Can atheists have guardian angels?

I have an Uzbek Guardian Angel. It’s super bizarre. On New Year’s Eve 2003/2004, I hooked up with a cute boy from Uzbekistan, who looked like our friend Chase. Some may argue I made out with him because I had a secret crush on Chase. I argue Maker’s Mark. Anyway, I was in NY for the weekend, we hung out, I came back to Portland. The UGA and I chatted on email for a few months and then trailed off. I mean, seriously, even I can’t get too entangled in a 48 hour “relationship”. Then, the summer of 2005 hit and Miguel broke my heart. The story of Kwame arriving on my doorstep that fateful summer can be read here. But, in addition to that, the UGA sent me an email out of the blue. A year and a half since we last wrote. We replied back and forth everyday until I was finally able to come out of my black space and recover some sparkle. Then *poof*! He stopped emailing. This past Spring, when Orange and I ended, the UGA appeared in my inbox again. We chatted for a few weeks, made plans to see each other in NY, I wasn’t able to and we just fell out of touch again.

I’ve been in a bad head space lately. No one particular reason. Just struggling a bit. And a week or two ago, I get this in my inbox:

Happy upcoming holidays!
Where in the world are you nowadays?
Cheers,
Uzbek Guardian Angel

Hey UGA! You always show up at the right time! Do you really exist? Or are you another figment of my fractured reality? I’m still in Portland. Finishing school and super broke. Sorry I missed you last time I was in NYC, but you know how it goes. What’s up with you?
Sparkles,
Wendyrella

Dear Sir, Madam, or Machine, I am on vacation in St. Kitts until the 29th of December.
UGA

I now see your evil plan...you only emailed me so that I would get your automated "gone to the islands, sucka!" message. nice. thanks.
W

Man, I e-mailed you weeks ago, when I would've commiserated with uneventful sucky life! Now I decided to take matters in my own hands.
Anyway, I'll have a more full response when I get back. Enjoy portland, sucka :)
UGA

I didn't say he said nice things to me...

The most wonderful time of the year

Much love and sparkles to my party co-hosts!

Silver and Gold 2006

This party means so much to me. It's a tie to an old life in Philadelphia, in which I was part of the princesses three, and we threw a grand event to celebrate ourselves and our friends. But truly, it was just an excuse to wear a tiara and feel slightly more legitimate. We weren't debutantes, but we threw a hell of a party. In year two, the phrase, "Give me back my tiara bitch!" was sincerely uttered. And by JenJen, no less. Needless to say, it has been repeated often.

When I moved out left, I abandoned many parts of myself. Some good, some bad. Leaving behind the princess party was something I regretted. Thankfully, an amazing little princess himself, who had once orchestrated a similar party, thought we should team up. And glamour was born.

Portland is so cool in many ways, but dressing up and being fancy isn't really on top of the priority list. Which most days is fine. But sometimes, just once a year, it's nice to pull the glitter and glam from the closet and come decked out! No costumes, no themes. Just champagne, Toys for Tots and amazing love in friendship.

The past two years have been evolving. Our traditions are being tested. But this one stood up tall. And rained down some amazing sparkle!

Until death do us part

I doubt most married couples laugh as much or as hard as the faux husband and I do whenever we are together.

(please note our unintentional color coordination, which I didn't realize until I saw this picture)

Ruiner

5’6”

Wendyrella in boots.

That’s what we marked on the kitchen column, while drinking champagne, and waiting for turkey.
My boots immortalized, along with me, until a coat of white paint.
Later, alone, and down to the end, we couldn’t get them off fast enough. You ripped the zipper apart and threw the boot to the side.
“That can never be fixed”, I thought for a millisecond, “but I have others”.
We broke those two months later.

I just bought new ones. Images of you/me/us were in my head while I tried them on. I blushed. This is the first time I can recall being sad that a new purchase will not be destroyed.

The Cheat is grounded!

I have a terrible habit of eradicating electronic communications from people I date, so as not to obsess later. It's the slight argument for letter writing, they feel more special and less easily destroyed. But emails and texts quickly go to DELETED! (didn't even intend to make a strongbad reference there, in this homestar based post, huh)

anyway, The Cheat has been in my head lately for lots of sentimental reasons. I was promised my very own one. However, I lost proof of that. But, I thought it might be nice to have these handy.

go forth and enjoy his work!

here.

and most importantly, here

Prison of the Rhythm

http://beta.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif
I first heard the Golden Palominos when I was working at Urban Outfitters in 1993. " This is How it Feels" was one of the few albums that constantly played that I didn't tire of immediately. The album is a conceptual interpretation of Graham Greene's novel, "The End of the Affair". A novel that reminds me of train stations, uncontrollable bleeding, and taking a chance on a boy. But that is a different memory. Instead, in 1993, this album helped me through so much, with thoughtful and compelling lyrics and vocals. It was at a time when music still spoke to the depths of my soul, and I thought it could save me.

A few nights ago, I posted lyrics from that album. There are days when I feel as if I am the only one who remembers them. But, in all things serendipitous, the Nursefusion was just advised to read Graham Greene. Which made me feel as if timing, life, the universe, the fluidness of reality was asking me to think more on this novel and this album.

Anton Fier and Bill Laswell did an amazing job with this project. Read the book, buy the album. Track five, "To a Stranger", actually uses the last sentences from chapters as starting off points in lyrics. It was one of the last times that an album just managed to blow me away, time after time.

In the height of being suicidal when I had already promised that I wouldn't do it again, these lines ran through my head almost daily:

a promise is a promise
until the time you break it
nothing is forever
when you can forsake it

The complete lyrics:

prison of the rhythm
used to be a habit
now it is the measure
sex the only pleasure

think you are an angel
put me through the whole hell
speed it up to love time
over like a sex-crime

dizzy from the fucking search I seek the love of God

I knew it when you told me
you meant it when you said it
I never could believe it
I really should forget it

a promise is a promise
until the time you break it
nothing is forever
when you can forsake it

dizzy from the fucking search I seek the love of God

it's just a reflex
just the soul text
sleeping and awaking
taking and taking
it's a hunger only skin-deep
another one I can't keep
I dream you are the lost part
blame it on a soft heart

I thought I could trust you
but I don't even want to
what's it even good for?
always out the back door

empty as a tin can
angry as a jealous man
working with the same plan
doing it all again

dizzy from the place I spend all day and night
trying to tell myself that I can get it right
turning the world into the middle of my bed
turning the world into the hold inside my

really just a reflex
really just the soul text
sleeping and awaking
taking and taking

dizzy from the fucking search I seek the love of God

synchronicity? serendipity? reality?

Today, I was reminded of Leni Riefenstahl for no apparently good reason. It's been about 10 years since I last saw a clip of one of her movies. And, I don't really know that I've thought of her since her death 3 years ago.

But this morning, she popped into my head.

Then, while researching movie times for my night out with Steve Sweet, I saw this . It offers no explanation, no synopsis. Is it about Leni Riefenstahl? Searches have left me cold. Is it a figment of my imagination?

I had a similar experience last year, when Wittgenstein and Spinoza kept turning up in the weirdest places, days after I had referenced them in my journal or in conversation.

I thought I was really clever when, on a terrible hallucinogenic trip, I was convinced I had invented Donnie Darkio and Mulholland Drive to explain my death dream sequence. But hell, if I invented Wittgenstein, Spinoza and Riefenstahl...I'm brilliant.

Here it is 3AM and I'm still wide awake

Here it is morning again
life unstoppable
I'd open my eyes if it were still possible
Just tell me why
tell me why
tell me why

There were days
when I thought we could
Don't know why
that was when no one does
There were days
when I did not dream
We could hurt this way but two can play
Twist the knife
twist the knife

Over and over and over and over
And over and over

It was in your voice
It was in your eyes
It was in your body
It was in the room
I could always feel it
It wrote my dreams
It stole my peace
It robbed my sleep

Here it is 3AM and I'm still wide awake
I think in circles and circles are hard to break
Just tell me why tell me why tell me why

Trust contains the seed of betrayal
But also of something higher beyond the fire
You're not the exception
it's the rule
You know any fool can just give it away
Can just give it away
twist the knife

Over and over and over and over
And over and over

It was in your voice
It was in your eyes
It was in your body
It was in the room
I could always feel it
It wrote my dreams
It stole my peace
It robbed my sleep

Some things are fragile and some irresistable
Some things are easy and some irreplaceable
Just tell me why
tell me why
tell me why

There were days when time could have stopped
When it was enough to be in your love
There were days
but those days are gone
Those days are gone
twist the knife

Over and over and over and over
And over and over

-all hail the Golden Palominos

Me and the boys

It may seem unnecessary to say that these photos are from Halloween, but you never can tell with peeps. *sigh* I still have the PPD (post peep depression - a symptom which occurs after any extended peep-centric event)

Me and Missy

I can't stand the rain. Yes, I understand that I live in the PNW, but the rain here is usually more of a constant drizzle, a misting, if you will. I don't even own an umbrella, I just throw on a hat. But it's been like Old Testament rain for the past few days. My basement is flooded and the service chimney in my room has become the soothing water treatment I've always wanted, for my back yard! I feel like I'm living in Alaska, as it's been dark since last Wednesday. And it doesn't show signs of stopping anytime soon.

My seasonal affected disorder shouldn't be kicking in for at least another 2 months. I have a feeling it will be a long winter.

I am trying to break your heart

and you apparently aren't taking the hint.

Over at Will's, he has a post "You had me at shut up and bite down", in which he asks readers to recount moments when they knew someone wasn't "the one". Reading through the comments made me sad, mostly because of the terrible things people we love are capable of doing. I considered commenting, because I'm obviously in the not having found "the one" category. But then I realized my problem is quite different. For me, people have done things that very clearly let me know that I was(am) wasting my time, but yet, I still tried(try) to figure out how to make it work.

examples:
1. I'm going to move back in with my ex-girlfriend, but I can still imagine marrying
you.

2. I'm going to move to LA, but I see us together in about 10 years. (I believe the
"after I try and fuck movie star wannabees and models" was implied)

3. If you move back from Portland I can't promise that anything will be any
different, but at this very moment I want you here.

4. I know I have an extremely small dick, but I'm still going to break up with you
first.

You all get the point. I'm realizing I'm pretty screwed.

Guess what?

I can hula hoop in my room. I discovered this last week when I was up til 5am on a Wednesday due to the normal nocturnal behavior, anxiety and general sleep disorder.

The boys were here, and it was awesome.

Non-Quinault Halloween was still pretty kick ass!

I have a heater in my room for the first time since moving to Oregon. Not sure if that makes me happy or sad, because it eliminates the need for a winter boyfriend.

I only have 5 more weeks of classes. Ever. Until my next degree. Next term, I teach the whole time. I graduate May 5th.

The peeps get more wonderful everytime I get an email. A peep storycorps project of sorts has been going on and for the past few days my inbox has been flooded with wonderful memories of peeps and the mystical spyann. Thanks T2 for arranging!

The kwammunist

The boys get here in a few hours. I can't explain how good it feels to know that after almost 5 years out on the left, the crazy ass nyc kids still keep visiting. It says so much to me about friendship and connection and most importantly, family. Because the peeps are my family. Always have been, always will. I wouldn't be here or anywhere if I didn't have such an awe inspiring group to feel protected and loved by.

On the way to the treehouses a few weeks ago, I was telling Mary that I remember the first time I met almost all of my current friends. I remember a lot, but first meetings in detail, not always. Yet, I do remember the first time I met everyone I consider family. I didn't know we would be friends. Hell, some of them, I didn't even like. But something about our meeting lodged itself into my brain and stayed there. In some cases, I even remember the moment I knew we would always be friends.

The first time I met Kwame, I was 22 years old. And he made me cry. I had gone with other friends, long gone in my world now, to see Kwame's band. And Kwame looked like a long lost friend, even down to the Seahawks shirt. The only difference being Kwame played guitar and Mosley played bass. And the music was amazing and brought me back to a place I missed. And I cried. I'm sure he thought I was crazy (I know he still thinks I'm crazy) when Ezra introduced us and I still had tears in my eyes. And there it was. We started seeing each other around and gradually became more than acquaintances, not truly friends yet. But, I always felt connected to him. And he always made me laugh. When he called me on my 25th birthday, to try and coax me from my studies and celebrate, I knew. I knew we had passed into a new phase. It's been 12 years since we first met, and our friendship has been through many phases, incarnations of another band or two, but I know he will always be there if I really need him. Case in point, 6 hours after finding out that Miguel cheated on me, Kwame appeared on my doorstep. 3000 miles away. I can't even begin to know what those days would have looked like without Kwame there to support me.

next up: the husband.

Hurry Up Please It's Time

'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'

I've had bits of "The Waste Land" rattling around in my head today. Not sure why. It feels like I am being admonished by my brain for not reading as much as I used to, for not reading enough poetry lately, for not thinking deeply enough. Or maybe it is a new form of procrastination? Perhaps I won't notice I haven't written my paper on Autism if I am rereading poems of my youth and researching references? Seems to be working. Still no paper written, but several critical analyses of The Journey of the Magi and Anne Sexton's "Hurry Up Please it's Time"read.

I used to think that the line, "Hurry Up Please It's Time", from Part II of "the Wasteland" was so haunting, as if the speaker were invoking death. I chanted it as a mantra throughout high school. It wasn't until college that I found out the reference refers to the closing call at British pubs. So much nicer than the calls here, which usually go something like, "finish your fucking drink and get the fuck out". Don't you think?

more inbox poetry

come over please
you just can't go around petting babies
i will never eat anything purple again, just to be safe, not even skittles
and by serial killer, i mean 5 cat having anal freak
so, the moral of the story is, never try.

Our rhymes are so bionic

can someone PLEASE tell this talentless hack that she will NEVER be these ladies?

JJ Fad - Supersonic

glitter. rinse. repeat.

treehouse - I'm from barcelona



Misty and Kevin got mawwied! Among the treehouses. It was undeniably one of the best weekends of my life. Watching a couple you love so much and know are so right for one another is amazing. And getting to be part of "bridesmaids" hula-hooping with full bottles of champagne under the stars is magical. My jaw and abs still hurt from laughing. I'll post pictures later.

borrowing

I'm stealing this from Charles. Go read him, he's much more eloquent. And he has a heart to match no other. It sums up how I felt at the time he wrote it.* And how I hope to feel always. Much love.

"And we're here and fucking vibrant as hell despite the shakes. the stunted wondering how the fuck it is that we've come this long and no one dares call it in anymore. not that we ever did (though i might have once or twice). nor that we ever will as our long teeth approach. as our hair grows thin and our pants fall short.

Because this is fucking friendship.

This is fucking kin.

Perfect miscreants stumbling in and out of the shadows screaming something about beer and tits. firestorms. love and controversy.

And i'm better than ever in the thick of it."

*I was going to post this before the treehouses, but didn't. Because I knew it would sum up this weekend perfectly as well. And probably many others. I am SO lucky.

Swiss Family Robinson style

I get to go here in two days.

I know I come off as super debbie downer alot on this blog, but my life is usually fantastic. and I appreciate all of you who contribute to that!

so, I'm not even going to lament the cancellation of halloween in quinault, my brother's dog's death, or my postponed haiti trip. Or I am, but I'm going to remark that life is give and take.

And then, I'm going to go reread "The Alchemist"

For every door closing, there is a treehouse waiting.

Let's go dancing in the light

The harvest moon is tomorrow (Friday, October 6th). I love full moons in general, but I am constantly in awe of the harvest moon. Since moving to Portland, I’ve been amazed at the views I’ve had of it. Two years ago, on Hawthorne, buying costumes for Halloween, I stopped along with everyone else on the street to look at the most beautiful, low, pink/orange moon. A rare time when strangers all share a moment of beauty.

I recently bought a woodcut moon tarot card from an artist friend. I bought it because I feel affinity to the moon, and because I really liked his interpretation. I don’t know much about tarot, but I liked this description of the moon card from wikipedia:

"Have you ever lost the familiar to find, in its place, a world so extraordinary you can't even grasp it? This is the experience of the Moon.

Most of the time we live in a tiny pocket of normality that we wrap around us like a security blanket. We turn our backs on the mysterious universe that waits outside. From time to time we may sneak a peak with our imagination, or venture out through fantasy or expanded awareness. We can be thrust out there unprepared through drugs, madness or intense experiences such as battle.

The Moon is the light of this realm - the world of shadow and night. Although this place is awesome, it does not have to be frightening. In the right circumstances, the Moon inspires and enchants. It holds out the promise that all you imagine can be yours. The Moon guides you to the unknown so you can allow the unusual into your life."

Go out and experience the extradordinary...

only 22 more days

I just found out that the husband and kwame are coming West to Halloween! 200 peeps in the lodge in the woods! I heart the holidays!

We are all connected by glitter

“Does anyone have any extra glitter? Mine’s up the hill, in my tent.”
“Of course, it’s always in my bag.”
And that’s how I met Orange. Who couldn’t have a crush on a boy who carries glitter at all times?
Our relationship may have been many things, but it was always sparkly.
I just received a belated birthday gift from him in the mail. Beautiful woodcut Asian cloud prints for my room. Accompanied by a mylar and glitter card, wishing me sunshine and love.

The beautiful thing about glitter is that it stays on, even when you cry.

My Ancient Chinese Secret

So Friday night, I was in my PJs. But around 10:30, I decided I was rammy*. I put on clothes and went to meet Seb. While we were listening to some amazing DJ, Seb went up to someone at the bar and said hello. I couldn't see the person he was talking to. He returned and asked if I knew the other person. "um, yeah. last time we saw each other/first time we met, we made out and then I ran away". I subsequently called Orange, told him I hated subtacular kissers and that I missed him. We got back together as a result. But, I digress. So, after I told Seb the story, I felt that I should go say hello to the other boy (Boy A). Except, I didn't know which one he was. I didn't remember. I narrowed it down to two, picked one, and danced on over. I asked his name, ready to explain. But, it wasn't him. It was someone else. Who now thought I was interested. I ended up bringing him home, because, ya know. The next morning, as we were reviewing the evening's events, he asked me if I had ever met Boy A, because "he's really cool". I didn't have the heart or courage to explain.

This is not the first time that mistaken identity has gotten me busy.

*rammy = rambunctious tied in with trouble making and shenanigan seeking, just in case you didn't know.

27 is the new black

My last 3 boyfriends have all been my age. A formula that clearly has some flaws, as evidenced by how those relationships turned out. And so, in an effort to mix it up, I've been hooking up with 27 year olds. An age that I feel pretty close to. Yet, I did some math which really frightened me at the "when I was 21, they were 14". Does that make me like Wooderson?

Today's topic

Bad poetry written by a 22 year old...

It's the air that brings it back
The smell of Halloween
I used to be crazy
Do you remember?
It was raining
And the road was full of leaves
And my anger hit
Like warm breath during the first cold snap

...written to commemorate my first serious suicide attempt, the October I was 19. But, I'm never sure if that was accurate. I had pathetically attempted that August, with OTC drugs. I ended up asleep on my bathroom floor til noon. And two weeks before the "serious", I tried to slit my wrists. I even knew the secret, but I was too much of a wimp to go deep enough. And I was drunk. Essentially, I ended up having to bring wrist bands back way before their time. Or scaring unsuspecting gas station attendants when my sleeves pulled up. No, this was the first time that included charcoal and hospitalization. The latter one gets more press, but this is the one I remember. And I feel a small twinge when the air starts to change, like it did last week. But, I am reminded how strong I am now, even in my moments of despair. This is the one that empowers me. It's good to acknowledge, and then move on.

one would think

when having sleeping issues, revolving around nightmares, perhaps watching Buffy is not a good idea. Especially, this episode, featuring this guy.
however, I think I have a shot at the 18 year old video store worker who was impressed by my Buffy knowledge.

Magic ipod

Miguel had me do this a few months ago. It's like magic 8ball, but with your mp3 player of choice. Put it on random, and ask the following questions. No cheating. I decided to do it for my CD club mix. here's mine. If you want a copy, let me know. Or if you do it, let me know your results.

How does the world see me?
Float On - Modest Mouse
"And we'll all float on ok"

Will I have a happy life?
Naïve Melody (cover) – The Arcade Fire*
“And you love me till my heart stops
Love me till I'm dead”

What do my friends really think of me?
Dear Prudence - The Beatles
“The sun is up. the sky is blue. it's beautiful. and so are you."

Do people secretly lust after me?
License to Confuse - Sebadoh
"i'm not attractive today. i'm not a sight for sore eyes."

How can I make myself happy?
Get Right – JLo (feat Fabolous)
“Can't a woman take advantage of what she wants?”

What should I do with my life?
Let Go – Bugs (feat Storm Large)
“consider the possibility of wasted opportunity…free yourself, let go”

What is some good advice for me?
Sacrifice – The Roots (feat Nelly Furtado)
“I tell you one lesson I learned
If you want to be something in life
You ain't gonna get it unless
You give a little bit of sacrifice
Ooohh, sometimes before you smile you got to cry”

How will I be remembered?
Hey Now Now – the cloud room
“or we find a new reason, a new way of living
and we breathe it in and try to dream again”

What is my signature dancing song?
Starry Eyed Surprise – paul oakenfold
“I can do anything
Freaky deaky, star speckles and pink butterflies”

What do I think my current theme song is?
Moon Over the Freeway – The Ditty Bops
“It's warm, my favorite song comes on
Let's roll the windows down and drive
It feels like summer is a comin' round the corner
Here she comes”

What does everyone else think my current theme song is?
Close Your Eyes – The Chemical Brothers (feat Magic Numbers)
“In your eyes I can see that you're cracking up.
In your eyes I can see that you fell in love
and it pains my head”

What song will they play at my funeral?
Angels – Jacques Gelee

What type of men/women do I like?
Detroit Has a Skyline – Superchunk
“I had a crush,nothing works out”

What is my day/night going to be like?
Water - Dinosaur Jr.
"What will you let it do to you?"

What one thing could I not live without?
Planet Earth – Duran Duran
“Only came outside to watch the nightfall with the rain”

* I included the original Talking Heads version in my CD, because it's the better version, but I was playing by the rules...

Reality

Remember it's not real

More Ghost Stories

7 years ago, I had my last severe break down. And I survived it. Mostly, I survived because 7 years ago today, another friend did not. He opted out. And we were all left behind, dealing with our demons. The night of the wake, we got drunk. Pop Pop cornered me, tears in his eyes, and yelled at me. He told me that we couldn't go through this again, that I wasn't allowed to cause this kind of pain. The week after the funeral, I took off across the country, trying to run away from my head. I ended up back in Philly, locked in own suicidal thoughts. But, I had to figure out how to live. Because, for the first time ever, I truly knew what it would do to others. And I decided that my misery was nothing compared to causing it to others who simply loved me.

I fought and I won.

I think about him alot, because I owe him my life. And I feel so sad that I could not return the favor. I hope he found the peace he needed.

Who ya gonna call?

About 12 years ago, I moved into an apartment that I was convinced was haunted. For the first few months I lived there, every couple of nights, I would wake up with the feeling that someone was in the room with me. They would sit on top of the covers and I’d be unable to move. It would last a few minutes, or a seeming eternity.
At first, I was terrified. But then, it felt soothing as this “ghost” sat on my bed and rubbed my back.
It eventually stopped and I moved, leaving the ghost behind.

Doing some research, it seems what I experienced is known as sleep paralysis. Looking back, it stopped when my addiction to sleeping pills started. About a year ago, I experienced it again. But, this time I knew the cause. I had taken too much 5htp and couldn’t get out of REM sleep. It wore off, my normal sleep patterns (lousy as they are) returned.

That is until this past August. Starting with a housesitting gig and continuing when I moved into my new house, I’m experiencing it all over again. Except this time, the “ghost” isn’t rubbing my back, but rather trying to steal my soul. I’ve had four really intense episodes, which left me wide awake for hours waiting for the dawn. I try to explain it rationally away when it happens, but it’s scary and nightmarish. I feel a bit like I’m cracking up, and not in the usual wendyrella way.

So, if I start asking if you are the gatekeeper, call Bill Murray please.

Beyond Beliefs

We didn’t have cable. Just crazy bad network TV. Which was ok with him because he only really watched PBS and Discovery anyway. One night I let him in on my secret interest. I kept apologizing, he told me he liked it. A few days later, I was in the kitchen when I heard him say to my roommate, “Watch this.”

Him:“Hey sweetie, can you come in here?”
I walked in to see a woman talking on the television. There was no name under her.
Him: “Honey, who is that?”
Me: “Elaine Pagels. I love her.”
Him to my roommate: “I told you she would know. isn’t that cute? She has a favorite biblical historian that she can recognize on sight.”

I miss him. More than I thought I would. More than I should. But I was most real with him, more real than I’ve been with anyone in a while. And he was more influential than anyone probably knows, or that I would have guessed when we first got together. he’s why I’m in educational boot camp now, doing it with both feet in it. I’ve said it before, but being a grown-up is hard. It’s all about timing and maturity. And finding someone that you can let in on your dirty little secrets.

It's so fun. why stop?

When I was the tender age of 22, I moved in with an old friend whom I hadn't spent much time with in the years leading up to this point. The first night that we lived together was a circus of hilarious events including many strangers (to both she and me) arriving at the apartment at various hours of the night after much debauchery. I then had to leave the shambles and the people behind and be at work at 8am the next day. I called her to apologize for arriving into her life like a hurricane and promised, "it won't always be like this."

this past weekend, after turning 34, I called her and said, "I finally realize it will always be like this."

Thanks to all who celebrated with me in reality and spirit this weekend. It was a great reminder that I will never grow up, I really don't want to, and that I still believe my friends have more fun in a day than most people do in a lifetime.

Soap box derbys and millions of champagnes. What could be better?

kettle black

I hate when people don't update their blogs. what are they doing? do they have lives?

I am still internetless at home, so all of my midnight smary wit or pathetic whining has no place to go. And I have been camping, and have a visitor in town, and started educational boot camp again this week.

but, hopefully soon, I'll expel some of the trapped in my head stuff that's been going on. I know you can't wait!

for now, I leave you the tidbit of my "car accident" the other day. Once again, I got rear ended at a red light. If you've ever driven in Oregon, you'd know that this is actually quite lucky and by all accounts I should have been crumpled many times over by drivers "who flaked it", or were busy looking at butterflies while turning, or stopping dead to let someone cross the highway. Yes, everyone driving IS high. Anyway, no damage to the exterior of the car. But, I was just taking a sip of a brand new diet pepsi. This is what happened to the interior.

Hey kids! Are you ready to be disappointed?

I've been a mini-vacation fool lately. After Napa, T2 and I headed to Astoria to look for Goonies. We didn't find a treasure, but we got to do some wonderful people watching. And I got a bartender to agree to spearhead my campaign for skeeball *in bars.

The more exciting part was our trip the next day out to Cape Disappointment. We got to see lots of creepy old structures being overrun by nature. And the views from the top were amazing. It was a wonderful getaway.

Looking forward to the next few weeks with Dorothy. Skamania and Tillamook await. I heart summer! Hope you all are having fun!

*unrelated, but my new basement would easily fit a classic skeeball machine. just sayin'

Disneyworld of Wine

The fabulous Nursefusion and I just got back from a free weekend in the lovely Napa Valley. As guests of her office, the trip was a bit more structured and corporate than either of us truly are. It's interesting to experience how the upper middle class defines luxury. I'm always amazed by other people's aesthetic. We're hoping to plan a trip back that involves more bikes, smaller vineyards and authentic experiences. But, even with all of the fat old men golfers in Hawaiian shirts, I had a terrific time.

And I'm lucky we got there at all, what with both of us being singled out at two airports. We were puffed, searched, swabbed and checked luggage inspected. Hope they enjoyed the dirty underwear...

I feel safe!

Text Message Inbox Poetry

I will put pants on then
Only take cash for babies
I will eat the shit out of those fries
I am sparklebiscuit
So much beauty in this world…
Deez nutz!
))<>(( forever
synchronicity is consuming me
I love you!

no real internet

sorry kids-

i'm currently housesitting without the internet. i love you eric and always welcome your shenanigans! i'm just uninspired to post from coffee shops. plus, i've been soaking up some sun! that said, i'll try and put something up soon...

No one cares but me

or serendipity.

for about the past two years, I have had this dancehall song stuck in my head. I don't know where it came from*, but I hear it from time to time in my head and in places where I can't ask about it. I once tried singing it to Orange, but it didn't come out right. Tonight at a house dinner with friends, it appeared as a small sample on a track in the background. I dropped my fork, and asked for the CD case immediately.

I now have a name and a direction, but have had no immediate gratification online as of yet. meaning...it exists, but not in a $.99 cent way, downloadable way. that's ok. i'll figure it out. but, you know, if any of you have "bam bam" by sister nancy lying around, help a girl out.

*given that this song is from the 80s, and i was indoctrinated to serious dancehall in 92, it could have been on a long ago misplaced tape from my jamaican co-worker. he is also responsible for my love of the track, "kill the bitch".

confusion

hey y'all -

looks like someone is not only stealing my id, but also that of nursefusion. so, some of the recent comments from either she or i aren't really from she or i. and now, i'm confused because i am not so sure i know the identity thief anymore. which means it went from being funny to just feeling icky. maybe i'm just tired. so, if I do know the man behind the curtain, please send me an email and let me know. if not, i'm not really sure what to do.

Old School

Wow. I pulled my first academic all nighter yesterday/today. In the past, if I wasn't prepared, I just skipped class. That would explain 14 years of undergrad. I've never understood the designer roommates and friends that stayed up all night, half of the time in kinkos, and then went to all day classes and crits. But, I pulled it off somehow. Shower at 5:30am. 45 minute nap. 8 hours of class. Then drinks on an empty stomach. And I feel like I've completed some missing rite of passage. Sorry to anyone who had to deal with me after the drinks...you are the best roomies!

Oh, What are you thinking of?

hmmm...
So, I've been busy with school lately and neglectful in my posting. Thankfully, one enterprising reader has posted in the comments section as me. Sweet. I may just turn over the password for a while and let him blog for me. He hit it right on the nose about thinking and feeling (minus the elbow ability), though I doubt I would have made the Divinyls* reference.

also, since my post about anonymous commentors, the anonymous comment spam has been ridiculous. Does spamming actually work? I may have to turn on the verify function, but that seems like a pain in the ass.

I'll try and come up with something to tell you in the next few days or so. Perhaps my SWF commentor will fill in during the interim.

*btw, did you know the original bassist from the Divinyls was from Air Supply? I find that fascinating and disturbing.

It really is a bad neighborhood in here

I am operating on very little sleep today. busy bee at school made worse by a motivational lack earlier in the week. anyway, just to remind you all how really fucked up my brain is, i'll share my thoughts from a few minutes ago.

me to myself: ah, warm fuzzy, people read my blog.

me: hmmm...is this most current anonymous posting from A or T? (yes, I could have done T&A, but give me some credit)

me: funny, how everyone chooses to remain anonymous.

me: fuck. what if other people think i sit and write comments to myself so that i don't look pathetic and sad with no friends?

love,
tyler durden

Do as I say...

Yesterday, Misty and I were discussing the validity of asking advice from those that seem so much worse off than you. As I have said before, my life is serving as a warning to others, but sometimes I do make good rally speeches. I sent this to someone a few days ago, and actually amended its tone for someone else today, so I decided to share. Mostly because I was over being Debbie Downer. Make it applicable to you.

So what if your MFA is indulgent? It strikes me that you are not indulgent enough. Spoil yourself. Allow yourself to do something that causes you to leap out of bed on Monday, frantic and excited. Invest in your soul and
your intellect (which in turn will invest in your other relationships). If you had told me a year ago that I would be in school full time and not working, I would have told you there was no way to make it happen. But being with orange really helped me see that it's ok to leap. And while you may think I am taking a practical direction, it doesn't feel that way. And I’m ok with that. I think doing something you want to do, whatever it is, will help position you for something better. You know how when you are really happy in a relationship, other people start hitting on you? It’s b/c you are putting out this amazing energy. I feel the same things will happen if you enter a scholastic environment you really love. You’ll attract
other opportunities. Will you finish and be a full time novelist? Maybe not, but you will position yourself for the next thing. And you'll have awakened a spirit that is suffocating thoroughly.

This is it. It sounds cliché, but we only get to do this once. Everything is fixable except death. We can DO anything if we allow ourselves. As someone commented on my recent post, "btw its pretty damn easy to forget that this experience is yours, you are the only one having it, and the only thing you can control is you and your experience."

Now, if I could just listen to my external voice, instead of the one that fucks me up all the time.

Paddling the school canoe...ooh, you better believe that's a paddling.

The kid emailed me and asked what happened to my entertaining misadventures. I don’t have as many without him, the kid could make the DMV impound lot fun. I think he’ll like this one.

I used to work in a weird industrial park. During walks at lunch, my co-worker and I would play “guess how many hypodermic needles we’ll find”. I usually took the over and won. One day, I was walking our normal loop alone. On what is normally a raceway, a man pulled along side me on a bicycle. It’s summer, and he is in layers. I wouldn’t say he was homeless, but if we were playing “your boyfriend!”, he would have been a good assignation.

MB (my boyfriend): “Do you need a ride?”

Me: “um, I’m ok. I’m walking.” And you are on a bike.

MB: “Because I think you are really pretty. I have a car I can go get. It’s just down the road.”

He points to the river.

Me: “really, it’s ok.”

MB: “Do you want to be my girlfriend? You’re probably married. Are you married? Do you have any friends that might want to date me?”

Me, back at my office on email: Dear Miguel, who says I don’t have options?

But wait, there’s more. Fast forward seven months to a ding dong. Our office required visitors to be buzzed in. The doorbell rang about every 2 minutes. Let’s just say, that no one was usually looking through the peephole.

Disclosure: I was the one who was supposed to be doing the peeping and I couldn’t be bothered.

MB: “Hi. Remember me? Are you still married? Can I use your bathroom?”

Me: “um, sure?” fuck.

Me to the office floor: “So, some guy who wants to date me is probably taking a bath in the men’s room right now. Anyone with snarky comments is going to feel some philly girl wrath. Oh, and can someone call security?”

Me, later on email: Dear Orange, who says I don’t have options?


(Kid, I miss you! Clerks II and Snakes on a Plane won't be the same without you. Maybe I'll invite MB.)

I read the DSM so you don't have to

I'm really trying to focus on perspective change, to remember that this is my experience. To listen to advice that I give others, which includes the cliched "this is our only chance, take advantage of it, be indulgent". I come in and out of it. I keep rallying back to the positive with a much quicker turn around time than I used to. But, it makes me feel as if I come across as bipolar II* (hypo-mania and depression) or insincere. And I know I need to stop caring. But when I continually act as one minute lar, next minute lar, it's no wonder I find it hard to sustain romantic relationships. In the past three days, I have sent Orange (the boy who is not Miguel) three very different text messages. All of them meant in sincerity at the time, but the sum total makes me look as if I am rapid cycling.

But, I just want you to know,gentle readers, that it is truly a function of me trying to readjust my view. With a healthy dose of hormones thrown in for good measure.

*I like to say that this knowledge comes from my psychopathology class last year. I like to say it, but...

Will the DSM V cover Sunday Dread?

Sundays belong to you or maybe they just belong to boys. Is it leftover from school? They are nights mixed with dread and anxiety and the desire to stay up late to prolong the inevitable. You are always leaving on Sunday or you were, until you left for good. But the Sundays you stayed, we retreated to the horizontal world, with wine and network dramas. I felt domestic, comfortable, together. Now, I am alone again. I feel insecure on Sundays. I feel insecure always. But you made me feel wanted & beautiful, if only for a second before my brain cast the compliment out.

not even SMRT

"Both of them suffer from the same problem. They stand poised, ready to come through for me, but never quite doing so. But I guess the problem is really mine, because I keep watching their stance, hoping."

- me, a few days ago.

damn. I have had so much therapy and yet, I'm constantly slow on the uptake. it's so obvious it pains me to admit. I stand poised. ready to come through for me, but never quite doing so. why should any one else?

seriously, how did this just occur to me?

I'm sorry that I haven't offered anything interesting or smart recently (or at all). I'm annoying myself.

Go read Fark or BoingBoing...

Just a memory without anywhere to stay

I first saw Neil Young’s Rust Never Sleeps when I was 8 or 9. My brother, who is 9 years older, had a habit of missing curfew and subsequently found himself locked out of the house on an almost daily basis. My parents’ plan for enforcing curfew was that we kids were only given a top lock key. Miss curfew and the bottom lock was engaged. Never a problem for my drunken brother, he just threw rocks at my window until I came downstairs and let him in. If anyone wonders why I am nocturnal, it’s because from 8 – 11 years old, I was accustomed to getting up at 2am and hanging out with my brother, usually watching concert videos. I would cuddle up beside my brother, breathing in beer and absorbing his attention. I learned to expound on why Neil Peart was the best drummer, how Asia wasn’t given the recognition they deserved and at what point the girl threw her bra onstage during Neil Young’s Cinnamon Girl. I regard these moments as the best part of childhood. I used to describe my parents as very nice people who let me live in their house. My brother was family. And for a few hours, late at night, I was allowed to be part of his world. He gave me advice and listened to me talk, without ever making me feel less than his equal, his peer.
On a visit to my brother a few years ago, we watched Rust Never Sleeps together. It was about 20 years later and I had stopped regarding my brother as a god. I think we had even had our first fight by now. But we curled on the couch, both of us with beers this time and I still remembered when the bra would fly onstage.
I just returned from seeing Neil Young’s Heart of Gold. It made me miss my brother. Yet it felt like home, hanging out in the dark with 40 strangers drinking beers, reminiscing with Neil.

dark on a sunny day

After my first post, I was asked why I refer to my attempts as just straight up suicides. I haven't answered the question yet. It's something I wonder if I can give words to exactly. I guess I just never liked the word "attempt". Suicide failure, maybe? Failures that I am grateful for now, but failures from the goal at the time, nonetheless. But honestly, always in my head just referred to as suicides. I could offer up that each one brought a death of some part of me. Even if that death was eventually of the suicide spirit. Each change or transition in life is always a small death. The truth is that I don't necessarily know why I consider them suicides. But apparently, I am in good company. Nursefusion sent this amazing link to me today which had this tidbit of an Anne Sexton interview. For the record, I've always admired Sexton as an artist way more than Plath. And that's probably not Plath's fault, but the way her death was romanticized at some point always felt detracting to my own inner turmoil. I resented her for making me feel like a silly, sad girl writer. Essentially, for exposing me.

"Often, very often. Sylvia and I would talk at length about our first suicide, in detail and in depth—between the free potato chips. Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem. Sylvia and I often talked opposites. We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric lightbulb, sucking on it. She told the story of her first suicide in sweet and loving detail, and her description in The Bell Jar is just that same story. It is a wonder we didn’t depress George [Starbuck] with our egocentricity; instead, I think, we three were stimulated by it—even George—as if death made each of us a little more real at the moment."

Try not to suck any dick on the way to the parking lot

Miguel asked me yesterday if I thought it was possible to still define someone in our age range as a slut. Having slept with him on Sunday and with someone else on Monday, it hit a bit close to home. He decided that it probably boiled down to intention. I debated that it depended on how the person defined it for himself. In either definition, I’m feeling like a slut.

I shouldn’t have slept with Miguel. We had a perfectly awkward rated G date on Friday that left me feeling as if we had never met before, much less been in love. When I woke up on Saturday and realized someone was in my bed, I felt disappointed that he wasn’t someone else. It was unbelievably depressing. So clearly, I let him spend the night on Saturday and slept with him. Why? A myriad of answers, none of them make any sense, except of course the one I gave to the other boy when he asked the question. “Might as well get off”.

I shouldn’t have slept with the other boy, but that’s entirely less complicated. I do stupid things. I am constantly throwing the drama dice and pretending that my emotional life is dictated by fate rather than by me. I always choose the immediate over the prudent. I like this boy who was only supposed to help me heal from Miguel. I like this boy because I want to win. I slept with him because I wanted to and it was important that he wanted to. And yet, I’ve now lost this boy. Because he shouldn’t have slept with me. Because even if I ever did win, I wouldn’t trust him. Because ultimately “might as well get off” applies to this scenario as well. For both of us.

So now, I’ve lost them both and am truly alone. For a year and a half, I’ve been falling back on Miguel emotionally, if only to express disappointment and anger. For eight months, I’ve felt a strange sense of comfort in the other one, even if it was false. Both of them suffer from the same problem. They stand poised, ready to come through for me, but never quite doing so. But I guess the problem is really mine, because I keep watching their stance, hoping.

Giving the people what they want

I was told last night that I still tell stories better in person and oh, there needs to be more sex in my posts. yeah well, at times, there needs to be more sex in my life. But since I'm currently having a "when it rains, it pours, but I still sleep alone" weekend, I should be able to comply. Once I figure out how to really convey my conversational humourist pathos into print.

Also, if any other ex-boyfriends want to get in on the action, show up on my doorstep now, before I write my piece. It'll save me time in the long run and I can go back to studying for school.

Joe Lies

"What ever you do, don't talk to Joe."

I'm picking Miguel up from the airport in an hour. huh.
A year ago, I thought I'd soon be moving to LA. Instead I stayed here, broken for months. Then healed, then truly happy. Yet now, I'm about to do what I did so many Friday nights before. Except it's all different. I have a feeling this is going to be one of those "in retrospect" moments.

Play in the Summer

I want to play in the summer
like we used to before
I want to sing in the sunshine
like we used to before
I want to play on the weekend
I want to play in the summer

by Trans Am from the album Red Line

I believe in the random ipod shuffle. It often gives me what I need, even when I don't know it. Or know that I have it. This song showed up today and seemed appropriate to the feel of the last two posts.

Ghetto Mermaids

On my bike ride home from school today, I saw a group of little kids playing under a garden hose. Squeals of excitement as cold water hit warm heads and limbs. Steam rising off the pavement, residual from yesterday's triple digits. A commingling of neighborhood children of all ages that only summer heat and boredom can pull together. As I approached, one pre-schooler, drenched in her saggy underwear, burst into a smile. "Hi!" she waved excitedly. I smiled and waved, while another offered, "it's so HOT!". Knowing what I was doing I said, "I know, but is the water hot?"

I was dry by the time I got home.

Perspective

Walking home from the library today, I heard a little voice yelling, “LEMONADE! 25 CENTS!” So, I crossed the street to purchase a glass, because Jen once told me it’s one of the few things adults can do to stay young. The miniature salesman was happy to see me. He offered to cut me a deal, by giving me a penny back. He joyfully poured the glass while telling me, “it’s not that good. It’s only kinda good”. Who says there is no honesty in the free market? I drank a sip or two (he was right) and wished him well with his business. He went back to yelling at the top of his lungs. As I walked away, I remembered the sidewalk chalk message I saw last night. Amid hopscotch and rainbows was a question.

“Is life good?”

more than a shoulder to cry on

Yesterday, I was on the phone with one of my favorite people in the world, who is in town for the weekend. He and his boyfriend just broke up suddenly after four years. Weeks before they were looking into adopting kids. He's pretty broken.

P: "I just need to go out this weekend. Maybe if I hook up with someone else, it'll help me start to heal. I need someone of the opposite sex to pay attention to me. Wait, I mean same sex, opposite from you. Hell, at this point, you'd be fine. You, T, or J. Does it matter? we're all friends."

me, crying tears of laughter: "That's the most romantic proposition for sex I've gotten in a while. hmmm..."

later that day...

me: "So, the boy who broke my heart last summer is coming to visit next weekend."

P: "Are you planning to sleep with him?"

me: "I'm hoping not to. But, I it's been about 2 months since I last had sex."

P, mischievous grin: "My evening is looking more promising."

I left early, haven't heard from T or J though.

My true love

So, the hippies have finally gotten to me. And I decided to do a detoxing cleanse. I decided that since I was embarking on a new phase of my life, it would be the perfect time. Now, I know that there are those of you who wonder how I could possible be separated from wine for 2 weeks. Or diet pepsi. But seriously, I've gone without those before. What's gonna kill me is the no salt component. No salt? for two weeks?

When I was in grade school, I used to volunteer to fill the snack pretzel bags in order to have access to the extra salt left in the box. I carry salt packets with me in case there's a salt crisis.

damn left coast influence. I need to go home.

I wish my name was Larry now

La La La Larry

Another fun thing about Larry was the sheer enjoyment we would get out of his name. One very drunken evening in our youth (as if there were other kinds), Tommy started singing all songs using Larry’s name for key words. Larry was not amused, which encouraged us all the more. To this day, whenever I hear the Bee Gees I am compelled to sing, “How deep is your Lar? How deep is your Lar? Because Lar really needs to know. We are living in a world of Lar…”


If you have a friend named Larry, I advocate trying this. Seriously, makes me laugh every time. But, then again, I’m easily amused.

I love it when you call me Big Pop Pop

Larry was a curmudgeon when we were 22. He would sit in the Archie Bunker chair and dispense his advice. I haven’t seen him in about 6 years, yet not a day goes by in which I don’t reference him in some way in my mind.

“It’s Ready for bed Lar”

This may also be said as “ready for work Lar” or “ready to dance Lar”. Insert your own name and talk about yourself in the third person. But seriously, it works when you don’t know how to tell people what you need or want to do. If you know Larry, it’s also a damn cute Barbie.

“I’m one minute Lar, next minute Lar”

For the manic-depressive, the confused, the bored, the indecisive in all of us. Try it the next time someone asks what you want to do tonight and you are torn between dancing and crying.

“Larry, you’ve gotta makka the moves.”
(said in Italian soccer coach accent)

Seriously, stop being afraid of decision making. Makka the moves.

Looking to the sky

Were most of your stars out? Were you busy writing your heart out?
If only you knew how easy it would be for you to say yes to both questions. If only you'd remember before ever you sit down to write that you've been a reader long before you were ever a writer. You simply fix that fact in your mind, then sit very still and ask yourself, as a reader, what piece of writing in all the world Buddy Glass would most want to read if he had his heart's choice. The next step is terrible, but so simple I can hardly believe it as I write it. You just sit down shamelessly and write the thing yourself. I won't even underline that. It's too important to be underlined."

-Salinger

It was a world...

In 1997, a film canister appeared in my mailbox. I pulled the tab which started with, "your mission should you choose to accept it..."

And so, the first peep scavenger hunt. A vision from two friends* to hopefully create a tradition, a reunion, a way to continually connect as our lives got busier. It's evolved, expanded, contracted, and multiplied to include the West Coast. Things keep changing, our worlds are moving on, but we keep rallying back to each other in order to keep the hunt going. When people look at my group of friends and feel wonder at our relationships, I credit the shared experiences at scavenger hunt. When your tribe of criminally insane, punk cave people has to plot to take down a group of insanely happy, robot chickens, you can't help but become closer.

*all my thanks to Toby and Chill. Happy Birthday Toby! Glad you'll be on my coast in a few hours.

We interrupt this broadcast

I'm having some problems with this. I was supposed to start blogging in order to shame me back into writing. Writing keeps me sane-ish. But, I stopped doing it with any regularity back in 1999. I feel that I have lost my voice. And I'm still not finding it. Mere tells people (and by people, I mean boys with the same name that she tries to pimp me to) that I am the peep oral historian. She's been encouraging me to chronicle. But, thus far, I'm a lousy ethnographer. Meet me at a party, and I'll tell you the peep lore, but I can't seem to figure out how to sit down and transfer it. I end up lamenting. Like now. And then I read other people who are much more articulate.

But, I'm not running away just yet. I thank you for your patience...

Can I get a witness?

So, last week I covered the whole 1st runner up issue. (and if I took the time to figure it out, I'd know how to hyperlink to "name that ex-boyfriend"). but seriously, can someone verify for me that if you break up with someone (and crush their heart) over 10 months ago, even if that someone is still trying to maintain a friendship for whatever f-ed up reason with you, you aren't allow to leave voicemails that start with "hey babe. I'll be in town in 3 weeks. hope to see you."?
do boy brains not intake as much oxygen as girl's?

p.s. not the ex-boyfriend from previously mentioned post.

p.p.s. I no longer feel any anger at above behavior. I just find it ludicrous.

p.p.p.s. I swear I will write about something/anything than boys the next post!

Haiti

A year ago today, I returned from an orphanage on the coast of Haiti. I'm hopefully going back in December. I can't believe I ever feel sorry for myself, but it is so easy to forget.

my journal then:

"we've had two full days at the orphanage. So many children. So many names. And I know that I do not have enough lap space, hands, fingers. To touch, comfort and hold these children. I had a gaggle of children following me, just contented to be in my presence, to sit in my lap, to tell me stories in a language that I do not understand. And yet, completely understand. They are children. Doing kid things, saying kid things. Speaking the language of children".

I'm gonna need a montage

I'm thinking of all the things I need/wish to change in my life.
fuck.
where the hell is the john hughes's 3 minute scene that gets me from pathetic point a. to awesome point b.?

every year, we pick a theme for the new year. This one has been a struggle to define.
so, i decided to steal kwam jamal's 2005 line:
"get awesome".
i'm 5 months behind...
I'd do better biting on his theme this year, "no fat chicks".

Name that ex-boyfriend

This was in my inbox a few days ago:

"just so you know i do think about you everyday. i wonder if you are gonna be the girl i always wonder about. sigh."

I could provide a list of suspects, but those of you who know, know that the answer would be

e. all of the above

one might feel flattered by such a sentiment, but all I feel is resignation. I have been hearing this for over ten years. I'm over being the 1st runner up. Either crown me with a tiara or vote me off before the talent competition.

I wanna rock right now

This time last year, I received a rejection from a small grad program. On the next day, my boyfriend moved away and decided long distance wasn't his thing.
Today, I was accepted to a program that I am really excited about.
I am taking a financial leap and quitting my job.
I get to think during the day!
I just hope my new intake of knowledge doesn't supplant the brain space that remembers all the lyrics to "It takes two" and "Joy and pain".
Which, if you doubt my ability to recite the lyrics, you can either schedule an appointment or I can provide a recent reference.

I sing the body electric

For context:

I am 33.
I have a BA in English Literature.
I lived within 25 miles of the Walt Whitman Bridge for 26 years.

Me to Dorothy circa 3 years ago: “Do you know how old I was when I realized that the Walt Whitman Bridge was named for Walt Whitman?”

Dot: “huh?”

Me: “I was like 16.”

Dot: giggle, escalating

Me: “And by 16, I mean last year. After reading it in the newspaper.”

Me: “Are you even able to breathe right now?”

Collateral Damage

I have a tendency to check out. Sometimes, I don't even recognize that it has happened. But, a calendar tells me that a month has gone by and I have no clean underwear. It is something that I'm working on, the ability to stay engaged and present in my day to day life, but it's hard.
I checked out pretty hard this past Fall. I was broken and sad. Unfortunately, I was also selfish and disrespectful. And I am not proud of some of my actions, or situations that I put myself in. And I was a terrible friend. And for that, I wholeheartedly apologize. I have no excuse. I hate to admit that I am fallible when it comes to friendships. But I do unintentionally hurt others sometimes.
I'm sorry.

for Zo, Teen, Mimicakes and Bear

The weather today is gorgeous. The right amount of high 80s, with no humidity. Something to be said for the Pacific Northwest sometimes. And all day, I was struck by how this is one of those days that adventure calls. Blue skies and fluffy Simpsons’ clouds beg you to succumb to them.
If it was still 1989, I’d have declared today a Ferris Bueller holiday. (benefits of a crazy mom, I was always allowed to skip school to work on my tan). I’d have been sitting in my 1972 green convertible VW bug, outside of my friends’ high school. Pony-tailed blonde hair, bikini and sunscreen already on, waiting for the girls to get out of class early for their respective doctor and dentist appointments, On-lookers would be hanging out the window of history class, jealous of our plan. 90 minutes of the Wonder Stuff, the Cure, the Godfathers and Shinehead later, we’d be mixing the vodka and crystal lite lemonade on the beach.
My penchant for nostalgia isn’t all bad.

shiny objects

I think too much. and I think too much about thinking too much. And I am constantly trying to figure out an acid test to determine whether I am just generally blah or if I need to worry about heading to the dark side of my brain again.

So, it's good to know that a day of feeling lost, schlitz cute, untalented, lazy and anxious can be erased by the following:

"sweet, I forgot I owned that wig."

on the day that glitter, wigs and boas fail to make me smile, I'll know I'm in a bad way.

With friends like these...

If you haven't figured it out, I have the most awesome friends in the world. Peeps that are there for me at every turn. For my most recent heartbreak, I was given a mix CD.

The first song was titled, "The rejection".
Here's the refrain:
"Stop crying, I don't want you.
You don't want to stop crying.
You want me, well --
I want to dance."

other songs included "you're crazy" and "promiscuous girl".

I fucking love my friends! all hail irreverence!

time heals, blah, blah, blah...

The last time I saw Smith, he was in town for work and we went record shopping. As we stood, flipping through albums, I asked him about past friends. We caught up on most peeps, and then I asked if he still spoke to his most recent ex-girlfriend.

Smith: "you know once I stop talking to someone it's final."

Me: "well, you eventually started talking to me again."

Smith: "i broke a rule for you. most people aren't as persistent as you."

Me smiling: "uh. huh. you call me every Sunday night like you call your mom. you're hanging out with me 3000 miles away. admit it, i'm your favorite. you love me. you can't live without me." (all of this is, of course, said in the voice of an annoying kid sister.)

Smith: "don't make me regret my decision."

Me making kissy face: "you love me."

Smith laughing: "wanna know why I stopped talking to you before?"

Benefits of silence

I learned a lot from Smith over the years. For example:

When playing trivial pursuit and the question regards occupation, answer prostitute, “because you can never go wrong with a hooker”.

Jamieson can not be substituted for the milk portion of ovaltine.

You can throw a sheet cake at someone in public and have them speak to you again.

But mostly, he taught me that sometimes you don’t get to know the answer. You don’t always get to know why someone loves you, no longer loves you, no longer talks to you, talks to you again You have to trust in what is/was and recognize that you may never understand the reasons, but that’s ok. You don’t get to ask the sun what it is thinking. Or you can, but it won’t answer. It will, however, keep shining just the same.

A laundry list

of seemingly random things that will make me sad for a while:

1. whiteboards
2. the cheat and light switch raves
3. birds (um, good thing they're not everywhere)
4. calvinball
5. orange
6. setting goals and achieving them
7. kitty chum

There are more. and time will heal, blah,blah,blah...
Saying goodbye to someone you want the very best for is never easy. I'm going to go feel the rain on my skin, because no one else can feel it for me.

I'm just sayin'

I have realized that my life can often be summed up by the phrase, "in retrospect, that probably wasn't a good idea."

or, stealing from despair.com

"It could be that the purpose of your life is only to serve as a warning to others."

If you're really listening
If you're awake to the poignant beauty of the world,
your heart breaks regularly.
In fact, your heart is made to break,
it's purpose is to burst open again and again
so that it can hold evermore wonder.
-Andrew Harvey


Julie sent this to me this morning (thanks Julie!) and it comes at a perfect time. Like I said earlier, I'm reflective in May, sometimes to my detriment. See, the problem is that often times, I miss the old me. Now, I'm certainly happy that I am not lying on the bathroom floor in the fetal position unable to go outside. But, I know that I don't FEEL as passionately as I once did. I used to be amazed. I miss the euphoria that comes with truly knowing beauty and pain. It's hard to say which came first, depression or being hyper-attune to the world. But the two went hand in hand for me. And now, for preservation, I hide behind walls and partitions, trying to protect my heart and my mind. Until I can learn to stay awake without killing myself.

One time, at crazy camp

The summer I was sixteen, a boy I had a crush on, leaned over and ran his hand up my leg. “Smooth. I like that.” From that point on, I have been vigilant to shave every day. I have been known to run into the bathroom in the middle of a date and ghetto shave in the sink if I even thought I was about to get naked with someone. I have also been known to do this when alone. I can’t handle having hairy anything. So imagine my horror when I discovered you can’t shave your legs in a psychiatric hospital. Apparently, when you are suicide watch, they don’t trust you with sharp objects, even if they are wrapped in pink plastic.

“When can I shave my legs?”

“You can’t.”

“Why not? It’s been over 7 days. I am going even more insane.”

“Well, you must not have really wanted to die if you are so caught up in your personal appearance.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Just because I want to be clean, I’m not suicidally depressed? Do you even have a degree? Um, not dead. So, therefore, would like to not be hairy. You at least owe me that. You really think I’m going to kill myself with a daisy razor? I’m not McGuyver. Hell, I can’t stand pain. I don’t even have scars from when I tried to slit my wrists. It hurt too much and I couldn’t cut deep enough. I am a wimp!”

“Well, you aren’t allowed to do anything unsupervised.”

“Fine, sit in the shower with me.”

“We can’t do that because it’s an invasion of your personal privacy.”

I’m the insane one? “Listen, I am by far the most cooperative and quiet patient you have in this lock-up. Wouldn’t it just be easier to let me shave and shut me up, rather than have me hound you incessantly until I’m released? Because seriously, I don’t have much else to do here.

10 minutes later, I am gloriously showering and shaving, occasionally sticking a limb outside of the curtain for inspection by the woman who was forced to sit outside the stall.

I may have been crazy, but I was silky smooth.

May Day

More cheating will occur in this post. May is a hard month for me. It marks my most serious suicide attempt. And no matter how far I get past it, I always get caught in nostalgia the beginning of May. In recent years, it's been a good time to assess where I currently see myself. This is an excerpt from a letter I wrote to the Philly Girls in 2004, on my 10 year anniversary. I think it is applicable to all of my friends, old and new, because it is because of you that I function.


"Essentially, I just wanted to tell you all how much I love you. This coming May is a pretty big deal for me for several reasons. Mostly, it would seem for my long awaited graduation from college. But, it's actually alot bigger than that. May 3rd will mark 10 years since my last suicide attempt. 10 years....it seems like a movie ago. This May also marks 10 years since I was supposed to have graduated from college. I like that it is such an even anniversary.

Anyway, I know that you all know that I have been doing really well. But, for those of you that want to play along at home, it's now been four years* since I have had a suicidal thought. That pretty much marks the longest I can ever remember going. In addition, I feel different inside. I feel ultimately calm at my center. I may have brushes with depression again, but I am no longer waiting for the other shoe to drop. Previously, when I was "good", I knew in my heart that it was only a matter of time. But now, it is totally different. And, I've tested it. Moving to Portland and then adding school has left me at my wit's ends on many days...but it hasn't left me devastated. It leaves me very hopeful for the future.

So, my upcoming graduation is even more special because I feel like it is the last remnant to be cleaned up from my depression. It has haunted me for years that if not for my conspiratorial brain, I would have graduated like everyone else. It felt like an even larger stigma and it was a constant reminder of where I once was in my life. And while I learned many things from my depressive periods, I'm certainly ready to get past them...they may contribute to who I am, but they no longer define me. I'm so excited, it's like paying off an abused credit card that reminds you of foolish choices.

Which brings me to all of you. I just need you to know that I am not sure I would have been able to do all this if not for your endless support and love. I know it has been less than easy at times, but you all stuck it out with me, constantly challenging and showing me alternatives. And while I may have seemed a stubborn bitch at times, I did absorb your lessons, your words of advice. Mostly however, I was constantly awed by your love. I don't honestly know why the chemicals in my brain decided to leave me alone, but I can't help think that it was in part to my fighting them with the knowledge that I was loved by my friends and that must be important (yes, I'm crying now).

I am reminded almost daily that what we have with one another and with our other friends is not common. It is admirable and wonderful and about as miraculous as anything we're ever going to get. so, I just want to thank you for being you. I'm looking forward to the new roads we will go down together. hopefully, it won't take me another ten years to get through a grad program!

I love you!"

*6 years and counting

Cartwheels on the beach

So, this post is technically cheating because I wrote it in 2005, but it's applicable to my last couple weeks with East Coast peeps. And I'm sick and not feeling creative.

Weekends like this are amazing. A sense of community that re-energizes my soul. So glad I picked this reality, yet still believing it's not real, not necessarily true. I am incredibly lucky to keep finding and intersecting with such talented, giving, emotionally available people. One of my favorite exercises now, is one that used to make me feel the most isolated. I love removing myself from the crowd, standing to the side and watching it all unfurl around me. Then rejoining, welcomed back in to it all as if I was never missing. But I was, I was in a quiet, zen moment. Like watching a silent film with only my mental comments and then, jumping through the celluloid and participating in the vignettes of reality. I never believed I would be here, in this world, so loved, so loving, so connected, so secure and centered. This peace, this serene, this me.

All Play

I want you all (the 2 of you out there) to tell me a story about your worst date ever. I'll go first.

I think the worst aspect of this story is that this terrible date was not a first date. We had actually been dating for a month. But then, I went to scavenger hunt and realized that my friends were more exciting when sleeping that he was on his best day. We had scheduled plans for when I got back. In retrospect, I should have just broken up with him immediately. Um, yeah. Instead, I tried to just get out of our plans. But when he protested, my Catholic guilt took over and I agreed to an early dinner. And here's where it all goes so terribly wrong.

Warning sign #1: He picks me up and informs me we are having dinner nowhere near my house. I said that I had to be at work early the next morning, and yet we are leaving the city (which apparently had no restaurants) to go to Manayunk (no offense Zo, just not what I had in mind).

Have you ever watched those couples at a restaurant where one person is talking incessantly and the other person is staring at you, telepathically wishing you would save them from their evening?

And then, he asks: “do you mind if we stop and drop off something before I take you home?”

Me: hell yes “um, again, have to get up early. Is it close?” (see catholic guilt)

Him: “30 minutes and I’ll have you home.”

Warning sign #2: for anyone in Philadelphia, we get on Roosevelt Blvd toward NE Philadelphia. I am in a car and now fully aware that there is nothing quick about this errand.

Warning sign #3: we eventually end up pulling into a Best Western parking lot. Huh, what? Worse, I see a sign announcing an open mic comedy night.

Me: “What the fuck are we doing?”

Him: “I have to give a check to someone and then we are out.”

Warning sign #4: we walk into a room of 50 guys and one other female. He hands over the check, I start walking out.

Him: “I have to run to the bathroom.”

Me: for some reason, I don’t ask for the car keys. No, I stay in the geek cave.

And for the moment you have been waiting for. While he’s in the bathroom, the MC yells from the stage, “hey red! What’s your name?”

Me: are you fucking kidding me? “wendyrella”

At this moment he returns, with a fucking beer! Not zero, not two, but one.

Me: “one beer???!!!!???”

Him: “you said you had to be at work early”

Me: I knew there was a reason I didn’t sleep with you!” clearly takes beer from his hand and drinks it.

Moment no one, most especially me, saw coming.

From the stage: “hey wendyrella, this next comic is going to make you get all soupy in your pants!”

OMG!

Him: “how does he know your name?”

Me: “because I fucked him while you were getting a beer. Can we fucking go?”

Longest. Car ride. Ever.

We pull up to my house, he tries to find parking.
Me: “What are you doing?”

Him: “looking for a spot.”

Me: “Yeah, you really think you are ever sleeping in my bed again?”

I walk in the house, tell Kwame the whole story, grab a beer.

Kwame: “and that’s the last we’ll be seeing of him!”

This post is useless without pics

Things I have done at East Coast Scavenger Hunts:

Had my picture taken by a stripper while I was wearing a thong, on the street, in broad daylight – not drunk

Asked the Astor Place tattoo parlor boys where I could get a cheap dildo while dressed in a plaid shirt, leggings and a “mullet” wig, after asking how much a mullet tattoo would cost – not drunk

Told a security guard I was a beauty pageant contestant while cutting through the Atlantic City Convention Center wearing a gold lame pant suit and a tiara – not drunk.

Left someone behind at the hotel the day after scavenger hunt, several hours away from the city, forcing him to go on his own “scavenger hunt” to get home– not drunk.

Held a beerbong to the lips of a dead deer while wearing a dickie – super drunk, but not my idea.

Four more days until East Coast Scavenger IX

Sunshowers

It was a beautiful Saturday in September. The kind with blue skies that beg you to follow them. Only I didn’t want sun, I wanted to hide. So he shuttered all the windows and turned on the shower. And we retreated half dressed, under covers, listening to the sound of rain on porcelain.

Position needs filling

I wrote these words to someone about six months ago.

"I'm losing the feeling of us, of you, of what that felt like. And so instead of intense pain, I feel a phantom pain from a lost limb. And I don't know which is worse. Because it bothers me that we can move to this place. This out of love place. Because this is where we truly let go, b/c I am letting go. And we won't know each other the way we used to. I can't decide which I would rather have. This new place is less painful, but it leaves me feeling cold. I know I'm not doing an adequate job explaining the philosophical tidbits of this. Because this isn't just about you and I, it's the larger picture. We forget people, we move on, we replace. It's what we do. We only look for people to fill the archetypal roles of "significant other".

And then I did it, I moved on. I replaced him with someone else, someone different, but someone who essentially fell into the pattern of relationship. Phone calls, text messages, emails were transferred from one to the other. And now that person is gone. And it occurs to me that I miss him more than I thought I would. But I think it's just because I am sick of this cycle. This is why I have been dubbed a "terrible breaker upper". It isn't because I can't let go, it's knowing that I can which devastates me.

Karma's a Bitch

Actual reasons I have broken up with someone:
- he changed the gears on my bike to a much easier setting when he borrowed it.
- he tried to do the "girlfriend grip" (hand on the back of the neck while walking, as if to guide the girl) on me.

Actual way I have broken up with someone:
- from a payphone outside of a mall because I wanted to hang out with Dorothy more than I wanted to go on this date. The conversation did indeed include the phrases, "it's not you, it's me" and "seriously, I'm insane". Insult to injury is that Dot & I then went to our favorite bar and he was there. We didn't speak.

Current dating status:
- single

That Disneyworld Feeling

I don’t like to look in mirrors. Because I’m never too sure what message my brain will be sending me, it’s just safer to judge my appearance by shadows and get on with my day. And I almost never look in a mirror when I am out in public, because really, there’s nothing I can do about how I look at that point, so why ruin the mood? Which is what makes my decision to stand in front of a full length mirror in a public bathroom in Disneyworld an anomaly. Just to set the scene, I am unbelievably hung over, unshowered, rained upon and wearing some odd combination of clothes because it was colder than anticipated. To my right is my roommate, also hung over, unshowered and wearing recently purchased Mickey Mouse sweatpants under her skirt because of said cold. And if I’m not mistaken, she’s wearing socks with sandals. And this was before moving to the West Coast. So there we stand, looking in the mirror, watching the people around us. The people who came to Disneyworld on purpose.* And as I take in their very tourist essence, I turn and say, “We look fucking awesome!” And I meant it. Because underneath all the alcohol sweat and mouseketeer wear, we were still the coolest people in the Park. So, whenever you are feeling Schlitz cute, I recommend heading to someplace that allows you to have that Disneyworld feeling. I’ll be at Walmart after work if anyone needs anything.

*My brother lived in Orlando for way too long and so, I inevitably ended up with many free passes to the Park. And seriously, not a lot to do in Orlando. Plus MGM is cool.

Heather, bulimia is so 87

It made sense to start with Smith. It enabled me to get two salient points about myself out of the way. One, I used to have a habit of swallowing bottles of pills and two, I am capable of love. The entries aren’t particularly well written, probably because I am so out of practice. And also, I don’t really know how to explain my relationship with Smith in an easy to follow fashion. I’m not even sure I understand it now. As for the pills part, those stories will come. And don’t worry, it won’t all be heady and sad. I can be pretty funny when describing my suicides. I mean, having an argument with myself after swallowing a bottle of tricyclics and wanting to leave a note which said simply Eskimo, is pretty ridiculous. If only because it was so 87. And there’s more. But that will be another day.

Schlitz cute

Once at a party where you turned in drink tickets for random beers, the following conversation took place.

Dot: How come you got a budweiser and I got a Schlitz?

Lisa: Because I'm cute!

Dot to boy handing out beers: You think I'm only Schlitz cute???

Today is one of those days where I am feeling only Schlitz cute. A few hundred lakes short of beautiful. The sort of day that if I had to go shopping, I'd only be able to go to Walmart. It sucks to be a girl sometimes.

The second time you saved my life

The second time you saved my life, it wasn’t as romantic. On the 2nd anniversary of my suicide attempt, you held my face in your hands and told me, “I know what today is and I am so happy you are here.” You then kissed away my tears. Two months later, you wouldn’t even acknowledge my existence. You cut me off with no notice, no explanation. I had called asking you for help. I was sinking, the voices were getting louder, I was plotting again. And you forgot to meet me. And then, you stopped talking to me, stopped calling, stopped everything. And it saved my life. I was a mess. I didn’t know what to do with myself, but I was damned if I was going to have you at all linked to my impending destruction. Nights were the hardest. In two years, hardly a night had gone by when I went to bed without talking to you. The silence was brutal. But being in public was worse because we kept up some sort of appearance. We would stand near each other and not speak. Once, on the street, you kissed my cheek so that your friends didn’t suspect anything. I was a mess. I didn’t know what to do with my anger, my disbelief and my anxiety. I started running to try and channel the energy. And every day, I got a little stronger. But, I loved you just the same. It would be a few months before you actually spoke to me. It was late; we were drunk and alone outside of a party. You said, “I care about you, you know. Funny that I actually care about something.” And with that, you slipped inside. It would be another two years before we actually talked again. Another year before we could call it friendship. The day I knew that I was no longer suicidal, that things had changed within my brain, I called you. And even though I didn’t say it, you knew. I haven’t seen you in two years now, or talked to you in one. But I still love you just the same.

untiedundone

untiedundone
the creatures

Slide over here, listen to me
Rippling wordstreams to unlock dreams
Take up the slack... loosen these bonds
Unzip and undo, untie my tongue

Untiedundone

It’s sucking out bones through a melting phone
In a whispering eddy, I am undone

Untiedundone

Turning to liquid, starting to float
Everything’s easy from now on

Untiedundone

Unhook and unhinge in a river of dreams
Rippling wordstreams unraveling
Uncork the wine let’s toast the unborn
It’s my unbirthday, untied and undone

Unwrap this gift in a state of undress
The future’s uncertain, nothing less

Untiedundone

The first time you saved my life

I am amazed that you asked me to go out after work for drinks. We hardly ever talked to one another. Oh, and I had just gotten out of a mental hospital after a few days in a coma. 150 pills can do that. Yet, I didn't think your motives were disingenuous and I agreed. Most of my close friends were still away at college, getting ready to graduate, and they needed a break from me. This wasn't the first time I put them through this. I missed them and I needed to be with people. We met others from work and I was both happy to escape my current reality of having had to move back in with my parents, but also terrified at the prospect of spending an evening as the sideshow freak. Yet, you made it seem ok. You. With your tattoos and piercings and “fuck you" attitude. I think the first thing you ever told me was that you were a dick and people should deal with it. And yet, you brought me to this bar and made sure to keep an eye out for me. You got me drinks and continually asked if I was ok. I didn't know you, but I loved you. And I felt like more than anyone else in my world, I wanted to explain to you. Because I knew then, as much as I still know now, that you understood me. Finally, toward the end of the night, we sat at a table. You reached across and grabbed my hands. I started to speak, and then to cry. You told me I didn'’t need to talk, you knew and it was ok. You walked me to the bus, when I was ready to leave. You waited to make sure I was safe. You. With your tattoos and piercings and “fuck you" attitude. The rest of that summer, you were my escort. We went to bars and parties together. When I reached the point of overwhelmed, you appeared, grabbed my hand and told people that we needed to go. You waited for buses with me, walked me to another friend'’s house, or let me sleep in your bed, while you slept on the couch. You kept me going when I really wanted to stop. You saved my life that summer, more so than the paramedics. You. With your tattoos and piercings and
“fuck you" attitude.