didn't know I was so feminine until I met you, Jess."
"You're hot like my other friends."
"You're just so outgoing and crazy - like one of the guys."
"People love you [read: just not me]."
"Gosh, it's so comfortable being around you. You're just like one of the guys."

Am I a ghost? What am I to other people? Why do people assume that 1.) I like/appreciate those comments and 2.) that it doesn't break my heart when I'm not seen for who I am? It does. And I am sort of shocked that it's taken me so long to write about how I feel when someone says the aforementioned things to me. Don't take pity; change how you view me. Open your eyes and realize that I am standing before you.

Listening material: Joshua Kadisson's Invisible Man (There I go with the fucking gender bending, but what do I know? Apparently I'm not feminine enough to be counted as a woman. Therefore, what do I know?)

Settling in

2009-06-14T18:34:00.000-07:00

I have moved across the country twice before, and twice I have moved back to Indiana. I had considered it a weakness, but now, upon this move I have decided that that's just crap. I'm having the time of my life, working with friends, making new ones (something I had hesitated to do the first two times. Somehow I knew it was temporary - I knew I would move home eventually, then. A sort of self fulfilling prophecy.), and branching out in good, healthy ways. It's been two weeks, and I'm impressed with myself thus far. No depressed funks, no denying myself of living life. There are no thoughts of running back to the comfort of Indiana because I know I'm building a better life here. In two whole weeks, perspective has shifted, and I am happy! Yay, Jess!

And In That Same Vein

2009-06-06T20:25:00.000-07:00

I've opened up that can of worms, and it's something I haven't explored in a while. I've been busy with finishing my first semester of grad school, planning a move, and of course working overtime. I wrote several papers regarding something extremely personal. Abuse is something I have experienced and only half dealt with, but I think I'm doing a pretty decent job of leading a normal life. (Normal, what is normal anyway, except for that which no one obtains?) When I stayed with my mom and my sister the week before I moved to Charlotte, the old physical memories of dread, fear, and dirtiness popped up regularly. I had a very hard time putting those feelings aside while I dealt with the immediate issues of life.

Now I'm sitting here reflecting on why I am so self sufficient (read: stubborn and unwilling to look vulnerable, even in a toilet fixing capacity). Shit, I'm just stubborn and sealed off from living the way I strive to. It's like trying to touch fog - you are, but you're not. I seem to be living a life in limbo. However, now I have the time to work on it - and I have the reasons for change. I am not living with the people who have known me since childhood. I'm in a new city with a million new people to meet. Perhaps I can do a little meaningful blossoming while I'm here. Whaddya know? A new door opens . . . .

I'm So NOT A Southern Belle

2009-06-06T20:05:00.000-07:00

There's a show called Southern Belles on Soapnet. Please don't ask me why I'm watching soapnet at 11 p.m. on Saturday night, but go with it here. I am a newly implanted Southerner, and I am having not so much a culture shock, but a ridiculously pampered girl shock. I'M IN A WORLD FULL OF SOUTHERN BELLES! I, however, am not that person. I'm not a helpless, pampered, overly manicured piece of arm candy. I can do things for myself, and I don't need to be constantly yelling for a man to come and rescue me.

My World: Oh fuck, the toilet flusher thingie broke. I can't flush it without removing the damn lid and pulling the chain by hand. Ick. Hmm, what is a girl to do? Oh, I guess I'll try to fix the damn thing myself. A little grunt work, eyeball the situation, put the puzzle pieces together and - voila! - it's fixed.

The Southern Belle World: Oh my, my, the commode isn't flushing. Well, nobody needs to know that i go to the bathroom, so I'll just hope someone else notices that it's broken. Oh, shoot. There's toilet paper in the bowl, someone will know I've relieved myself. Oh, fiddle sticks. I guess I'll just yell for help. Heaven forbid I reach in there myself. I don't want to ruin my manicure, so I'll just yell for help. "SOMEONE, HELP! I CAN'T DO A THING FOR MYSELF! OH LORD!"

You see the difference? This is the world I am now living in. I went to get a pedicure the other day and sat next to a pampered housewife in full tennis garb. People actually wear that down here. And the worst part? There's a part of me that wants to open up to everyone and be a little vulnerable. And there's a little part of me that wants to wear the cute little tennis skirt while getting my nails done in the middle of the day while my kids are in school.

Now that doesn't mean I want to stop being self sufficient, yelling for help when I break a nail! But I think there could be a compromise there. But I guess that means opening myself up to possibilities. Oh God. What a week!

It Took Unemployment . . . .

2009-06-06T16:36:00.001-07:00

It took unemployment to make me realize a few things, but tonight as I'm sitting in my roommate JD's comfy man chair digesting the Chinese takeout I just inhaled, the realizations just keep coming.

ONE: I need to take more time to stop and smell the proverbial roses. Today I was cleaning off the back deck, loving the sunshine that beat down on my shoulders while Foster played in the grass, and I realized that I don't get outside often enough. It was really pleasant!

TWO: I don't do many leisure time activities. After cleaning off the back deck, I sat in the aforementioned comfy chair while Foster slept on the red (yes, I said red) leather couch, my phone rang. It was Hannah, my friend who has lived here in Charlotte for about 5 years. She's another Indiana transplant, and thank goodness for that! She's the best. She and her friend Chrissy were at the pool with their kids, and she wondered if I would like to join. My knee jerk reaction was to say thanks, but no. WHAT?? It's a beautiful day, sunny and 80, and I was going to sit inside alone. Sheesh. So i snapped myself out of it and hopped into my swimsuit and got my ass to the pool. And ya know what? I LOVED it! I think I'll do it more often.

And tonight, I'm trotting my happy ass downtown to meet some people - and meet the bottom of some drink glasses in the process. ;)

New Reality/Revelations

2009-06-05T19:54:00.000-07:00

Oh my, it's been both the longest and shortest month of my life. Though the move to Charlotte has been a smooth transition (relatively speaking), I still find myself in a state of upheaval. Foster and I drove down Monday night, after a weekend in Vegas with my sister and her friend Heather. Our drive took us about 2 hours longer than usual and was littered with doggie potty stops, snack stops, and doggie drink stops. Mentally it took twice as long as usual, and by the time we got to our new home, I wanted to hibernate for about a week. And in a way, I have. However, the move is not much compared with other issues I've had this week.

Apparently I have a quality that most other women hate: confidence. I never noticed that confidence inspired feelings of intimidation, fear, or hatred in other women. I'm just me, and while people tell me I exude confidence, I don't feel it most of the time. There's a difference (and I'm sure you can vouch for this as well), between how one feels on the inside and how others see themselves. I don't think others notice that I'm not as secure as what they perceive me to be. Since I've come here, I don't know if I'm just more sensitive to comments or if I'm being judged more. It seems as though my outer armor is being attacked by people who feel as though they can just shoot comments my way - because I seem to be more secure than I actually am? Interesting.

On the other hand, maybe society as a whole has just reached a point where the recipient's feelings don't matter. Perhaps it's that the sayer simply must say what's on their mind and to hell with the consequences. I don't know, maybe I'm jaded, but I don't like that thought, and I don't like the feeling of being the recipient. Hmmm. Is this a case of karma? Have I acted that way in the past? Now that I'm unemployed (temporarily - I start my new job Monday), is this a time for deeper reflection. And perhaps a class in real self esteem.

A litany of realizations

2009-04-24T15:20:00.000-07:00

A friend & classmate of mine recently wrote a poem entitled "I've come to realize", and it got me thinking what I have come to realize in my lifetime.

I've come to realize that free never means free.

I've come to realize that sex without love is an invitation to disaster.

I've come to realize that I like the sound of Foster's paws scraping on wood floors over the glamour of a nightclub.

I've come to realize that I am terrified of dying, but I really don't do much living.

I've come to realize that walking around naked is fine, except when the blinds are open and I'm surrounded by male neighbors.

I've come to realize that my bawdy sense of humor is just who I am, and that likely won't change.

I've come to realize that I'm not sure if I want kids someday, or if I don't . . .

And I've come to realize that it's okay that I don't know yet.

I've come to realize that I don't give myself enough credit.

I've come to realize that people with poor grammar really, really piss me off.

I've come to realize that the more people yell, the more I stop listening.

I've come to realize that I love puppy kisses.

I've come to realize that I love summer nights, and winter days.

I've come to realize that someday I'll be a hermit - if I can afford it.

I've come to realize that I deserve better, and that's no small feat.

I've come to realize that I have really big feet.

I've come to realize that I would get a foot reduction before I would get a breast augmentation.

I've come to realize that having a regular sleep pattern is the key to being a happy, kind person.

I've come to realize that I don't have a regular sleep pattern.

I've come to realize that I only take vitamins regularly if they are Flintstones brand.

I've come to realize that I would rather read a book than lose control.

I've come to realize that I am better than what I give myself credit for.

I've come to realize that knowledge is the best investment I can think of.

I've come to realize that I keep people at arm's length, though I may want to invite them in closer.

I've come to realize that it's okay to voice my opposition to anything I want to, as long as I do it respectfully.

I've come to realize that I have a pretty good life, and that I am a lucky person.

More Red Lobster Stupidity

2009-04-20T11:09:00.000-07:00

After the Behemoth Crab incident (Chinese Proverb: Man going backwards in office chair look like fat crab walking), my sister and I calmed down long enough to begin digging into our own dinners. My sister is so cute: long blondish brownish hair, and the same soft green eyes as me. Her hair was just a little disheveled, and my own was a short black nightmare yesterday as I battled a hangover. So we sat talking and eating while this adorable little munchkin kept trying to jump through the partition and hang out with us. He was blond, dimpled, and couldn't have been older than three.

Ang: "He should come hang out with us. We need more entertainment.'
Jess: "No we don't, but he is cute."
Ang: "I wonder what they feed kids here? Seriously, kids don't really like seafood, do they?"
Jess: "I doubt it. I don't know. We were weird kids, so we probably loved this shit."
Ang (her hair mussed, and a forkful of pasta in her hand. She was deep in concentration. "So what do they feed kids here? Like, fish sticks?
Jess: "Well - I don't - HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
Ang: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
Jess: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
Ang: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

I don't know why it was so funny, but it was. And I had to simultaneously squeeze my cheeks and focus on not spitting out my potatoes AND not vomiting: I was stuffed already, and my sister's dry sense of humor didn't help.

Do you ever get the giggles so badly that you just can't stop? I was making a scene, and I knew it. Tears flowed, I made strange choking noises, and I couldn't stop it! Ang didn't help; she was making the same scene.

Moral of the story: Red Lobster DOES NOT serve fish sticks on the kids menu! What the hell?

Disclaimer

2009-04-20T11:08:00.001-07:00

I never said I was a nice person. Now you know ; )

Effing Red Lobster!!

2009-04-20T10:54:00.000-07:00

I never knew Red Lobster could be so funny. Granted, it's the home of mediocre seafood but I'm landlocked in Indiana, so give me a break!

Anyway, my sister and I had dinner at Red Lobster last night. No big deal, average meal. We sat at a table in the packed dining room where a sign over my head read "Flying Fish". Wow! I thought it was interesting. But, continuing on. . . .

To my left sat a woman of average age and average size, eating her snow crab legs. Next to her sat one of the biggest, most obese men I have seen in a long time. I would say he was about 5'9" and 450, busting out of his red, 5X polo shirt and dress pants. The sight of an obese man in Indiana is unremarkable, but he was sitting on an armless office chair, complete with wheels. Interesting, I thought. Did he ask for this chair, or did the hostess just hook him up with it instead of having to embarrass him? (Note: there's a point when you should consider NOT eating a tray full of Red Lobster pasta, and I think this gentleman had passed that point 150 pounds ago. But who am I to judge?)

I had to focus on my own meal, however, and my sister and I ordered. And I casually glanced over every so often at this behemoth in his red polo shirt, but my sister and I never verbalized what we were thinking. (Reminder: my sister and I are both huge bitches. But on the up side, we're both funny as hell.) Midway through our appetizer, after behemoth had decimated his tray full of food, his wife neatly folded her napkin and stood to leave. Out of the corner of my eye, I waited for him to get up as well. And though he did not stand, I was not disappointed.

Behemoth grabbed his two canes and ROLLED BACKWARD OUT OF THE RESTAURANT in his office chair!! He brought his own office chair to the restaurant, and wheeled through two dining areas!

Ang: "Did you - "
Jess: "Don't. I can't even look at you right now."
Ang: "Okay, wait. It'll pass."
Jess: "Ok. Breathe."
Ang: "Nobody else looked! How can that be?!"
Jess: "Breathe in, breathe out."
Ang & Jess: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAA!"

Ang: "How do you think that conversation went? 'Honey, I'm gonna just start bringing my own office chair whenever we go out, ok? 'Sure honey, that's a great idea.'"
Jess: "Umm, should I tell them that they actually make wheelchairs?"
Ang: "Nope. It's much funnier this way. But I wonder how that conversation went down. Seriously."

I just don't know, kids. I just don't know.

Oh, I just realized. . .

2009-04-20T10:38:00.001-07:00

Saturday night I got home from a late shift at work, and I felt . . . hmm, how exactly did I feel? I felt like fighting, like partying, like going out for some drinks and dancing until every particle of stress and care had been flung away from me. I felt like listening to angry rock music and taking shots. I felt like grabbing a guy and taking him home. I wanted to feel like the badass I used to be.

Shit.

So I got home, whipped up mixed drinks for my sister and myself, and got ready to go. I was going out partying, damn it all. So I slapped on a coating of makeup, tousled my hair into a sexy mess, threw on jeans and a decent shirt and left to meet my friends at Piere's, a bar here in Fort Wayne that is more a meat market than anything else. During my overnight shifts in the ER, I have seen more gunshots, knifings, sexual assaults, and simply morons - and they've all come from Piere's. Needless to say, my guard goes up. But there's something about walking into a bar and having everyone look at me that I needed Saturday night. I needed to feel sexy, though I wanted no one there to talk to me, or touch me. It's a double standard ; )

So I sauntered up to the bar and ordered a drink. Then I looked around me: women were dressed as absolute sluts. I can't imagine why men would never take them seriously. The men who were there rain in packs, afraid to look uncool walking by themselves, without a posse to flank them. In short, I looked around with sober eyes and thought to myself, "Shit I'm getting old. I'd rather be home blogging."

But maybe it's not just as simple as 'getting old'. Twenty-seven is not old by any means, but there is a certain maturity that I have reached - stop scoffing - and it's certain that I don't belong at a dive like Piere's. I've passed the point of the one night stand, and the idiocracy of trying to meet someone at a bar. That's right up there with spitting into the wind, in my opinion. So I stood there watching the skank parade pass me by. Some girls looked up at me and glanced away immediately; others stared openly as I, 6 feet of Jessie, and my friends, 6'10 and 6'2 respectively, stood by the bar. It's interesting to watch, really. But I decided that I was not one of those girls anymore, those who measure their sex appeal by how many drunk people ogle me in a given night. There's more to me than that, and I left the bar a disappointed and self-assured woman.

I can't explain that last thought, except for this: I'm disappointed that I'm restless enough to try to measure myself by others, and self-assured enough to realize that I don't need it. Interesting realization, Jess. Perhaps a little late coming, but as long as it happens, that's all that matters.

Itemize

2009-04-11T14:59:00.001-07:00

One paper done (pending revisions, of course), and only the Jenbe project left to go. I'm almost there! Almost to the end of the semester, and though I want to look up and feast my eyes on the finish line, I duck my head back down and get to work - until tonight when I let loose and go out darankin'! Anyone care to join me in a couple hours of absolute mindlessness? If not, I'll drink one for you. = )

Day 2, 33 left to go . . .

2009-04-06T18:05:00.000-07:00

Day two of living with my sister, Angela. I've gained 5 pounds, in 48 hours, and I am currently working on a red wine buzz. She cooks. I drink and do homework, re-searching aspects of my life. Life is beautiful, as they say in Europe, or in better places than here. My sister has no appreciation for wine, but I can forgive her that. Besides, I just taught her a new trick: we can now make the world's smallest wine glass symphony.

Tonight, she cooked while I did some research for my final paper. It's depressing and raw work, leaving me mentally exhausted and emotionally taxed. After a couple of hours, I took an emotional health break while she whipped up grilled ham and cheese sandwiches and soup. Now we sit side-by-side on the couch, Angela playing with the wine glass, totally engrossed in rubbing a finger on the rim of my wine glass. She makes music, and I make word art. Who said we weren't talented? "It's fascinating, this sound." In the same breath she adds, "I need to get out more." Ha! So do I! She dislikes most wine, but appreciates its beauty, the way it swirls in the hand-blown glass. I appreciate both aspects, but am slightly engrossed in research, and I need to get back to it.

However, it's these moments laughing with my sister that I appreciate, much more than researching a dark topic. I'm happy researching the bottom of this dark wine.

I have chosen.

2009-03-31T22:29:00.000-07:00

I have chosen to write my final paper for my other class on the topic of molestation, and the ripple effect it has on the people surrounding the perpetrator as well as the victim. Molestation is such an ugly word, and I hate it. I wish I wasn't associated with it, but I am. I have been since an extremely young age, age 4, even though I didn't put a name to the experience until I was 23. It's an amazing, powerful experience to put a name to the monster who wreaked havoc on me for so long. Amazing because I felt powerful after I named it. I got some of my power back because I began the transition from the small, weak child who hid alone, afraid to tell anyone about my experiences, to the survivor of the abuse. The earth is a little shaky under my survivor's feet, but the ground is there nonetheless.

So anyway, I had to complete an annotated bibliography for this re-search paper (Re-search, as opposed to research is more a re-gathering of the experiences and memories, supplemented by the wisdom of other writers), and I found so many good sources for consultation. In the beginning, after I became a "survivor" of abuse and not just a "victim", I researched everything about abuse. I had to read it before I could feel it, if that makes sense. I knew nothing of what was considered to be a normal reaction, or normal thought process, and after years of being afraid to declare how I felt, I needed to understand that what I felt was within normal limits. So I gobbled up books and studied them as though they were religious doctrine; and in a very distinct way, they were. I have never put much stock in the Bible over the Qu'ran, or the Torah. Really, I have not put much stock in religious writings as law, so I figure I can create my own spirituality.

Healing through reading has almost always been my spirituality, so reading these books and internalizing them was never much of a stretch. Though I had done a lot of reading on the topic of healing from a wound such as mine, I had been centered only on myself, and not the people around me.

What about my family or friends? How have they been affected by my experiences? The destructive path I took for years after high school, when sexuality was such a physical reaction to such a physical experience? I am quite sure that my family and friends suffered much through my "don't care, whatever" attitude. More importantly, what experience is there for the person who committed the crime against me? Unfortunately, that person is now dead, and she died years ago. Her husband died before her, and now I have no one to ask.

But through my family's wall of silence, I have found a few chinks in the armor. I hear that the person who abused me was in fact, abused herself. Interesting. Now there's a ripple effect for you. The abuse she suffered was one tear in a placid lake, but the tear she shed extended itself all the way to me. That started an entirely new ripple, but it will stop with me, and not touch anyone else in the same way it touched me. And it's those ripples that are felt all over the world, in different societies and in different cultures. This problem of incest is not an American problem, and certainly not one committed against the female gender only. This is what my paper is about, and I hope that it's worth the pain.

"Something missing, something more"

2009-03-28T12:41:00.001-07:00

Today I went to a gathering for Malidoma Patrice Some', at Weisser Park Community Center, located just off Creighton Avenue. I was so frustrated because I had never been to Weisser Park before, and Mapquest failed me, making me about 30 minutes late. But the stress and frustration I felt on the drive to Weisser Park melted away as soon as I stepped in the door of the community center.

Here I was, one of four white faces in the audience, and I felt completely at home. I knew a lot of the people who were in attendance, many of them being students or teachers of Jenbe. These kids I have grown to respect greatly, and the process of getting to know a completely different culture from my own shed some light on not only West Afrikan (the traditional spelling) culture, but my own as well.

First, I realized that I am the not-so proud owner of some deeply etched prejudices. I feel I can admit that because most people do have prejudice in their hearts to some degree. I am not proud of that fact, but getting to know these crazy energetic young people has been wonderful. The first time I met them, I wondered why everyone talked over one another (more than some young people do, maybe), and talked back to the "elder", the person who had the floor. I found out today. In the Afrikan culture, the act of "talking back" to a speaker is a way of showing respect to not only the speaker, but to the ancestors as well. The act of talking back represents that the one talking back is paying attention, and moved by what the speaker is saying. It's support.

In my culture, it's a sign of disrespect to talk while someone else is talking, but it's embraced and expected in others. Now I understand.

I realized also that I feel like a tightly wound white chick when I'm around these kids. I needed to loosen up when I stepped through the doors. That was a hard lesson to learn, but today, in front of Malidoma Patrice Some' and company, I danced. I sang, and at times I sang loud. I remembered a time when I was a small child and my great grandfather would sing in church. He was an awful singer, but he did it anyway because he was moved by the words, by the feeling, by the connection he felt to his god, to his religion. I never felt that in church, but I felt it today. I felt the connection to Mother Africa, the cradle of life. Everyone's life, not just that of black people.

This connection to the mother land, to the traditional drums, dancing and culture makes me sad, makes me feel like I'm missing something. My culture is all about modernity, and the past is seen as outdated, worn out, obsolete. We are supposedly the newest, best versions of humanity. Our links to the past are fleeting, if at all. In the Afrikan culture, among Afrikan Americans and other Afrikan traditions, links to the past and to ancestry are the hands that lift this current generation up. Ancestors are respected, loved, and still looked to for advice, even if they had passed years, decades, centuries before. They still gain wisdom, and pass it down to the living. There is a real, tanglible relationship between the living and the dead.

I am reminded of Nancy Welch's article about "excessiveness". One must ask oneself, "Is there something I'm missing? Something more?" After watching and participating in the presentation today, I realize there is a piece missing, a piece of my heart, and a piece of my past that I don't know. I don't know my ancestors, and I have never tried to talk to them. I am missing something, and now I'm searching for that, for something more.

An Appropriate Poem (Sidebar)

2009-03-26T10:02:00.000-07:00

After the post from yesterday, I realized that I had written something similar before. I use the poetry of others to help explain my point, but I also create my own - - this poem was written for a class I took a year ago. It's called a BOP, and you use the refrain from a song to help illustrate your point. I chose Paolo Nutini's song entitled 'Last Request', and I think it's appropriate. Enjoy (or don't).

The BOP
Jessie Ruckman

Heaving deep breath before I dunk my head and dive
Back under icy academic waters and steals my breath.
Write an article, edit this, run that, design page 1.
Perform CPR, I need and EKG – Jessie where are you?
Run! From the uneasy waking moment, diving back
under water. No time to steal a breath.
But I’m no wiser than the fool that I was before.

Dashing wildly through my life, forgetting that I am
Alive. School, work, school, sleep. Dive, breathe
Dive again. Slipping under water, give my condolences
To life, hold breath, putting world on pause
While I strive for something better.
Holding breath, lungs exploding, learning begins
And I balance and begin to breathe.
Slowly, wearily.
But I’m no wiser than the fool that I was before.

And another day of stifled panic revealed
One thing about who I am is that,
Head under water, pushed to the point
Of break or become;
I’ll beg for the punishment of no sleep and no life.
All for that piece of graduated paper.
But I’m no wiser than the fool that I was before.

deep thoughts. . .

2009-03-25T20:45:00.001-07:00

I am holding my breath, and though I've only been under the icy water for a short amount of time, I can feel life's grasp loosening, letting go. Here it is, almost midnight and I'm at work, stressed out after yet another run-in with my idiot neighbor. I had just gotten out of the shower, dripping wet when he came pounding on the door. Imagine that, he didn't like the fact that I was blaring my tiny little stereo. Even though I'm annoyed that he acted so self righteous, I relished the fact that I was vindicated to some tiny degree. Now he knows how I feel. But enough of that.

I am sitting here at work at 11:59 p.m., with a paper due in 12 hours. Have I started it? NO. It's all in my head, yes, but you can't turn in thoughts by pulling them out of air. Unfortunately papers aren't spoken. But every time I begin to get involved with homework and then hit a wall, my mind begins to wander to the big move. At this point it's just a matter of time, but I feel like I'm getting ready to return home after a long absence.

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

The meaning of this poem swings from thoughts of suicide (ugh) to my interpretation, and it's a soothing balm for my soul: One can stop, if even for a moment, to appreciate the inherent beauty in things even though he or she struggles to keep from drowning in the day-to-dayness of life. Frost has anticipated my thoughts and soothed my mind by forcing me to realize that A.) I am not alone in my pursuit of sanctity and sanity; and B.) even though I have miles to go before I sleep, I am free at any time to stop and appreciate the beauty of the struggle. That gives me strength. That gives me comfort. I know that I have hurdles to jump and mountains to climb and papers to write before I can finally rest and be at peace, but I also know that I can complete these tasks and be at peace with myself while I do. So while I am holding my breath, lungs screaming for air, somewhere in the back of my mind I realize that I am not just drowning. I'm diving for a rebirth. This insanity of working overtime at odd hours of the day and night, coupled with finishing this semester at school, topped of with planning a move and trying to have some semblance of a life. I know that there is a purpose to all of this nonsense.

It's just a matter of staying awake and not going completely insane before the chrysalis opens and the butterfly emerges.

Oh yeah. . .

2009-03-17T07:56:00.000-07:00

By the way, Happy St. Patty's Day everyone! I hope you are all safely enjoying some green beer and shamrock shakes from mcdonald's, lol. I personally will partake in an Irish Car Bomb. Delicious.

Unbelievable Ramblings

2009-03-17T07:28:00.000-07:00

I feel so discombobulated. I never even knew that was really a word that I could apply to myself until this trip to Charlotte. Let's be clear about something: I don't want to go home. If I wasn't enrolled in school, there's not a shot in hell that I would be driving home tomorrow for anything other than gathering my stuff and turning right back around. It's not that I hate Fort Wayne - on the contrary. I have come to love it so much that I fear I'll stay if I don't run now. I'm not down with a lot of the mediocrity that I see there (of course, that has a LOT of qualifiers, and I mean no disrespect. I mean that strictly in the terms of my own life.) I have to get while the getting's good, as the saying goes.

On to new business: the job hunt. The job hunt sucks, and I was so frustrated yesterday, after WALKING OUT of an interview that I slammed my new car into a median. No damage to the car, and after splurging on a 1-hour massage, no damage to myself either. But I am getting discouraged, which sent me into a psychological tailspin that goes a little something like this.

"I have a Bachelor's and I apparently get a job. I'm transferring down here, but teaching part time doesn't pay the bills. Plus that's a helluva student loan tab I'm racking up. I'm almost done with massage therapy school, so I could do that. But that's another year, and I would have my master's by then. But where does that land me? I can't see the forest through the goddamn trees. Fucking trees. Solution: chop the bitches down. No, that doesn't work. Maybe I should get my MLS and be a librarian. I like libraries. Maybe. File that thought away. But for now maybe i should go back to waitressing. Hell no. Retail? UUUUUGHHHH! People suck. They make me angry. Maybe a bookstore wouldn't be so bad, though. Hmm, I'll apply to Borders. But I have a DEGREE!!!! It gets me nothing. Where the hell is my Nexium? I feel an attack coming on."

Umm, that was painful. So what did I do? Nothing. I got a massage, and then I got some Chinese food. And I hibernated. With my computer. Looking for jobs. LOL. I'm incurable, a dog with a bone. A bone that hates me and tries to bite me back. Thus is my current relationship with Charlotte. Or, perhaps with life in general. I have the same problems in Fort Wayne, but they seem less intense there because I've settled into a routine. The routine acts as a shield, hiding the truth from me because I've settled into my own personal ignorant bliss. That realization is painful as well.

I feel like Dorothy at the intersection of Yellow Brick and Yellow Brick. . . and Yellow Brick. All roads lead to something, but I am a little scared to find out, to go on a limb, to take a leap of faith. Were there enough cliches in there for you? I know that what I'm doing is right. I feel it every time I think of it, and every time I come here. I feel like I'm at home, but growth is painful. Finding a job is painful. Deciding which path to take is painful. Does anyone have some advice?

perspective

2009-02-24T16:34:00.000-08:00

Aah, I can be such an ass. I was just whining about having a shitty day, for no reason, and I checked my work e mail. My coworker, and friend, had surgery today. A tumor was wrapped around her spine, and the surgeons didn't know if she would be able to walk again afterwards. I went to visit her, and she is moving her legs, grateful to walk. Grateful to have the use of her legs. Now, my problems are selfish and needless. She's wonderful, and I've been silly.

Annoyance

2009-02-24T13:49:00.000-08:00

I'm like 98% non smoker. But that other 2 percent . . . oh that 2 percent is saved for special occasions, such as drunken stupidity or, like today, when I am in such a shitty mood that I'm not suitable to be around others. No reason, really, except that I'm in a bad mood. Hellacious mood, actually. I sat in class, thoroughly annoyed by the comments people made because I'm thinking to myself, do you not pay ANY attention when the teacher speaks? Good God, she said that same thing last week, and this week it's like some people just had an epiphany. Ugh. So after I left, I drove my new car (cussing like hell at the idiots in traffic) to the nearest gas station, bought a ham sandwich and a pack of smokes. They'll last me about six months, probably. I ate my sandwich in the parking lot, and - shit - I can't work the fucking lighter in my car. Automatically I'm pissed at the salesman who didn't show me how to work the damn thing. Oh well. I whip open my car door and march straight back into the store, plop down a lighter, make some lame joke, plunk down my dollar-seven and walk away.

The smoke stinks, but the taste is satisfying. It's a cold February day, but all four of my windows are down, lest my car reek of smoke when I'm out of this shitty mood. But I like to watch the white-blue smoke of my Camel Lights curl out of my mouth and snake into the sky. It suits my mood. Goddammit. I am angry today. Back into traffic I go, searching in vain for a good song on the radio. I can't take this shit. It's all so sappy. I want something that ROCKS! Stirs my blood, gets my fists pounding on the steering wheel, shakes me out of my mind, rattles my teeth. Nothing. GODDAMMIT! I whip my car into the parking lot at work, all the while thinking to myself, laughing darkly to myself that this is going to be one hell of a night. I can't fucking wait.

Do you know when a person smiles, but their lips curve up and their eyes remain dead? Unmoved, unemotional. That's how I'm smiling today, and that may come as a shock to some of the people in my outer world. Some people say I have a brilliant smile - to some, that's the defining part of my face. Blah blah blah. I'm angry, so my smiles don't count. But, why am I so angry? I try to decipher it myself, but somehow the meaning escapes me, like a fart in a skillet. Haha. That's disgusting. Maybe it's because I have to have an extremely uncomfortable conversation with one of my best friends, to tell him why I have been avoiding him for two months. Other than some face value things (Angela knows this), there has to be some other reason why I can't bring myself to talk to him. I mean, I tell him everything, and have for years. We dated, then we didn't date, then we dated again. Our friendship never suffered, but instead grew stronger because of it. We know each other better now. But now the stakes are higher, and I'm not sure that I can do what he wants me to do. Hell, I'm not sure if he wants it anymore.

I'm annoyed because I don't have any answers. I'm 27 years old, with a full time job, my own place, and working on a master's degree. But I have no answers, and I wish someone would tell me what to do, when to do it. Then I could stop thinking, stop second guessing myself and just live. Fuck. My smoke is done, and now I'm dizzy and wishing I had a toothbrush. I stomp it out the rest of the way, still frustrated, still annoyed. Still wondering who's going to tell me what to do.

Metamorphosis

2009-02-23T04:52:00.000-08:00

Metamorphosis

There was a time when I never thought I would ever finish school. I floundered from job to job, never really knowing what I wanted to do. I never realized that I had put up such tall, well-built fences around myself. I kept myself hidden from the outside, and mostly hidden from myself. There was a time when I hid the deepest parts, even from other parts of me. In one paper for this semester, I wrote about the friction between myself and myself. I think there’s more to add to that statement, for everyone who has ever examined herself closely, painfully aware of what may possibly be lurking in the shadows. Everyone tucks memories, experiences, thoughts away for later examination, or possibly forever. Sometimes these experiences are never heard from again, but simply tucked into the wrinkles of our brains for building our character. Whether they are used consciously in the future or not, they form the foundation of who we are. The subconscious is a mysterious thing, and I don’t pretend to know much about it. But I have learned a little about myself through these experiences of writing and searching through those dusty files.

In a poem I wrote for a class two semesters ago, I examined what it was like to perform CPR on a four-year-old boy. It was heart-wrenching at the time, and I wrote down the raw feelings from that day on a piece of scratch paper, put it in my pocket and worked the painful feelings and perspectives into a poem. I turned it in for a grade and put it aside, kept it in a file from that class only to stumble across it about a week ago. That poem knocked the wind out of me, even after a year of distance. I’ve posted it below.

Sunday Morning
An Epitaph

All over this frozen city, people
are lying in bed sipping
steaming coffee, clipping coupons,
or making love
to ward off the February chill.

Here I stand alone, drowning.
There is no Sunday romance for me
as I batter this little boy’s chest.
Reasoning, bargaining.

I sliced this baby’s jammies
off with my own cold
sterile steel in slow motion
as the world fast-forwards.

Poise.
Brace.
Pump.
That’s my job.

“Start CPR!”
“Push Epi!”
“Do it again, harder!”
“Make the beat count!”

Fiery tears threaten, recede
as I stare blankly at beeping screen.
Four years old, no life left.
Lying on a slab, blue
jammies flayed open.

“Stop CPR.”
Breath heaving from the effort, I glance down-
look at his face. Warm mahogany
irises watch, done.
And I touch a gloved hand to soft brown hair.

Baby, keep fighting. I’m fighting with you.
Monitors slow to a final halt,
Cold, silent.

I shut it down, roar inside.
The clock stopped softly, 10 a.m.
I ran - knelt, rocked
alone in a sterile bathroom-
Screamed, shattered mirrors.
Because the funeral march breaks

Inside my head for the little
boy in sliced blue pajamas.

While all over this frozen city, people
are lying in bed sipping
steaming coffee, clipping coupons,
or making love
to ward off the February chill.

I never noticed the depth of feelings when I read it the first few times to myself, and then to a class of my peers. I was terrified to read it aloud, afraid that my readers wouldn’t understand why I wrote it the way I did, or that the material was so extreme that people couldn’t identify with it. My class was so diverse that I thought surely I would offend someone, or that they would find me crazy. I don’t know what I was afraid of, but I was afraid, and when I read it aloud the class was silent. Then I looked around to my classmates’ faces and realized one woman was crying, and several others were tearing up as well. The men were moved, and everyone took something from my written experience. The point is, that was the first time I had ever opened myself up by reading aloud to an audience. I was unsure of what I was looking for, but I began to find out that I was seeking the ability to open up a part of my life and air out those dark spaces, and reopen the memories that had been locked away in the dark.

2009-02-23T04:48:00.000-08:00

Frustration

2009-02-15T11:24:00.000-08:00

It's Sunday. A gloomy, cold, snowy, overcast Sunday, and I got ditched for lunch by a friend who is teaching me a lesson in communication. More specifically, my disturbing lack thereof. There are of course reasons why I haven't communicated as much as I should lately, but some things are best kept unsaid in forums such as this. Regardless, my Granite City date fell through, so I went to Panera Bread for their free wi-fi, and of course, their tomato bisque soup. Delicious.

I'm sitting along, reveling in the luxury of having to speak to no one, except through my fingertips and this computer. So every time I look up, I glance around at the people who surround me, and I can't help but to catch some of the most unhappy people I have seen in quite some time. Frankly, it's bringing me down, but it also serves another purpose. I learn every day what I want from life.

For instance, this day after Valentine's Day, I'm looking around at couples who should in theory be happy. But the table directly in front of me is a pair of miserable people who seem to have lost the reason why they fell in love. They are bickering constantly, snapping and sniping at one another and not communicating at all. Of course, their tones are appropriately hushed, but I am close enough to hear everything and I have the advantage of conversing silently with myself instead of someone else. My ears are wide open. Then, to make matters worse, in the middle of a heated discussion, Man picks up his ringing cell phone and engages in a 5-7 minute conversation to someone other than his wife. She keeps looking at me, and I look back at her as impassively as possible, like I'm really focused on my homework, Facebook, or whatever it is that I happen to be working on at the time. I'm very sad for them. I can't see his face, but she wears a bitter expression around the tight lines of her mouth, and her eyes look sad. Overcast and sad.

The table adjacent to me is even worse. They have apparently been together so long that they have run out of things to talk about. I haven't seen them smile once. In fact, he's even been reading the paper while she stares the opposite direction. Ugh, it reminds me of my parents.

There was never any yelling in my household, with the exception of myself and my sister. But what else do teen girls do to each other besides torment and occasionally exchange gossip? For the most part we stayed in our own separate rooms, entertaining ourselves and hiding from the icy silence in the downstairs half of the house.

We had a beautiful house in the country, situated on 30 acres of land complete with a wandering creek and our own private woods. It was beautiful, but still somehow completely untouchable. Just two nights ago I had a dream that I went back to that house and begged my family to be the way we once were. When I woke up, dry tear streaks stained my face. I cried in real life because of a bad dream. But we want what we want, and who are we to tell our hearts that they are wrong? There is a rift there, and of course I want it fixed. But the conscious part of me knows and accepts that it won't happen.

But now that I am looking around Panera Bread on a dreary Sunday afternoon, the sadness strikes me again. But it also gives me focus on the things I want, and how I intend to live.

Nerves squared

2009-02-11T17:51:00.001-08:00

Boy am I a spitfire, huh? Can I get a round of applause for that? Thanks. Now onto new business and back to nerves. I had a point that circles back to the heart of some discussions we've had in class, or at some point in our studious lives anyway.

Nerves. Effing nerves. The way I see it, you have two choices when facing these necessary evils: you can either run from them, let your blood settle and wonder about the "what ifs", or you can plunge through a nerve-packed situation and come out on the other side a winner. And by winner I mean, you have survived an experience and now you have greater knowledge about what lies on the other side of the fence. Fences can either be jumped or you can be cattle, standing on the inside of them, passively wondering what the grass over there tastes like. Is it sweeter? Only one way to find out.

So many times I have been told that I am brave, crazy, or ballsy even. And I like it! But that's just real life. What about writing and sharing our experiences with the public? It seems to me that the true bravery that I see when I look at classmates or patients in the ER happens when they decide to be crazy like me and jump the fence. Now I'm not implying that it's correct in every situation: for instance, if you have the inclination to drive your car onto the interstate ramp and go straight when the road turns, don't do that. The exhilaration of flying lasts a millisecond before these consecutive thoughts cross your mind: Oh shit and Splat!

See what I mean? Don't jump that particular fence, my friend. Instead, try this.

Jump over or push through the fences in writing, and within communities. Try not to just stick with your own community, either. That was one of the hardest lessons I ever had to learn because my community is comfortable. But it's also missing a lot of things that I need, and so I had to hold my breath and Red Rover into another community - and another, then another. And I'm no worse for the wear. Communities are interesting things. They are fluid and free-moving, like gelatin, but they are also incredibly contained with a lot of finite boundaries. With little or no warning, though, you can be standing inside a new one or outside an old one. Or, if you're really open to what happens in different places at different times, you can be inside and outside many at the same time.

I feel that duality in everyday life, and once I opened my eyes long enough to look at it, I really liked it. We can be inside our daily lives (naturally in "our own" communities), jostling and elbowing mindlessly, but once we step into another one, it gives us perspective on the original one. Like right now for instance, I am working on the Rehab unit at Parkview Hospital even though my "home" is the ER. I work up here a couple evenings a week because it gives me distance and perspective, and keeps me from getting burnt out on the jostle and stress of ER. This also helps me to appreciate and understand my job better when I am back at "home". It's just like we talked about in class about introspective writing and writing with perspective, a removal of oneself from the middle of the chaos, taking apart and reshaping our experiences. In a sense, we are pushing fences simply by being in another community, whether we actively participate or not. Warning: participation is encouraged for utmost success in expanding one's horizons.

Nerves

2009-02-05T13:40:00.000-08:00

I think people take for granted that we, as a people, are some nervous bastards. Nervous about life, school, paying the bills, taking a vacation, traffic, taking a vacation in traffic, perhaps. Regardless, nerves in general seem to make us who we are.

I, for example, am nervous about who I am going to become in the future (Aah, that shiny, bright, somehow unobtainable dream world where I plan to be when monkeys fly and everything's perfect). Neither of my parents went to college, and only one of the two have any modicum of creativity, but she doesn't use it because I think she is afraid of putting it out there to be judged, which in her mind equals a failure of some sort. So when my sister and I graduated with out Bachelor's degrees, it was a big deal.

Big deal in my parents' eyes equaled BIG FUTURE. To me, a Bachelor's equaled, big freakin' deal.

That's only a stepping stone at this day in age, right? Don't we need graduate school in order to climb the ladder higher, and to obtain a more competitive job with more prestige and more zeros at the end of our salary? Regardless of the fact that I spend most of my days daydreaming about being a famous writer, I do spend a portion of that other fifty percent of my day dreaming about how to become a thriving member of society. I have this obnoxious duality of personality that leads me to understand that "writing the great American novel" or "becoming a high school English teacher" aren't my only options. Hmm, who knew? Apparently I did.

But then what? See, those nerves are getting on your nerves now, aren't they? This is only a sliver of the ADD-type spew that flies around in my head, sending neurotransmitters firing and flying. The electricity of my brain is probably somewhat amazing. But I don't know. I'm a graduate student in an English program.

I have made the decision to move at the end of the summer to my dream place: Charlotte, North Carolina. Why would I, at the beginning of graduate school, in the prime of my education, decide to up and leave it all? The simple (and yet startingly complex) answer is this: I am nervous as hell. Are you ready for an insight into my life? If not, TURN BACK NOW. If you're brave, hold on and prepare to be amazed (especially if you're a man. Ladies, I think you'll be able to follow me on this.)

I am a gypsy. I like to live in places other than Fort Wayne, and I have lived in Charlotte and Austin, and I loved them both. But without a degree, and a general career/life direction, it's very hard to flourish and live in the life that I want - i.e., have a job I don't despise and have money that I can invest and do fun things. I don't ask for much. Fort Wayne doesn't seem to be a very hospitable environment for the person with an English degree, and frankly, the weather sucks. Currently it's 50 degrees in Charlotte, 72 in Austin, and 8 in Fort Wayne. Do you see what I'm getting at? Other than those reasons, I am 27 years old with a job that pays the bills, and a dog sharing my house. Sure it's peaceful, but not fulfilling. Do I date here in Fort Wayne?

Hell no. You may ask yourself, Why? I'll tell you.

I want someone who lives in a place where I want to spend my time. I don't want to date a native Fort Waynean because men overall like to live here, and die here. Eff that. I want to live in a big city, near water and mountains, that offers a lifestyle and not just obese children who live with obese parents. I'm sorry, but really, have you looked around? I'm sure there are things to do other than eat, but I'm not that creative - I like to be able to walk outside my door and be bombarded with fun things to do. BOMBARDED, I SAY! More on this next week . . . I know there's plenty to rant about, and I'm sure that I'll piss someone off with what I've said, so I'll try to at least acknowledge it next week. ; )

Focus? Can I take a pill for that?

2009-02-03T08:02:00.000-08:00

This week I have had a very hard time focusing on academia. I wish that I could lie and say that it is just a transient thing, a passing feeling but it's not. I have a problem balancing life, outside goals, work, and school.

I can admit it. Fine. But isn't there a pill for that?

It's not that I have a disorder, or even that I'm lazy. My problem is that I have so many dynamic ideas, and I want to get them all out at once, and at different, conflicting times as well. This does not work very well for me. For example, this weekend I should have been diligently completing homework assignments, posting them by Sunday, and then working on the 'extras' in life. But of course, I didn't do that. I spent a lazy Saturday on the couch, went to dinner with my sister, and then drove around to half a dozen different car lots trying to find a new ride. Calvin the Cavalier is wearing out after eight years together, and Foster needs to have more room to flop his furry butt. I need more space to put my garbage, and when I move, I need a larger vehicle so that I can pack more necessities inside.

See? Now you’re much more interested in what type of car I need, and you too have veered off of my main point. Sucker. Don’t worry, you’re in good company. The car was not the only distraction. You see, my sister and I are thinking of starting our own business. We’re both extreme smartasses with both literary and business backgrounds. My friends and I are quite heavy-handed with puns and when most people have trouble writing succinctly, I have trouble expanding my thoughts past a haiku. My feeling is this: I give you the framework of my thought. You are picking up what I am putting down (as the kids say), and I don’t feel the need to feed your individual mind any further. I don’t need to explain to you exactly what I mean because once I pass the baton to you, you take it where you want to go. I give you the gift of the framework, but you make of it what you will. And vice versa. Anyway, I promise I can be succinct, but you wouldn’t know it here from the excessive rambling. But hey, I have a word count to reach! Damn.

Anyway, my sister and I are thinking of starting our own business, but you already got that, and aren’t you kind for following these detours from the form. We are going to write our own greeting cards. Yeah, yeah that’s been done, I know. But none that serve the perverted minds of twisted youth (of all ages, I suspect). I have hunted so many times for the card that says exactly what I want to convey to someone else. I have then tried to settle for the clean version. And then I end up getting one with a funny picture on the front and nothing printed on the inside.

I’ll fill it in with what I really mean. Damn. Fine. Hallmark is a feel-good piece of shit anyway. I want the grit, the dirt, the bawdy humor of everyday speech. And so does my sister. And so do all of my friends. And probably my family, too, but they won’t admit it. They’re all goody-two-shoes anyway. But back to my point.

I spent most of the day Sunday working on short stories that I intend to have published. They’re all works about my dog, Foster, written expressly for young children. They are all a bit formulaic, but when it comes to children’s stories I think they have to be to a certain extent. So I went to Borders and bought a wonderfully confusing, 1100-plus page book called “Writer’s Market 2o09”. You see, I want to find a publisher, start sending off manuscripts in the hopes that someday I’ll stumble into a bookstore and see the cartoon version of Foster and myself staring back at me. My dears, that’s what dreams are made of.

But back to my point. Again.

I can admit it. Fine. But isn't there a pill for that?

I just wanna bang on the drums all day

2009-01-25T18:40:00.000-08:00

WEEK 2

So this blog is intended for us all to introduce ourselves, right? Good. Hi, my name is Jessie and some days I feel like I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. Some days writing is just another chore, and something that some days I abhor doing. And sometimes I just love using non-traditional words, such as abhor. Admission is the first step to recovery, right? Also good. In an attempt to better grasp the totality of this class, I took part in the Jenbe ensemble’s meeting on Friday night
As I began to explore the service learning option for this class, I saw that I was the only student from Mary Ann’s class to show up so soon. Perhaps I misunderstood and showed up way too early. I’ll just leave and come back next week, I said. But I was eager to see what this Jenbe thing was all about, and the parents, instructors and children opened up their world to me as though I were the Pope. As I sat down in the circle to begin the evening’s classes and drum/dance practice, I realized that there is much more to the world of Jenbe. It’s not just Jenbe drums and dancing, though those were pretty impressive too.
Since I walked in a little late and stumbled onto a lesson, a speech, given by one of the leaders of the ensemble, I jumped right in without stopping to think about what I was in for. The speech was about respect: what the word means and how each of us can live the word every day. I think the term respect can be applied to us as writers and strangers who are imposing on the Jenbe world as well. Though there were some aspects of the classes I did not understand (more on that later if time permits), I sat quietly and listened to the voices of the teachers and students as they discussed non-violence. Every student got a chance to define the word, and though I was surprised at how many of them claimed to have had no idea what the term meant, I was impressed that a discussion of such a concept was introduced to and discussed with these middle-schoolers. Regardless of whether they knew the definition of the term or not, it was still discussed openly, and students began to get the gist of what non-violence means. If anyone is on the fence about joining the ensemble, I can vouch for its overall coolness. I have even thought about bringing some friends along, and I can’t wait to show up again – sweatpants and gym shoes this time, though.
Now, on to new business. I was especially taken with the readings for this week, and more specifically what Peter Elbow had to say. Even though I find the last name of Elbow to be quite odd, I do recall reading some of his work last year. Because of the name most likely, because I can’t remember a word of what I read – what I do remember is that I really agreed with his ideals, and appreciated how he worded them. Though I have always used terms that would equate cooking with writing, I just loved the heck out of how he put the idea. Ideas are constantly simmering somewhere on the stove of our minds – a lot of the time, our personal writings are left on the back burner. Some ideas would never seem to work together (like putting salt into a cookie recipe. As a child, I refused to add salt when I baked them, and wondered why they never turned out like Mom’s), but oddly enough they come together if you just bake them together properly. It’s all a matter of daring, and of chemistry.

Take a deep breath!

2009-01-17T11:00:00.000-08:00

Oh my gosh, grad school. I'm here, I have arrived. And I am scared stiff. Moreover, I'm unsure if this, here, at this time is the right choice for me. Now, where did I put that damn panic button? I'm sure it's around here somewhere. Yet another thing for me to search for, as if my true path wasn't enough. But then, what is the "true" self anyway? Some damn thing Buddha made up most likely.

But - continuing on, if I have learned anything over the course of my undergraduate work, and into the beginning of my graduate studies, it is that "truth" and "self" are hard to find. And it's likely that those qualities are more slippery than anything else, because those ideas are so plastic: constantly shifting, changing and being reinvented by my subconscious. Truth and self are much like a flying fish - slipper and damn near impossible to catch. Hence, the flying fish bistro. What would I even do if I ever get to that utopia of complete knowledge of who I am, what I "want", which is such an all-encompassing term that I don't think I can get my mind around it anyway.

I read somewhere once someone's personal viewpoint of knowledge, and it still bounces around in my head when I'm having trouble with the fact that the more I learn, the more I understand that I know nothing at all. This author/deep thinker wrote, "My personal feeling is that once we know everything we need to know in this lifetime, our time here is done. After that, we die." That thought is both a comfort and a curse because (yay me!) I realize that I know only a very small percentage of what I feel I should, and I have a long way to go throughout the course of my life. The curse is that this thought sneaks up and taps me on the shoulder at different points, when I am in doubt, or I think perhaps thoughts, actions, ideals are nothing more than an exercise in futility: What is the point of all this? All this education, all these deep thoughts, all of these dives into the icy waters of self exploration?

The answer? Ha! I don't know. But my theory is that we of the word obsessed, language obsessed, thought-oriented minds are reshaping, rethinking and rewording what it is that defines "us" as a whole. There are those around us who don't question much, and who are content to sit around, play golf or the Wii and not worry about what our reality really is, and what "it" is all about. These blissfully ignorant people can sleep at night and feel that their work is important, and they probably have some feeling of satisfaction. I wonder what that feels like. Don't get me wrong, there are times when I have a EUREKA! moment and think I have grasped what it is to be a person, contributing completely, to this world at this time, and that I may have something important to say about what surrounds us. In that moment I am Yeats, I am Morrison, I am Angelou. I am a social commentator of the utmost import.

But then that moment pops like a cartoon speech bubble and I fall back into the abyss of nothingness. Though, I think I misspoke there. Nothingness suggests futility, and gives the idea that I have given up on these ideas that swirl around in my head. That is something I have not done - I just haven't figured out how to articulate, organize, or put these contemplations to use in the most effective way.

My hope is that grad school is a good venue for the organization of these thoughts and contemplations, but I still have my reservations that perhaps this fight is a futile one. I am keeping an open mind.