Playful Mind . . . Playful Body

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

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 . . .

. . . 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?

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

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

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

Step Away From The TORNADO, continued.

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".