Tonight I had dinner with Nelson and began bemoaning the fact that most of the people in my new program do not speak the language of food and culture and philosophy that he and I share. I told him the way I had expected the people to be like us, to be able to speak intelligently and with authority on theories of cuisine and about the current happenings of the gastronomical world.
During this dialogue, it came out that some of the students have a more utilitarian approach to food studies; thinking about school lunch reform and localization projects. This in turn lead to a discussion about my purpose and goals for the program.
Some peculiar truths were teased out of this seemingly innocuous conversation. I began to speak about my passion for translating the human experience through the unique activity of eating, the amazingly rare phenomenon of a simultaneously utilitarian and indulgent act, matched only by sex in its universal application, and finally about the way that this dichotomy allows me to ground my sometimes overly philosophical or existential observations and musings in something tangible and real. I told him that I want to share my passions and ideas through my writing, but I have not figured out the best medium for it yet. Will I be best served with editorial or narrative writing or academic research? Will I be funded through grants or book advances?
We came to a point of concern. There is a fear, and perhaps rightly so, that academic writing; the scientification of these ideas, may in some way steal the soul of the concepts. This is an interesting problem, and one to keep in the back of my mind over the next few months.
While interesting on some level, many of the readings I have been working through have a clinical air about them. This is not a voice I want to mimic. I have decided to give this program and that path a fair shake. I am going to put 100% into my classes while attempting to stay true to my voice and my vision. As in love, we will either mesh or we won’t, and if we don’t then it is not to be considered a failure by either party, but simply a mismatch.
This will be a challenge for me. I am a fantastic adaptor, unceasingly adept at figuring out what is expected of me and delivering. That is fine, but I must learn to always keep an eye fixed on what I expect of myself and let that trump all. It is an interesting thing learning what your vision truly is, and something clarified by challenge and push-back. It seems that in an easy world without challenge, it become impossible to carve out a clear picture of what you truly believe or of what you truly aspire to.
These challenges are significant, but not catastrophic. The uncertainly is not actively terrifying, but it does take my breath away, like someone walking in the dark who stops just shy of an abyss.
I have gone down the winding, tortuous path in search of purpose before. I began with the query as to whether my motivation was merely a memorialization of my own personal experiences, and therefore myself, or a desire to share my experiences. I think that while I do want to memorialize, it is more than simple navel gazing I wish to capture. I want to write into immortality, bring into the homes of the unsuspecting a picture of a world they haven’t the ability to see for themselves. It is through this sharing that I hope to make the world a bigger place. I want to share the exotic flavors of the lands many will never travel to. I want to give a new perspective on life.
The greatest influences in my life have been the authors who penned into my heart worlds and lives I had not been able to imagine. They opened my world and my heart to possibilities I was never aware of before. When I am distraught, it is not the self-help section of the library I turn to, but the novels and biographies.
Giving someone the opportunity to see the world through another set of eyes, in a context that speaks to their soul, that is to me one of the greatest marvels of the human experience. I want to feed the imagination and the soul with a tantalizing feast. In the sharing of the feast, I will be enabled to fully satiate my own hunger. I cannot fully savor a meal if it is taken in solitude. I would go so far as to say that it is not truly a meal to me unless it is shared. In the same way, an experience does not become an adventure until it is shared.
I want to feast and explore, now I just have to figure out how. It is a blessing that I have had my blinders removed so early on, neither this program nor any other will ensure my goals will be met. The security blanket of credentials has become as useful a shield as a quilt to me, and it is good to know that I am not protected. I think the lack of security will give me the motivation needed to keep from losing my way, from falling into the pitfall of achieving simply to achieve. What I want cannot be taught like a vocation.
I must take it upon myself to prepare and keep my eyes open to possibilities and the markers along the way God will etch out for me. This is faith without a safety net. I see the drop and it leaves me breathless. Perhaps this is what God has been preparing me for, perhaps this time I am going to have to jump. I don’t know how and I don’t know when, but I know that I need to be prepared. God has lead me to the mountain peak, like Elijah to the alter, I pray that I have the courage and faith to make the plunge.
He knows I’m not ready yet, or maybe I am. He has shown me the chasm, I don’t know if I am breathless and brave or simply breathless from the shock of fear. I will pray for faith, it seems the only currency in the perilous land of dreams and greatness.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
Words and Seasons
My fellow writer and I were musing the other night, as we often do, in a little cafe with a perfectly clear night sky and wine as smooth as the breeze surrounding us. We were bemused by the fact that when life is at its most voracious, offering so much content, we find it impossible to write. We have made a craft of turning the mundane into an adventure, finding the beauty in the ordinary. With this season of near manic reality, words just seem to fall short.
My writing has been a reflection of my life this year in that it has been fragmented and frenzied. When I try to control the flow I render the words contrived and empty.
There is a dark, deep truth in the pain soaked words that mark the beginning of this year, this amazing year. It began in the winter, a winter so cold and dark and bitter than I was wrought with a near obsession with the spring and brighter days. Then the spring did come. It did not come gently, but with a gluttonous roar. I suppose this should have been expected. When you wait so long for something, you tend to pounce upon it with the abandon of a starving refugee.
I lived as though death was nipping at my heels. There were times I no longer slept, I was terrified of stopping and letting the darkness catch me again. Spring moved to Summer and I ran faster and harder. This period was not marked by peace, but it was filled with brightness. I was a coma victim who was learning how to use muscles which had begun to atrophy after such a long period of uselessness. My heart was the muscle which had been still the longest. It was used to pain and learning to feel anything else was like learning to walk again.
There was a moment, a few beautiful moments, where I had everything. There were fewer moments still where I was able to have it all in my hands without shaking in terror at the fragility of it.
I suppose the way to summarize this time would be to call it freedom. Freedom is an intoxicating drug. It is, in its purest form, the absence of security. It sometimes feels like flying and more often like falling.
I teetered across a tight rope between peace and anxiety in their most potent forms. I wondered sometimes whether living in these extreme states would kill me, not that it mattered; I was in no position to stop this manic ride.
I reached the pinnacle of this mania and then, with just as little warning, it began to slow down. Some dreams began to fall and shatter around me, while others simply stood like bare branches, quietly watching their growing nakedness.
Now it is the fall and I feel the death of each leaf, bewildered at the pain of something so natural and inevitable. This is a quiet time and I am afraid. I know winter stands before me and another spring beyond that, but what truths wait for me there?
I pray that in the quiet of this season I will find clarity, that I will find peace, and that I will be able to hold onto the fire and warmth of the previous seasons. It will not be an inferno, as I have said, I’m not sure how long one can live in the face of that blaze. No, I simply hope that it will remain like a candle; gently flickering and reminding me of the warmth that lies ahead. Perhaps now in the quiet I can look back and write about that time in narrative, stringing together the fragmented bits and telling the story. Perhaps in retrospect I will begin to find words to describe the phenomenal, without rendering it mundane.
My writing has been a reflection of my life this year in that it has been fragmented and frenzied. When I try to control the flow I render the words contrived and empty.
There is a dark, deep truth in the pain soaked words that mark the beginning of this year, this amazing year. It began in the winter, a winter so cold and dark and bitter than I was wrought with a near obsession with the spring and brighter days. Then the spring did come. It did not come gently, but with a gluttonous roar. I suppose this should have been expected. When you wait so long for something, you tend to pounce upon it with the abandon of a starving refugee.
I lived as though death was nipping at my heels. There were times I no longer slept, I was terrified of stopping and letting the darkness catch me again. Spring moved to Summer and I ran faster and harder. This period was not marked by peace, but it was filled with brightness. I was a coma victim who was learning how to use muscles which had begun to atrophy after such a long period of uselessness. My heart was the muscle which had been still the longest. It was used to pain and learning to feel anything else was like learning to walk again.
There was a moment, a few beautiful moments, where I had everything. There were fewer moments still where I was able to have it all in my hands without shaking in terror at the fragility of it.
I suppose the way to summarize this time would be to call it freedom. Freedom is an intoxicating drug. It is, in its purest form, the absence of security. It sometimes feels like flying and more often like falling.
I teetered across a tight rope between peace and anxiety in their most potent forms. I wondered sometimes whether living in these extreme states would kill me, not that it mattered; I was in no position to stop this manic ride.
I reached the pinnacle of this mania and then, with just as little warning, it began to slow down. Some dreams began to fall and shatter around me, while others simply stood like bare branches, quietly watching their growing nakedness.
Now it is the fall and I feel the death of each leaf, bewildered at the pain of something so natural and inevitable. This is a quiet time and I am afraid. I know winter stands before me and another spring beyond that, but what truths wait for me there?
I pray that in the quiet of this season I will find clarity, that I will find peace, and that I will be able to hold onto the fire and warmth of the previous seasons. It will not be an inferno, as I have said, I’m not sure how long one can live in the face of that blaze. No, I simply hope that it will remain like a candle; gently flickering and reminding me of the warmth that lies ahead. Perhaps now in the quiet I can look back and write about that time in narrative, stringing together the fragmented bits and telling the story. Perhaps in retrospect I will begin to find words to describe the phenomenal, without rendering it mundane.
Goals
Is my goal to share my experiences of the world or to memorialize and immortalize them?
Is it enough to enjoy a dish, or do you want to understand the elements of the dish that make it what it is? My interest is not in the technical recreation except insofar as the recreation can enlighten me to a fuller understanding of that which I enjoy. Understanding enhances the enjoyment for me.
In the same way, when I travel, understanding the context of the place and the experience enhances my enjoyment of the “otherness” of the place.
Food is the context through which I can understand my own desires, the world around me and the baseline for the people I come in contact with. In the relative space of an intellectualized life, it is through the mysterious utilitarian pleasure of cuisine that I find my anchor, my grounding, the practice of the principles. To me food is not merely a vehicle for expression and sustenance, it the tangible embodiment of our identities and desires. That is why the why matters to me, understanding may help me better navigate the mental labyrinth of life.
I suppose the sharing and memorializing may be part of the same need. I wonder if, as humans, we are so fundamentally communal that a life which is not born witness to is really a life at all. Again, as I teeter on the edge of a concept too cavernous and overwhelming to fall into, I go back to the table. The pleasure of a meal, for me, is enhanced through the sharing. I can taste the same flavors, feel some sense of sating, but the same meal shared contains a level of satisfaction impossible to achieve in isolation.
The art of dining alone is not one which I am versed in, it feels empty somehow. In the same way my words seem impotent with only my eyes to see them. What do I hope to achieve? Do I hope to change the world with my perspective? No, sadly, my intentions are not that altruistic. I write because I must and I long to share my words to give them life.
I have a curious mind, eyes to see, ears to hear, and mind to understand and translate. I will go and find the little truths, I will collect them and bring them back. I will forage for the beautiful and the exotic and the resulting meal is one that is too spectacular not to be shared. Perhaps it will change the world. Perhaps it will give people hope.
I suppose the question of purpose has no place in art, or maybe even in life. The quest to find or create something real, something beautiful, it is one that is not so much something one chooses to do so much as something they can’t help but do. It is like breathing. I must question, I must explore, I must write. Without these things I am not living.
This may be the one thing that I should not try to find the “why” to. Perhaps this is the one thing that just is.
Is it enough to enjoy a dish, or do you want to understand the elements of the dish that make it what it is? My interest is not in the technical recreation except insofar as the recreation can enlighten me to a fuller understanding of that which I enjoy. Understanding enhances the enjoyment for me.
In the same way, when I travel, understanding the context of the place and the experience enhances my enjoyment of the “otherness” of the place.
Food is the context through which I can understand my own desires, the world around me and the baseline for the people I come in contact with. In the relative space of an intellectualized life, it is through the mysterious utilitarian pleasure of cuisine that I find my anchor, my grounding, the practice of the principles. To me food is not merely a vehicle for expression and sustenance, it the tangible embodiment of our identities and desires. That is why the why matters to me, understanding may help me better navigate the mental labyrinth of life.
I suppose the sharing and memorializing may be part of the same need. I wonder if, as humans, we are so fundamentally communal that a life which is not born witness to is really a life at all. Again, as I teeter on the edge of a concept too cavernous and overwhelming to fall into, I go back to the table. The pleasure of a meal, for me, is enhanced through the sharing. I can taste the same flavors, feel some sense of sating, but the same meal shared contains a level of satisfaction impossible to achieve in isolation.
The art of dining alone is not one which I am versed in, it feels empty somehow. In the same way my words seem impotent with only my eyes to see them. What do I hope to achieve? Do I hope to change the world with my perspective? No, sadly, my intentions are not that altruistic. I write because I must and I long to share my words to give them life.
I have a curious mind, eyes to see, ears to hear, and mind to understand and translate. I will go and find the little truths, I will collect them and bring them back. I will forage for the beautiful and the exotic and the resulting meal is one that is too spectacular not to be shared. Perhaps it will change the world. Perhaps it will give people hope.
I suppose the question of purpose has no place in art, or maybe even in life. The quest to find or create something real, something beautiful, it is one that is not so much something one chooses to do so much as something they can’t help but do. It is like breathing. I must question, I must explore, I must write. Without these things I am not living.
This may be the one thing that I should not try to find the “why” to. Perhaps this is the one thing that just is.
Peace
September 3, 2010
There is a strange peace that comes with acceptance. Not happiness, but only fools and drunks can maintain that feeling throughout the days and years. No, this is just a quiet. I will have or I won’t, all these things good and bad, come and go. I have to stop trying to cling to the wind and simply feel it.
I will keep moving forward. I will smile when the breeze kisses my face and I will press on when it whips around me, trying to push me back. What else can I do? You cannot hold the wind, you cannot change its flow. You can try to stay indoors, only hearing it tapping on your shutters or bustling your curtains, but then you may as well be dead.
The only certainty is that it will always blow. It will never stop for more than a moment. Acceptance, not submission, is the only safeguard against the madness that threatens to consume one who lives in a place where the wind is constant and ever-changing.
There is a strange peace that comes with acceptance. Not happiness, but only fools and drunks can maintain that feeling throughout the days and years. No, this is just a quiet. I will have or I won’t, all these things good and bad, come and go. I have to stop trying to cling to the wind and simply feel it.
I will keep moving forward. I will smile when the breeze kisses my face and I will press on when it whips around me, trying to push me back. What else can I do? You cannot hold the wind, you cannot change its flow. You can try to stay indoors, only hearing it tapping on your shutters or bustling your curtains, but then you may as well be dead.
The only certainty is that it will always blow. It will never stop for more than a moment. Acceptance, not submission, is the only safeguard against the madness that threatens to consume one who lives in a place where the wind is constant and ever-changing.
Dying, Again
September 2, 2010
How can dying hurt so much every time? The terror that comes from knowing what is in store only adds to the agony. The grey of the dead time has already begun to cover me. Ghosts can’t taste, can’t smile, and cannot lift their faces to the horizon. I eat and it is sawdust, I try to turn my lips up and it hurts, the once bright horizon is shrouded in darkness. All that remains is the ache.
I now know what I have been screaming, every time I sob, “save me”. I cannot save myself from this death. I will revive myself, but there is no stopping the dark death of heartbreak. Every man I have ever loved has let me die. Some have been necrophiliacs, continuing to make love to my lifeless corpse, some have walked away, but not one has heeded my cries.
My old nemesis, Lonely, has found me again. He makes the death even more tortured. My only salvation lies in the cruelly slow hands of time. I will taste again, I will find my hunger and my smile, but there is no telling when I will see those dear friends again. Last time was different, it was years in the making and I had let much of it die already. My desire still lives this time, making me acutely aware of every labored breath.
I ran last time. I filled the screaming silence with chatter and drinks, I ran from sleep as it was useless. I don’t know if I have the strength to run this time, hell, I don’t know if I have the strength to sit still.
I tried to comfort myself with food until it made me ill. I am more comfortable with an empty stomach. I tried to sleep it away, but the nightmares continue. I tried to seek solace in company, but their life made me more aware of my own death. I have smoked my throat raw, waiting for the relieve to set in. I drink until I feel something close to nothing, but the pain still catches me as the alcohol is absorbed. I work and am distracted for precious moments, but there is no relief.
No, there is no comfort in this death. There is no peace. Why couldn’t he have been who he pretended to be? Why did this heart of mine have to fall in love with a fraud? I still have to give him my final warning, and his final bullet to put through my heart. There is no hope inside of me, he has already shown me the answer, I simply need to hear it. Then it will be done, perhaps then I can submit to the death and wait for my reincarnation.
Each time I wonder if it will be the last, each time I wonder if this will be the time I stay dead. My mind says coldly, but not unkindly, that I know it will not last forever. My heart just weeps and writhes in her suffering. There are no more “I told you so’s” from the assassin, she just wears her anguish on her face and lets a few tears slip down her cheeks for the heart’s suffering. There is nothing left to fight or protect, what is done is done.
We all knew this was a risk. The mind rationalized the risk with empirical data and observations, the assassin was subdued only until the first red flag was waved, but by then the heart was too far gone. There was a point where a collective decision was made. There was a point when we saw the amazing possibilities and knew that we must either surge ahead or walk away. We are brave, we three, if nothing else. We were afraid, but it is not in us to walk away from an opportunity, not one this rare. We gambled. Only the assassin knowing how much we had wagered. I saw it in her wild eyes, but I wanted so deeply to be wrong this time, I wanted so deeply to be saved.
The line has blurred between the hurt and the love, making it impossible for the mind to see him clearly, or for the heart to trust herself or for the assassin to take a shot. We simply sit here, in the darkened room with our pain, waiting, again waiting. We glance every now and then, hatefully at the unwelcome guest. The hideous Loneliness lurks across the room.
The bottom line is, it sucks to die, and dying is the only ending I have ever had to a love story. Is it better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all? No, it is not better, but I keep on dying, so I guess that makes me the contradictory one doesn’t it?
Desire is our lifeblood, you kill that and you die. You chase your longing, and it will probably end with your demise. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t, spectacular.
How can dying hurt so much every time? The terror that comes from knowing what is in store only adds to the agony. The grey of the dead time has already begun to cover me. Ghosts can’t taste, can’t smile, and cannot lift their faces to the horizon. I eat and it is sawdust, I try to turn my lips up and it hurts, the once bright horizon is shrouded in darkness. All that remains is the ache.
I now know what I have been screaming, every time I sob, “save me”. I cannot save myself from this death. I will revive myself, but there is no stopping the dark death of heartbreak. Every man I have ever loved has let me die. Some have been necrophiliacs, continuing to make love to my lifeless corpse, some have walked away, but not one has heeded my cries.
My old nemesis, Lonely, has found me again. He makes the death even more tortured. My only salvation lies in the cruelly slow hands of time. I will taste again, I will find my hunger and my smile, but there is no telling when I will see those dear friends again. Last time was different, it was years in the making and I had let much of it die already. My desire still lives this time, making me acutely aware of every labored breath.
I ran last time. I filled the screaming silence with chatter and drinks, I ran from sleep as it was useless. I don’t know if I have the strength to run this time, hell, I don’t know if I have the strength to sit still.
I tried to comfort myself with food until it made me ill. I am more comfortable with an empty stomach. I tried to sleep it away, but the nightmares continue. I tried to seek solace in company, but their life made me more aware of my own death. I have smoked my throat raw, waiting for the relieve to set in. I drink until I feel something close to nothing, but the pain still catches me as the alcohol is absorbed. I work and am distracted for precious moments, but there is no relief.
No, there is no comfort in this death. There is no peace. Why couldn’t he have been who he pretended to be? Why did this heart of mine have to fall in love with a fraud? I still have to give him my final warning, and his final bullet to put through my heart. There is no hope inside of me, he has already shown me the answer, I simply need to hear it. Then it will be done, perhaps then I can submit to the death and wait for my reincarnation.
Each time I wonder if it will be the last, each time I wonder if this will be the time I stay dead. My mind says coldly, but not unkindly, that I know it will not last forever. My heart just weeps and writhes in her suffering. There are no more “I told you so’s” from the assassin, she just wears her anguish on her face and lets a few tears slip down her cheeks for the heart’s suffering. There is nothing left to fight or protect, what is done is done.
We all knew this was a risk. The mind rationalized the risk with empirical data and observations, the assassin was subdued only until the first red flag was waved, but by then the heart was too far gone. There was a point where a collective decision was made. There was a point when we saw the amazing possibilities and knew that we must either surge ahead or walk away. We are brave, we three, if nothing else. We were afraid, but it is not in us to walk away from an opportunity, not one this rare. We gambled. Only the assassin knowing how much we had wagered. I saw it in her wild eyes, but I wanted so deeply to be wrong this time, I wanted so deeply to be saved.
The line has blurred between the hurt and the love, making it impossible for the mind to see him clearly, or for the heart to trust herself or for the assassin to take a shot. We simply sit here, in the darkened room with our pain, waiting, again waiting. We glance every now and then, hatefully at the unwelcome guest. The hideous Loneliness lurks across the room.
The bottom line is, it sucks to die, and dying is the only ending I have ever had to a love story. Is it better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all? No, it is not better, but I keep on dying, so I guess that makes me the contradictory one doesn’t it?
Desire is our lifeblood, you kill that and you die. You chase your longing, and it will probably end with your demise. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t, spectacular.
The Night my Soul Mingled with Ghosts and Poets
August 6th, 2010
Last night I sat with the spirits of Hemmingway and Fitzgerald, with Faulkner and O. Henry and Julia and MFK too. Sabrina and I sat and conversed in their presence on a sidewalk café, drinking and transcending the time and place, yet being fully present in it. We spoke about life and love, wars and re-birth, God and truth and beauty. We spoke about writing and passion, the way only writers can, and the terror and ecstasy associated with the craft.
We humans so crave understanding, true communion with other human beings, it is such a rare gift to find it, even if just for one night in a west village café. In just this night I celebrated our meeting and mourned the death of a dear friend who I will carry in my heart through the moments and years. The wild thing inside of me was tamed and tantalized, like a lion purring. It saw a glimpse of a fellow creature, perhaps not of the same tribe, but of the same place. She felt at home, she felt both peaceful and free.
“Only in little old New York” O. Henry whispered, as Fitzgerald cried for his lost love and Hemmingway dreamed of other cities across the sea; Julia laughed and reached out for Paul, while MFK bravely looked into the distance and mused about her lives and loves and flavors both bitter and sweet, Faulkner cracked a melancholy smile, while we two young souls, still walking among the living, inspired one another with ideas to alien for most ears to hear. Last night my soul sang, my mind was free and I danced with ghosts under the watchful eye of the Manhattan lights.
Last night I sat with the spirits of Hemmingway and Fitzgerald, with Faulkner and O. Henry and Julia and MFK too. Sabrina and I sat and conversed in their presence on a sidewalk café, drinking and transcending the time and place, yet being fully present in it. We spoke about life and love, wars and re-birth, God and truth and beauty. We spoke about writing and passion, the way only writers can, and the terror and ecstasy associated with the craft.
We humans so crave understanding, true communion with other human beings, it is such a rare gift to find it, even if just for one night in a west village café. In just this night I celebrated our meeting and mourned the death of a dear friend who I will carry in my heart through the moments and years. The wild thing inside of me was tamed and tantalized, like a lion purring. It saw a glimpse of a fellow creature, perhaps not of the same tribe, but of the same place. She felt at home, she felt both peaceful and free.
“Only in little old New York” O. Henry whispered, as Fitzgerald cried for his lost love and Hemmingway dreamed of other cities across the sea; Julia laughed and reached out for Paul, while MFK bravely looked into the distance and mused about her lives and loves and flavors both bitter and sweet, Faulkner cracked a melancholy smile, while we two young souls, still walking among the living, inspired one another with ideas to alien for most ears to hear. Last night my soul sang, my mind was free and I danced with ghosts under the watchful eye of the Manhattan lights.
One Perfect Moment
July 10th, 2010
I had a beautiful night tonight. I walked from the West Side up to my East Side home. I let the music pour over me, the city fill my eyes in the fading light and God hold my hand and speak softly in my ear. I was still and peaceful, floating through my city and resting in my life.
I thought about all my treasures, all my people. I thought about the beautiful possibilities that keep being handed to me like extravagant gifts from a new lover. As though NYU wasn’t enough, as though being given the opportunity to chase my dream was enough, I am now being given the opportunity to live another old dream while doing so. I’m also being given the opportunity to love. It seems that when I say “thank you” and tell myself that what I have is enough, I am suddenly handed more than I could have ever dared to ask for.
I said, “A career is enough”. I said, “My friends are enough”. I said, “Being comfortable alone is enough”. Minnie is offering me the opportunity to chase a dream and live one simultaneously. He is giving me the opportunity to let someone love me, to trust. I had enough, yet I am being given so much more.
Neither is guaranteed, neither can be earned, they both must just be hoped for.
I was beginning to let the doubt and fear push Him into my heart like a knife. Today he gave me the reassurance I needed. He wants to move to New York. He wants to be with me. He is working on it and I trust him. He told me it would be a year or so, he asked me if I would wait for him that long. I simply said, yes. I did not ask him if he could wait that long, I didn’t even think to. I am learning to feel without fear. Accept and give boldly. I am learning to be strong even when my heart is in the open.
I am learning, I am learning so much. I am so afraid so much of the time. I am so afraid of my desires, so afraid of forgetting, so afraid of falling. I never knew I was so afraid. I am learning to live courageously; I am learning that the fear that is not the issue, just what you do with it. It is courage, not fearlessness I need. Fearlessness comes when you slay the dragon. Fearlessness comes when you look it in the eyes and walk strait through it, through it and into your desires.
I have these beautiful moments where the blindfold of the day to day battles is removed and I am able to see the shining splendor of my life. I was struggling, wondering whether the pain or the pleasure was the mirage; the pain seems so real sometimes. The radiance is real; the pain is merely passing through.
I watched the shining lights of the city drifting past me as we sped down the West Side Highway on our way from Hell’s Kitchen to the East Village. I was on my way to my third party of the evening with my best friend. I had spent the day with amazing, interesting people who were all vying for my time. I was on my way to celebrate the success of a beautiful artist who loves me and wants to share her victory with me. I knew the man I am falling in love with was dreaming about me and devising a plan to be with me. I knew that everything I wanted to be, I was starting to become. I knew that I was loved and savored by an amazing array of people. I knew that I lived in the most glamorous city in the world. I knew that I was living the dream. It was stunning.
My story is being written, it is building in an amazing arc. I have trouble beginning in childhood, I’m not sure if it is relevant to the story anymore. It may have begun in November 2001 when I sat in the CU Denver library, e-mailing a recruiter for the US Army.
I grew up on the bases of Ft. Jackson, Eustis, Bragg and Campbell. I was lost and found in the Deserts of Iraq. I died in Oak Grove, Kentucky. I began to come back to life in Atlanta, Georgia. I jumped from a burning ship into the dark arms of the unknown as I drove north. I fought my way out of Newark and into New York City. I wandered the city, like a lost child, until I decided the only way to find home was to build it. I transformed an angry, lonely, desperately ordinary life. I grew a community, fostered an army of friends, and created an adventure. I found my passion and I found a way to chase it. I let go of security and embraced freedom. I took every chance. I have the life I once dreamed about. I have a romance writing itself, that I myself never could have written. I have a career building around me. I have little control, but that is teaching me how to hope. It is terrifying to have so much to gain and so much to lose. Who knew that the greatest leap of faith would be living the life I fantasized about?
Hemingway was right, I own it all. I own it with each keystroke and each image I absorb. I looked at the beautiful apartment in the West Village, and it was mine. I looked at the Eames chair on 6th Avenue and it belonged to me. I looked at the giants and apartments I had seen on television, rising up before me, and I possessed them. All I seek to keep locked-up close to my heart, are those I cannot own. I desperately cherish the only assets that matter to me: the players in this story. My best friend, my crazy characters, my sisters, my someday lover. In a way they belong to this page like all the rest, but there is simply no substitute for their flesh and bone and voices. That is the story I am really trying to write, the one in which they will all belong to me forever. The story in which I can share this amazing menagerie with those who can only live this life through the pages I write. I want to write a story to feed the soul of the woman I once was. That story drives me, as I live it I try desperately to capture it before it passes through my fingers like fine sand.
I do want to clutch someone to me. I have felt the familiar desire lately to have a character who lives and breathes and will be mine in more than typeset alone. I want my love to be transformed from a fantasy to a reality. I want this romance to exist in this world where anything is possible; I want it to be the proof. I want to touch him, I want to hold him in my arms, knowing that he doesn’t not belong to me, but fought to be embraced by me nonetheless. In short, I want the love story, the fairytale, to come true. I want to slay cynicism with that long awaited kiss. No, it is not a ring and a happy ending I deeply, deeply long for: it is a happy beginning. It is desire fulfilled, it is tragedy overcome.
These are the two gifts I am terrified to reach for. It is these two dreams I need to bravely embrace.
The only way to live in a dream is to let go, open your arms, and let it swirl effortlessly around you. As soon as you try to grasp it, you will be left clutching yourself in anxiety. I must let go of security and fall into the freedom of living with wild abandon. That is the only way to truly live the dream.
I was wrong. It is not a matter of free falling. The key is to love every minute of the present and believe in your heart that whatever you lose will be replaced with something even more perfect for the next moment of your life. Faith, faith in the goodness of God and life. Bad things happen, but the most beautiful things can be just on the other side of the desolate hill. Perhaps that is why I love the Iraq of my memories. The beauty amidst the desolation is what hope is built on.
I had a beautiful night tonight. I walked from the West Side up to my East Side home. I let the music pour over me, the city fill my eyes in the fading light and God hold my hand and speak softly in my ear. I was still and peaceful, floating through my city and resting in my life.
I thought about all my treasures, all my people. I thought about the beautiful possibilities that keep being handed to me like extravagant gifts from a new lover. As though NYU wasn’t enough, as though being given the opportunity to chase my dream was enough, I am now being given the opportunity to live another old dream while doing so. I’m also being given the opportunity to love. It seems that when I say “thank you” and tell myself that what I have is enough, I am suddenly handed more than I could have ever dared to ask for.
I said, “A career is enough”. I said, “My friends are enough”. I said, “Being comfortable alone is enough”. Minnie is offering me the opportunity to chase a dream and live one simultaneously. He is giving me the opportunity to let someone love me, to trust. I had enough, yet I am being given so much more.
Neither is guaranteed, neither can be earned, they both must just be hoped for.
I was beginning to let the doubt and fear push Him into my heart like a knife. Today he gave me the reassurance I needed. He wants to move to New York. He wants to be with me. He is working on it and I trust him. He told me it would be a year or so, he asked me if I would wait for him that long. I simply said, yes. I did not ask him if he could wait that long, I didn’t even think to. I am learning to feel without fear. Accept and give boldly. I am learning to be strong even when my heart is in the open.
I am learning, I am learning so much. I am so afraid so much of the time. I am so afraid of my desires, so afraid of forgetting, so afraid of falling. I never knew I was so afraid. I am learning to live courageously; I am learning that the fear that is not the issue, just what you do with it. It is courage, not fearlessness I need. Fearlessness comes when you slay the dragon. Fearlessness comes when you look it in the eyes and walk strait through it, through it and into your desires.
I have these beautiful moments where the blindfold of the day to day battles is removed and I am able to see the shining splendor of my life. I was struggling, wondering whether the pain or the pleasure was the mirage; the pain seems so real sometimes. The radiance is real; the pain is merely passing through.
I watched the shining lights of the city drifting past me as we sped down the West Side Highway on our way from Hell’s Kitchen to the East Village. I was on my way to my third party of the evening with my best friend. I had spent the day with amazing, interesting people who were all vying for my time. I was on my way to celebrate the success of a beautiful artist who loves me and wants to share her victory with me. I knew the man I am falling in love with was dreaming about me and devising a plan to be with me. I knew that everything I wanted to be, I was starting to become. I knew that I was loved and savored by an amazing array of people. I knew that I lived in the most glamorous city in the world. I knew that I was living the dream. It was stunning.
My story is being written, it is building in an amazing arc. I have trouble beginning in childhood, I’m not sure if it is relevant to the story anymore. It may have begun in November 2001 when I sat in the CU Denver library, e-mailing a recruiter for the US Army.
I grew up on the bases of Ft. Jackson, Eustis, Bragg and Campbell. I was lost and found in the Deserts of Iraq. I died in Oak Grove, Kentucky. I began to come back to life in Atlanta, Georgia. I jumped from a burning ship into the dark arms of the unknown as I drove north. I fought my way out of Newark and into New York City. I wandered the city, like a lost child, until I decided the only way to find home was to build it. I transformed an angry, lonely, desperately ordinary life. I grew a community, fostered an army of friends, and created an adventure. I found my passion and I found a way to chase it. I let go of security and embraced freedom. I took every chance. I have the life I once dreamed about. I have a romance writing itself, that I myself never could have written. I have a career building around me. I have little control, but that is teaching me how to hope. It is terrifying to have so much to gain and so much to lose. Who knew that the greatest leap of faith would be living the life I fantasized about?
Hemingway was right, I own it all. I own it with each keystroke and each image I absorb. I looked at the beautiful apartment in the West Village, and it was mine. I looked at the Eames chair on 6th Avenue and it belonged to me. I looked at the giants and apartments I had seen on television, rising up before me, and I possessed them. All I seek to keep locked-up close to my heart, are those I cannot own. I desperately cherish the only assets that matter to me: the players in this story. My best friend, my crazy characters, my sisters, my someday lover. In a way they belong to this page like all the rest, but there is simply no substitute for their flesh and bone and voices. That is the story I am really trying to write, the one in which they will all belong to me forever. The story in which I can share this amazing menagerie with those who can only live this life through the pages I write. I want to write a story to feed the soul of the woman I once was. That story drives me, as I live it I try desperately to capture it before it passes through my fingers like fine sand.
I do want to clutch someone to me. I have felt the familiar desire lately to have a character who lives and breathes and will be mine in more than typeset alone. I want my love to be transformed from a fantasy to a reality. I want this romance to exist in this world where anything is possible; I want it to be the proof. I want to touch him, I want to hold him in my arms, knowing that he doesn’t not belong to me, but fought to be embraced by me nonetheless. In short, I want the love story, the fairytale, to come true. I want to slay cynicism with that long awaited kiss. No, it is not a ring and a happy ending I deeply, deeply long for: it is a happy beginning. It is desire fulfilled, it is tragedy overcome.
These are the two gifts I am terrified to reach for. It is these two dreams I need to bravely embrace.
The only way to live in a dream is to let go, open your arms, and let it swirl effortlessly around you. As soon as you try to grasp it, you will be left clutching yourself in anxiety. I must let go of security and fall into the freedom of living with wild abandon. That is the only way to truly live the dream.
I was wrong. It is not a matter of free falling. The key is to love every minute of the present and believe in your heart that whatever you lose will be replaced with something even more perfect for the next moment of your life. Faith, faith in the goodness of God and life. Bad things happen, but the most beautiful things can be just on the other side of the desolate hill. Perhaps that is why I love the Iraq of my memories. The beauty amidst the desolation is what hope is built on.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Feels So Good
God it feels good to be alive again! I have been living in my head for a few days, stuck somewhere between the future and staring down at the feet of my present. I was dreary and gray and pieces of me were floating back and forth. Today all the pieces of me came together and I felt ever step, every beat, every breath.
I am here, I am back, I am ready for today! I am centered in the greatness of the present and the glow at the crest of the hill I am walking up. Thank God. I hate the dead days, the dead weeks and moments.
Everything is good. Not everything is how I want it to be. I am still at the same silly job, I am still waiting in limbo for many things, but today, at this moment, I am fucking awesome, so life is good.
It is amazing how good it can feel to not feel. Like being loaded. Everything just feels great, all the problems and stresses of life bleeding into the background. They have had their time, I let anxiety have his way with me and now that he is done, I am flooded with euphoric relief.
I may sound a bit bi-polar, and maybe I am, but I will take the good days at the cost of the gray ones. It is amazing to feel whole. It is amazing to know that the most fantastic part of your life is you, the only thing you are assured of holding onto.
The sparkling mirage of my existence is all around me, all the things I want swirling around the present me from past and future, all of it at my fingertips.
I am here, I am back, I am ready for today! I am centered in the greatness of the present and the glow at the crest of the hill I am walking up. Thank God. I hate the dead days, the dead weeks and moments.
Everything is good. Not everything is how I want it to be. I am still at the same silly job, I am still waiting in limbo for many things, but today, at this moment, I am fucking awesome, so life is good.
It is amazing how good it can feel to not feel. Like being loaded. Everything just feels great, all the problems and stresses of life bleeding into the background. They have had their time, I let anxiety have his way with me and now that he is done, I am flooded with euphoric relief.
I may sound a bit bi-polar, and maybe I am, but I will take the good days at the cost of the gray ones. It is amazing to feel whole. It is amazing to know that the most fantastic part of your life is you, the only thing you are assured of holding onto.
The sparkling mirage of my existence is all around me, all the things I want swirling around the present me from past and future, all of it at my fingertips.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
All Hyped-Out
I am over the hype. Done.
Jo, Kaitlin and I went to one of my favorites, the Momofuku Noodle Bar, tonight and it was a nightmare. We waited for over an hour for a table (on a Tuesday night!!), ordered immediately, waited another 15 minutes for our pork buns, then a whopping 45 minutes for our Ramen. Yes, 45 minutes for a fucking bowl of soup.
The service was shaky at best, the venue crowded and loud, but not with a positive energy. It was the frantic energy of annoyed, hungry people.
The pork buns were heaven, as always, but the ramen was mediocre. I guess I am just tired of the super-hyped restaurants with the painfully cool crowds waiting for hours to be honored with a slightly better than average plate of food.
This is not the first time I have been sorely disappointed by one of "the restaurants" in New York, and my disappointment's increasing frequency is distressing.
There are certain places that live-up to the hype, but most of them are out of my price range. For the medium-high priced dining, the cusp of what us mere mortals can afford, we are given flashy names and snotty hostesses, with a side of decent food.
I'm done. I crave authenticity, honest food that doesn't need the flash and glitz to cover it's inadequacies. I am so blessed to live in a city where good food is around every corner, where the good places to eat outnumber the bad. As for the hype and the new flavor-of-the-month hipster eatery, I will leave that to the Williamsburg and LES set. They work hard to maintain their perfectly coiffed aloofness, they deserve their just rewards at the end of a two hour wait.
The food snob in me is still alive and well, it has just gained perspective. I want to get back to the actual food and away from the sceney club of star restaurantures.
You will find me in the back of the bodega,eating authentic Puebla style tacos with the immigrant workers. You will find me in the dirty-looking, and amazing tasting, hand pulled noodle shop with no name. You will find me at the unglamorous, and deeply delicious Dim Sum palace in Chinatown. And you will find me at my favorite pizzeria,sans the truffle oil and Brussels sprout leaves, right here in my unglamorous neighborhood. Will I avoid all the major restaurant players in New York? Certainly not. I will however follow my palate and my stomach, not the crowd, to my own gastronomical New York.
Jo, Kaitlin and I went to one of my favorites, the Momofuku Noodle Bar, tonight and it was a nightmare. We waited for over an hour for a table (on a Tuesday night!!), ordered immediately, waited another 15 minutes for our pork buns, then a whopping 45 minutes for our Ramen. Yes, 45 minutes for a fucking bowl of soup.
The service was shaky at best, the venue crowded and loud, but not with a positive energy. It was the frantic energy of annoyed, hungry people.
The pork buns were heaven, as always, but the ramen was mediocre. I guess I am just tired of the super-hyped restaurants with the painfully cool crowds waiting for hours to be honored with a slightly better than average plate of food.
This is not the first time I have been sorely disappointed by one of "the restaurants" in New York, and my disappointment's increasing frequency is distressing.
There are certain places that live-up to the hype, but most of them are out of my price range. For the medium-high priced dining, the cusp of what us mere mortals can afford, we are given flashy names and snotty hostesses, with a side of decent food.
I'm done. I crave authenticity, honest food that doesn't need the flash and glitz to cover it's inadequacies. I am so blessed to live in a city where good food is around every corner, where the good places to eat outnumber the bad. As for the hype and the new flavor-of-the-month hipster eatery, I will leave that to the Williamsburg and LES set. They work hard to maintain their perfectly coiffed aloofness, they deserve their just rewards at the end of a two hour wait.
The food snob in me is still alive and well, it has just gained perspective. I want to get back to the actual food and away from the sceney club of star restaurantures.
You will find me in the back of the bodega,eating authentic Puebla style tacos with the immigrant workers. You will find me in the dirty-looking, and amazing tasting, hand pulled noodle shop with no name. You will find me at the unglamorous, and deeply delicious Dim Sum palace in Chinatown. And you will find me at my favorite pizzeria,sans the truffle oil and Brussels sprout leaves, right here in my unglamorous neighborhood. Will I avoid all the major restaurant players in New York? Certainly not. I will however follow my palate and my stomach, not the crowd, to my own gastronomical New York.
Monday, June 28, 2010
The Writer and The Ego
Being a writer requires a huge ego, perhaps this is why there are so many prolific male writers. The ability to shamelessly bare one's soul proudly, it takes balls.
It is time for me to begin "grabbing my balls" and sharing my work. I blush at the idea that it will be criticized or thought of as silly, but it is time for me to believe in the goodness of what I produce. It is sincere and true and often witty.
It is time for me to take the step forward. It is time for me to arrogantly pronounce my work viable, valuable and worthy.It is time for me to embrace all that i am. It is time to shamelessly proclaim myself a writer, thinker, beauty and visionary.
Sometimes the hardest sale you ever have to make is to yourself.
It is time for me to begin "grabbing my balls" and sharing my work. I blush at the idea that it will be criticized or thought of as silly, but it is time for me to believe in the goodness of what I produce. It is sincere and true and often witty.
It is time for me to take the step forward. It is time for me to arrogantly pronounce my work viable, valuable and worthy.It is time for me to embrace all that i am. It is time to shamelessly proclaim myself a writer, thinker, beauty and visionary.
Sometimes the hardest sale you ever have to make is to yourself.
Help is Not on the Way
The rain clouds rolled in today, with it came dark thoughts and musings...
Help is Not on the Way
Help is not coming. That is the lesson I have learned well over the years. Watch the horizon until you go blind, but it won't change the fact that you must dry your own tears and save yourself. You will not die, life has cruelly wired us for self preservation, it is not so merciful as to let you simply cease to exist.
As a woman i have learned too that men are cowards. This may be why no one is coming. At their core, they understand only self preservation, compassion is left to us. No, he will run away when it hurts too much, or often when the faintest whiff of pain reaches his nostrils.
I suppose it is biological, we are wired to endure, the fate of our species depends on it, it requires only fleeting passion from them.
I suppose it is simply a cruel myth of culture, the idea of a hero, a knight in shining armor. Though it takes many years of watching to learn, eventually we see the truth.
Help is not on the way, but we will survive. You will stop crying out,except in fitful sleep, that is the only place this frivolous hope cannot be banished from.
Help is Not on the Way
Help is not coming. That is the lesson I have learned well over the years. Watch the horizon until you go blind, but it won't change the fact that you must dry your own tears and save yourself. You will not die, life has cruelly wired us for self preservation, it is not so merciful as to let you simply cease to exist.
As a woman i have learned too that men are cowards. This may be why no one is coming. At their core, they understand only self preservation, compassion is left to us. No, he will run away when it hurts too much, or often when the faintest whiff of pain reaches his nostrils.
I suppose it is biological, we are wired to endure, the fate of our species depends on it, it requires only fleeting passion from them.
I suppose it is simply a cruel myth of culture, the idea of a hero, a knight in shining armor. Though it takes many years of watching to learn, eventually we see the truth.
Help is not on the way, but we will survive. You will stop crying out,except in fitful sleep, that is the only place this frivolous hope cannot be banished from.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Living Quietly Within
The torrential, frantic energy of the past month has given way to a quiet stillness. In this lull I find myself happily living in my mind, able to sit quietly and let the thoughts flow over me. I am no longer running, I am safe.
There is still a little voice that tells me if I stop I will become ensnared in the quiet place, if I stop I will not be able to start again. It tells me I am dieing every moment, it tells me to run.
In this place, looking back over the frenetic terrain I just flew across and forward to the hazy horizon, I brush the voice away. I will not be trapped in the land of the living dead. I have left many cages in my wake, they have been sprung and cannot catch me now.
I will not sleepwalk, I am merely resting.
There is still a little voice that tells me if I stop I will become ensnared in the quiet place, if I stop I will not be able to start again. It tells me I am dieing every moment, it tells me to run.
In this place, looking back over the frenetic terrain I just flew across and forward to the hazy horizon, I brush the voice away. I will not be trapped in the land of the living dead. I have left many cages in my wake, they have been sprung and cannot catch me now.
I will not sleepwalk, I am merely resting.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
God and the Wounded Creature Within
My reaction to my father's email concerned me. He talked about being in God's favor, about God longing for me, about great things coming to me and being willing to have faith and take a risk. My first thought, my knee-jerk reaction, was that I was about to lose everything. Talk about irrational. When I hear I am being blessed with everything, I hear I am about to lose it all.
I opened my palm and let Him hold my hand today. I felt Him kiss my cheeks. Then He said something I had to ask Him to repeat. He told me that he would like to get to know me in the good times, we had been through enough bad.
Here's the thing, I know when I listen to him things turn out for the best, but I don't feel like I have been listening to anything lately. I have felt a bit odd, a bit disconnected. Perhaps it is just a matter of getting to know him outside of the proverbial warzone, perhaps now is the time to get reacquainted on domestic soil.
It's sad that the One who saved me reminds me so much of that which I needed to be saved from that I would flinch at His name. I am realizing that there is a wounded creature that still lurks inside of me, just under the surface.
I am haunted, in my dreams, by a lingering desire to be saved and by the knowledge that no one ever comes. He does though, He always is waiting. In my poor, damaged mind He designed it that way; a manipulative tactic to thrust me into His arms because there is no one else to cling to. Cognitively, I know this is not true. I know that He does not operate that way. That creature though, she looks at Him with wide-eyed mistrust. How did this happen? I have fought this creature my whole life. Seeing Him and realizing who he is, then forgetting all over again. How could I forget? I want to feel badly, but I don’t feel much of anything save a twinge of sadness.
The creature inside of me heard Him say that He is back, not to save me, but to reintroduce himself to me outside of the shadowy world of my despair. She took a step toward Him, still shaking, but intrigued. Could it be true?
I take it back, I do feel something. It isn’t guilt though; it is deep, deep sadness and shock that I am only now seeing this pathetic creature for the first time. Now that I see her, I realize she has been there all along.
Funny, she came out of the shadows again tonight. Someone got too close to my heart. I reeled back with a vicious growl. I keep her well hidden, but I hear her, barring her teeth at the mere idea of someone getting close enough to hurt me. What happened to me that this thing could live inside of me?
I have spent my entire life running headfirst into the heart of anything that frightens me. I loathe the idea of anything having that kind of grip on me. It is only my great faith in myself that allows for my hopeful views of the future. For someone who dreams fearlessly of conquests and mountains to climb, it is funny to see the cynic beneath it all. I am good at dreaming about that which I can control. Hoping for that which I cannot is terrifying. I do believe that is the risk He is asking me to take now.
Things have been so frighteningly beautiful lately. Seeing the life I have always dreamed of, even the pieces I cannot control, coming together; it is petrifying. How could I have all this? I have done nothing to earn it. It is a gift I cannot bring myself to accept.
He is holding his hand out to me, telling me to take a step into the darkness. Who knew the one thing I would fear would be happiness?
In my philosophical musings I have come to accept that nothing lasts forever, and that is shouldn’t. Life is an ever-changing landscape with wonders and beauties of all different kinds to see along the way. It is not meant to be lived standing still. I have also come to accept the fact that as long as my home is in my heart, each scene will be mine, I will not be alone. I suppose that the next step is living these ideals; believing in the beauty, the goodness and the joy of life.
Now is the time to stop waiting for the “other shoe to drop”. It is time to let go of the fear and accept fully the happiness that has been offered to me, even the happiness that I have not earned. It is time to take the biggest risk of my life; accept joy and all the dangers of loss and disappointment that comes along with it. It is time to heal the wounded creature in my heart. It is time to learn to be truly fearless. I suppose it is time to learn to be more like Him. An open heart is a courageous one.
I have tasted perfection. When I let go it feels more like flying than falling. I want to spread my wings. I want to trust Him to not let me crash to the ground. God gave me the gift and the responsibility of an open heart. Imagine the possibilities if I open it up all the way. Imagine what love like that could do. It could light up a city.
I hear him now whispering, "Trust Me"...
"Perfect" is the Scariest Word in the English Language
This week has been good, very good. It has been ever so slightly scary.
I have been watching the pieces come together, found answers and clarity. The cynic in me says it's too good to be true.
My father wrote me an e-mail today:
I have been praying for you a lot and sense God’s favor is resting on you right now. As you move out in faith, the Lord is going to give you the land your foot rests upon. I’m not sure what that all means, but He longs intensely for you and desires your attention. So, give heed to His voice whenever you sense it and ask Him where you are to step, so that His grace goes before you into the land. I think some things are breaking loose, so be ready for some positive changes and walk boldly into them. Faith is spelled R-I-S-K
I wonder if this means I should "risk" believing that it is possible. I wonder when believing in the good in life became so hard to do.
I know life is not perfect, so when it feels like it's getting too close, I pull myself back. I don't want to be disappointed. Not in people, not in life, not in God. I would say I take the coward's way out by just dismissing any desire I cannot acquire for myself. I think it is more of a survival technique than cowardice though.
It may be time for me to stop surviving and just live fearlessly. Love and dream and hope without inhibition. I'm learning. Aren't I always?
Today has been hard. Despite the beautiful life around me, my brother's struggles brought out an unexpected rage in me. The anger made me start questioning all the good, believing the easier version of the truth where everything falls apart.
Thing is, nothing is made to last forever and that's okay. Things could be beautiful forever without them being the same. I think if they did stay the same, they would lose their wonder.
Yes. I am going to try to believe that life can be perfectly, divinely beautiful. I am going to try to believe that God is willing to give that to me. By now I should know that he gives me gifts I could not have imagined for myself. I once read that desire and longing are the lifeblood of the soul. I want to live, even if it hurts sometimes. Life is too long to hold onto pain and too short not to risk it.
Hearts heal, regrets last forever: here goes nothing!
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Cheery Pit BBQ's and Coma-like Sleep
I had a beautiful little Friday. I slept a bit, visited with a few people and let the lack of sleep put me in a subdued state. Yesterday was a continuation of this happy, zen state. I slept, I sat, I ignored the chimes of my various technological devices demanding my presence here or there.
After an afternoon to myself, I decided to re-enter society. Kaitlin wanted me to come over and grill and Jo and Nelson were still at the market. I called them to see if they wanted to come along. It was one of those perfect afternoons that come together effortlessly. They were happy to pick-up the supplies and take me downtown, Kaitlin was happy to host and be descended upon; I was just plain happy.
Riding down the FDR, watching the city fly by on my right, the east river on my left and my best friend in front of me bantering happily with Nelson, I felt as though I was seeing a mirage. I was almost afraid to move for fear it would all melt away. Everything was as it should be, or as I have always dreamed it to be.
Everyone was happy, everyone was here with me. I was peaceful, basking in this vision. Dinner on the Terrace kept me floating in this state. We cooked and laughed and soaked-up the perfect summer evening. Thinking about it, I had to fight the moisture in my eyes. It was all to easy, too good. Life has not given me much of that. Possibility is what I live on, but actually having it is terrifying to hope for.
God how we laughed! We ended-up playing an infantile game, spitting cherry pits over her balcony. Jo and I returned home and kept each other in stitches dancing to Journey and Asian renditions of American pop. I have not laughed like that in ages. That silly, pure laughter. I laugh, but it is always tinged with irony, always with an underlying tragedy to it.
I let go over the last few days, riding a wave of irrational passion and possibility. Rather than slamming me into the beach, it set me down gently. I am calm now, the sky's just opened and as I hang out of my little window watching the torrents, a smile spreads across my face. Even the rain is beautiful right now.
I have not had any great epiphany, I haven't reach some new level of understanding, but somehow floating along I found comfort. What was I running from? Where am I running to? I haven't a clue, but I suppose we work out a lot of things we don't understand when we are sleeping. Perhaps I simply had to run myself ragged until I could sleepwalk myself home.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Nightmares and Escapes
I had another nightmare last night. Not the kind that leaves you terrified, just the kind that make you feel bad.
Again, I was desperately trying to escape. The people in my life were either passively trying to help or indifferent. They did not feel the same sense of urgency that I did, they did not seem to understand and I was unsure who to trust.
I ran into an old man who I served in the army with. I did not recognize him at first, but beneath the lines on his face I saw the familiarity. He seemed so happy to see me, and for some reason, I felt safe and happy seeing him too. He and a woman were trying to sell a stolen helicopter, they obviously had left the military. They woman was not a soldier, perhaps an army wife. She kept trying to apologize to me. I told her, “No, you helped me escape; you helped me escape from that army prison. Don’t apologize to me”. I suppose no one else understood like they did. They made me feel better, but I was still on the lamb. I was still running.
I awoke and was greatly relieved that it was Saturday and I would have sufficient time to recover from this dream. The only problem was, it was actually Thursday. I rushed out of the house to the office.
I was deeply unhappy that day. Though with the closing bell rung, I felt a pep returning to my step. I was just so tired. There is no relief in sight as my job ramps up. I take comfort in the hours I spend away from that place. In those hours I am free. It was with that thought in the back of my mind that I set out to treat that blasted Thursday like it was in fact a weekend day. I had drinks with Em in the East Village, wine with Gus in Tribecca, then a whirlwind evening of bar hopping throughout the city with a rowdy group of EWI members and out of town visitors. I ran through my evening, push push pushing until the morning light let me know that it was time to again relinquish my freedom and go back into the coffin of my work life.
Needless to say, I went too far this time. I was not able to rally and make it through my workday. I can function on very little sleep, but not no sleep. Thankfully, I am really good at what I do, and my track record allows me to take my sick leave when need be.
I hope I find the answers soon. I would like to know what it is I am running from. I am much more prone to fight than flight, so it is with tense curiosity that I look for the headless horseman on my heels.
Again, I was desperately trying to escape. The people in my life were either passively trying to help or indifferent. They did not feel the same sense of urgency that I did, they did not seem to understand and I was unsure who to trust.
I ran into an old man who I served in the army with. I did not recognize him at first, but beneath the lines on his face I saw the familiarity. He seemed so happy to see me, and for some reason, I felt safe and happy seeing him too. He and a woman were trying to sell a stolen helicopter, they obviously had left the military. They woman was not a soldier, perhaps an army wife. She kept trying to apologize to me. I told her, “No, you helped me escape; you helped me escape from that army prison. Don’t apologize to me”. I suppose no one else understood like they did. They made me feel better, but I was still on the lamb. I was still running.
I awoke and was greatly relieved that it was Saturday and I would have sufficient time to recover from this dream. The only problem was, it was actually Thursday. I rushed out of the house to the office.
I was deeply unhappy that day. Though with the closing bell rung, I felt a pep returning to my step. I was just so tired. There is no relief in sight as my job ramps up. I take comfort in the hours I spend away from that place. In those hours I am free. It was with that thought in the back of my mind that I set out to treat that blasted Thursday like it was in fact a weekend day. I had drinks with Em in the East Village, wine with Gus in Tribecca, then a whirlwind evening of bar hopping throughout the city with a rowdy group of EWI members and out of town visitors. I ran through my evening, push push pushing until the morning light let me know that it was time to again relinquish my freedom and go back into the coffin of my work life.
Needless to say, I went too far this time. I was not able to rally and make it through my workday. I can function on very little sleep, but not no sleep. Thankfully, I am really good at what I do, and my track record allows me to take my sick leave when need be.
I hope I find the answers soon. I would like to know what it is I am running from. I am much more prone to fight than flight, so it is with tense curiosity that I look for the headless horseman on my heels.
Running Blind
Dr. Katz told me there was a reason behind my recent sprints through the night. She made me feel so utterly normal.
Sitting in her office, telling her about my late nights and benders, I asked her what it was I was running from. Obviously she did not have an answer for me, they never do, but I still like to treat her like an oracle, hoping one day she will offer me a real pearl.
Then I asked, "Why doesn't anyone ever tell me what to do? Where were the protesters when I dropped out? Where are the naggers telling me I've had enough to drink? My facade of single mindedness must make them all shrug and collectively say, Felicia knows best. Sometimes I wish someone would try to tell me what to do, even though I probably wouldn't listen anyways."
Looking at me thoughtfully from across her desk she said, "Part of me wants to tell you to stop it, but another part of me thinks that you are just working things out for yourself. This could be an opportunity." She asked me that makes me angry, I said no. I told her it is exactly what I would expect her to say, but the bit about it being an opportunity, about me being okay, that actually made me feel better.
We spoke a bit longer and I left feeling like maybe I was simply crashing so that I could find out what was down there, crashing so that I could pick myself back up and start anew.
I also came to the shameful realization that sometimes I still do wish someone would save me. I am old enough to know that there is no one coming, there never has been. You have to save yourself, and sometimes the quickest way up is down.
Sitting in her office, telling her about my late nights and benders, I asked her what it was I was running from. Obviously she did not have an answer for me, they never do, but I still like to treat her like an oracle, hoping one day she will offer me a real pearl.
Then I asked, "Why doesn't anyone ever tell me what to do? Where were the protesters when I dropped out? Where are the naggers telling me I've had enough to drink? My facade of single mindedness must make them all shrug and collectively say, Felicia knows best. Sometimes I wish someone would try to tell me what to do, even though I probably wouldn't listen anyways."
Looking at me thoughtfully from across her desk she said, "Part of me wants to tell you to stop it, but another part of me thinks that you are just working things out for yourself. This could be an opportunity." She asked me that makes me angry, I said no. I told her it is exactly what I would expect her to say, but the bit about it being an opportunity, about me being okay, that actually made me feel better.
We spoke a bit longer and I left feeling like maybe I was simply crashing so that I could find out what was down there, crashing so that I could pick myself back up and start anew.
I also came to the shameful realization that sometimes I still do wish someone would save me. I am old enough to know that there is no one coming, there never has been. You have to save yourself, and sometimes the quickest way up is down.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Lion Tamer
Like someone who acquires a baby lion or tiger or bear cub and then is surprised when it becomes a full grown force to be reckoned with, I have grown a life that threatens to sweep me away!
I created this party, I made this whirlwind. Riding atop the breaker, I wonder how long I can keep it up, and when it carried me away.
I'm not complaining, just contemplating. My life is an endless string of social engagements, dinners, drinks, events and it is fabulous, but how long can I keep it up? This is not a lifestyle Mick Jagger could maintain in the long run.
I need to get back on top. I need to reign it all in, find the quiet and the balance. Perhaps I need to prune my guest list. Or perhaps I should just let it carry me away, perhaps I should ride this wave to the shore. Who knows?
My life is shifting, when the earth shifts there are earthquakes, perhaps this is just my personal tremor.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Catch Me, I'm Falling
Been partying like a rockstar, makes me wonder who the hell I think I am...
Why doesnt anyone ever tell me what to do? Everyone knows that "Felicia knows best", sometimes I wish someone would realize that I don't, I wish someone would reach out to save the hero.
Funny thing is, I probably wouldn't let them even if they tried.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Keystrokes of Thought
I am not an internal processor. I have far too many competing thoughts rushing through my mind to truly examine one in detail. Talking does not solve this dilemma either. Speaking divides my attention between effectively communicating that which I am trying to understand and the comprehension of it. Writing seems to be the only method in which I can truly untangle the brambles of my internal life. Writing has become as essential to my well being as bathing or eating or even breathing at times. I wonder what that says about me, that I cannot think without seeing my thoughts laid out before me. Perhaps I should write about it...
Absconder
I have been lost lately, running as though my life depended on it. There has been no quiet, no calm. I have been unsettled. The unrest within me, the nervous energy, made it impossible to be still, impossible to be quiet. If there is no calm within, how can you possibly sit idle, feeling the torrents surging through your chest?
It was an odd feeling, hearing people comment on how well I seemed to be doing. I felt only an inexplicable urge to push forward, to surround myself with people and chatter. Up was down, my focus and priorities skewed. The guilt about that nipping at my heels as I ran faster and harder. The thing is, eventually you will be caught.
I hit a wall yesterday. My brief periods of sleep were rot with nightmares and anxiety, and the numbness was replaced with sadness. I couldn't see and I crashed.
I let the melancholy wash over me through the day and finally sought solace in a kitchen, with an idealist. I put on my cosmetic armor and went up to Ma Peche to watch Emily cook and wait for her to wrap-up for the night. For some reason, sitting in a restaurant, watching the precise, uncompromising work of a chef, I was able to be still and quiet. I sat for two hours, watching her plate, watching her break down. I was still and silent. The sadness would nip at me and then scurry away. She finished her shift and took me to a quiet bar around the corner.
There I told her about my unrest. I told her about my guilt. In the midst of my mad dash, I was walling myself off from those important to me. Speaking in anecdotes to acquaintances and leaving no time to truly talk to family (both blood relations and dear friends). I was not writing, I was not thinking, I was starving my soul with the iceberg lettuce of activity instead of true sustenance. The disconnection brought guilt and the guilt pushed me on.
Realizing the futility of the life I was living, seeing how far off-course I was floored me when it caught me. On the surface it looked like the life I aspire to: active, social, exciting; but without substance it is vapid.
Like a crazed hunting dog chasing a rabbit into a briar patch, I found myself pursuing the wrong things. I was out of balance and out of energy.
Emily sees me as the woman I want to be. She loves me, but cannot be hurt by my distress. She is not afraid to confront me, but will never judge me. She still holds strong to ideals that age has softened for me. She is like a younger version of myself and it was with her I found my refuge. I was able to stop running.
There was not a monster hot on my trail; it was simply the helpless powerlessness that comes from loving people. I feel it when I look at my brother struggling, when I read about my terminal and broken patients, when I watch Jo fight for the life she deserves, and perhaps, if I am honest, when I realize that as long as my life includes people I care for, my own happiness is at stake. I cannot save them and I can only save myself to a point. I can work hard and attain much of what I want in life, but when it comes to people, what you want doesn’t matter. No amount of work or ambition will enable you to change them.
I was seeking without knowing what I was looking for. I was accepting facade over authenticity. And I was scared.
I think having Joanna here with me shifted my thinking back to a place where I no longer centered around my own core, instead I started trying to center around a pair. I can craft my life, but when you try to start building for two, your foundation will be a shaky one.
How could I not be anxious? I accepted the idea of sharing my life again, but with no guarantee of her participation. You cannot expect the actions of others to match your own. That is a recipe for disappointment and heartache. All you can do is live your life the best way for you with an open invitation for those you love to participate or not.
I don't want a taco truck of a life, constantly chasing the crowds. I want a brick and mortar abode. It will always be open for those I love to come and find laughter, consistency and refuge. Most importantly, no matter who is coming or going, I will always be home. A true home is not a place that resides in a crowd, or family, or a friend or a lover, but inside of me. Trying to find it anywhere else makes me an anxious vagrant, running frantically from one crowded room to another. I somehow forgot that over the last few weeks.
Sitting quietly in my apartment, not a sound or a soul around, I have settled back into myself. I can let go. I do not need to save anyone, that is not my job. I need only to continue building a strong foundation for myself. As MFK Fisher said, "Like most humans, I am hungry...our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others. So it happens that when I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it...” It is only after I satiate this hunger in myself I am able to indulge in “one of the pleasantest of all emotions… to know that I, I with my brain and my hands, have nourished my beloved few, that I have concocted a stew or a story, a rarity or a plain dish, to sustain them truly against the hungers of the world."
It was an odd feeling, hearing people comment on how well I seemed to be doing. I felt only an inexplicable urge to push forward, to surround myself with people and chatter. Up was down, my focus and priorities skewed. The guilt about that nipping at my heels as I ran faster and harder. The thing is, eventually you will be caught.
I hit a wall yesterday. My brief periods of sleep were rot with nightmares and anxiety, and the numbness was replaced with sadness. I couldn't see and I crashed.
I let the melancholy wash over me through the day and finally sought solace in a kitchen, with an idealist. I put on my cosmetic armor and went up to Ma Peche to watch Emily cook and wait for her to wrap-up for the night. For some reason, sitting in a restaurant, watching the precise, uncompromising work of a chef, I was able to be still and quiet. I sat for two hours, watching her plate, watching her break down. I was still and silent. The sadness would nip at me and then scurry away. She finished her shift and took me to a quiet bar around the corner.
There I told her about my unrest. I told her about my guilt. In the midst of my mad dash, I was walling myself off from those important to me. Speaking in anecdotes to acquaintances and leaving no time to truly talk to family (both blood relations and dear friends). I was not writing, I was not thinking, I was starving my soul with the iceberg lettuce of activity instead of true sustenance. The disconnection brought guilt and the guilt pushed me on.
Realizing the futility of the life I was living, seeing how far off-course I was floored me when it caught me. On the surface it looked like the life I aspire to: active, social, exciting; but without substance it is vapid.
Like a crazed hunting dog chasing a rabbit into a briar patch, I found myself pursuing the wrong things. I was out of balance and out of energy.
Emily sees me as the woman I want to be. She loves me, but cannot be hurt by my distress. She is not afraid to confront me, but will never judge me. She still holds strong to ideals that age has softened for me. She is like a younger version of myself and it was with her I found my refuge. I was able to stop running.
There was not a monster hot on my trail; it was simply the helpless powerlessness that comes from loving people. I feel it when I look at my brother struggling, when I read about my terminal and broken patients, when I watch Jo fight for the life she deserves, and perhaps, if I am honest, when I realize that as long as my life includes people I care for, my own happiness is at stake. I cannot save them and I can only save myself to a point. I can work hard and attain much of what I want in life, but when it comes to people, what you want doesn’t matter. No amount of work or ambition will enable you to change them.
I was seeking without knowing what I was looking for. I was accepting facade over authenticity. And I was scared.
I think having Joanna here with me shifted my thinking back to a place where I no longer centered around my own core, instead I started trying to center around a pair. I can craft my life, but when you try to start building for two, your foundation will be a shaky one.
How could I not be anxious? I accepted the idea of sharing my life again, but with no guarantee of her participation. You cannot expect the actions of others to match your own. That is a recipe for disappointment and heartache. All you can do is live your life the best way for you with an open invitation for those you love to participate or not.
I don't want a taco truck of a life, constantly chasing the crowds. I want a brick and mortar abode. It will always be open for those I love to come and find laughter, consistency and refuge. Most importantly, no matter who is coming or going, I will always be home. A true home is not a place that resides in a crowd, or family, or a friend or a lover, but inside of me. Trying to find it anywhere else makes me an anxious vagrant, running frantically from one crowded room to another. I somehow forgot that over the last few weeks.
Sitting quietly in my apartment, not a sound or a soul around, I have settled back into myself. I can let go. I do not need to save anyone, that is not my job. I need only to continue building a strong foundation for myself. As MFK Fisher said, "Like most humans, I am hungry...our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others. So it happens that when I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it...” It is only after I satiate this hunger in myself I am able to indulge in “one of the pleasantest of all emotions… to know that I, I with my brain and my hands, have nourished my beloved few, that I have concocted a stew or a story, a rarity or a plain dish, to sustain them truly against the hungers of the world."
As long as I am wholly me, those I love know where they can find comfort. My life is a beautiful bungalow not a prison. It is exactly what I want it to be and will always be open. It was shuttered these last few weeks, but I am here now. I am smiling and free and ready to welcome and savor each guest who crosses my threshold or to relish it in complete solitude.
Friday, June 4, 2010
When I Grow Old
I guess I have gotten to the age where I no longer say, "when I grow-up", now I think instead about how I want to grow old.
I had a vision of what I would like that to look like yesterday. Jo and I picked up our CSA produce share on 14th Street and met up with Em for a quick drink in an outdoor garden in the East Village. Em proceeded to lead us through the Japanese market, gathering exotic ingredients and a few beautiful squid. From there we wandered over to a fantastic Spanish wine shop Tinto Fino on our way to Kaitlin's apartment. We spent the evening cooking our bounty, sipping our wine and laughing together on Kaitlin's terrace.
Kaitlin rushed off to a date and we proceeded back up to the village for a nightcap. We mused, waxed philosophical and reminisced for a bit before heading back out into the warm summer evening to make our way home. I looked at my amazing girls, listened to the sound of their voices dancing around me and smiled.
I could spend my days this way. Cooking, sharing, living each meal like an event. I think I would like to have nightly dinner parties. Smaller ones during the week, with one or two good friends and endless interesting conversation. I would have larger ones too, the classic dinner parties from my grandparents' era, right down to cocktail hour and after dinner drinks.
I am collecting phenomenal people, they will fill my life like chotchkies fill the homes of old Midwestern women. I have learned that good friends are the most valuable thing one can aspire to have in their life. People are interesting, they are important, and contrary to popular belief, relationships must be cultivated like a garden. It is worth the effort, in the end it makes all the difference. Children grow-up and leave, sometimes husbands do too! Friends, when cared for and tended to, they can last forever.
Yes, I had a vision of a beautiful old woman last night. She has a full, beautiful life, stories of a life well lived and the warmth of love rendering her face luminescent. That is who I want to be when I grow old.
Feed my Eyes, Feed my Soul
New York is my home. Walking down 1st Avenue feels much like walking down the corridor of a large home, padding over to my sister's room in my fuzzy slippers. This place is requires of me only my truest self; it lives within me as much as I in it. Last night we were musing over beers in a dark East Village tavern about our home. Though it is home, that does not mean there is not room in my heart for other cities, other adventures. There is no where else in this country I would move, and I say this as someone who has seen nearly all of it. The world, on the other hand, holds far too many beautiful mysteries to be left unexplored. This lead me back to the exotic places that still linger in the landscape of my mind.
I have seen the beauty of Paris, walking along the Seine. I have seen the wonders of the Rockie Mountains on a crisp spring morning. I have watched the sun dip into the Pacific Ocean, setting the Santa Monica hills ablaze. I have swam in the azure waters of the Caribbean. I have found myself mesmerized by the grandeur of my beloved New York. Beauty feeds a deep place inside of me; I feast on it and succumb to it. When I think of beauty though, the kind that takes your breath away, there is one place that eclipses all others: my desert.
The unexpected bursts of beauty amidst desolation can bring a tear to my eye to this day. I can feel it inside of me: the unceasing desert wind, the purple and red of the sunset, the green jewels of life around the Tigress river that shock your senses as you come atop a sandy hill, even the sea of nothingness that surrounded me as we moved through southern Iraq. The orange and white trucks bustling down the road, the people dressed in flowing robes, the bazaars selling bootleg Micheal Jackson Cd's, all of it both terrifying and enticing in its complete otherness. My heart beats faster at the memory, filling me with both anxiety and longing. Funny though, looking at pictures of that place, it never looks the way I remember. I wonder now if the beauty we are drawn to is somehow reflective of something inside ourselves.
The unexpected bursts of beauty amidst desolation can bring a tear to my eye to this day. I can feel it inside of me: the unceasing desert wind, the purple and red of the sunset, the green jewels of life around the Tigress river that shock your senses as you come atop a sandy hill, even the sea of nothingness that surrounded me as we moved through southern Iraq. The orange and white trucks bustling down the road, the people dressed in flowing robes, the bazaars selling bootleg Micheal Jackson Cd's, all of it both terrifying and enticing in its complete otherness. My heart beats faster at the memory, filling me with both anxiety and longing. Funny though, looking at pictures of that place, it never looks the way I remember. I wonder now if the beauty we are drawn to is somehow reflective of something inside ourselves.
Iraq is a land of contradictions, juxtapositions: beautiful and barren, dangerous and peaceful, fight and flight. I sometimes think my own beauty comes from the same kind of contradiction. I am not the most physically stunning specimen, but there is something about me, like an oasis in a desert that makes me shine in a way that is not as simple as a beautiful face or body. What that thing is, I don't know.
I know that a desert wind blows through me, making me volatile and passionate and ever changing. Out of the currents of past pain grows a spectacular garden of serenity. The deserts of things yet unattained drive me forward. The constant dangers of the world makes me brave and grateful. The desert winds in my soul whisper to me. They tell me to live, live passionately, cherish people, push on despite the seemingly endless expanse of emptiness that sometimes surrounds me. I live in that rugged, beautiful, scary, exciting place, not as a soldier, not as a tourist, but as wild creature.
The wildness of that place speaks to the wild thing inside of me. That is why her beauty reigns supreme, that is why I must never stop seeking life in far away lands. There are pieces of me waiting to be discovered in faraway lands. I found my home in New York, but home is not the end of the journey. Home is the place that gives you the strength and confidence to venture back out, knowing that there will always be a place to which you can fully return.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Kansas Jo Comes Blowing into Town
I would be lying if I said I was without my concerns about Jo's impending arrival. She too felt the familiar panic as the date of her JFK landing drew near. We know we are like sisters and we are both fiercely independent, but above all, we knew that her arrival would change everything for us.
After settling into my new life of solitude, the proposition of once again sharing my home was a perplexing one. As with all change in life, it is best to accept it at face value, not try to make it resemble your old life and open yourself up to the stunning possibilities. With that idea in mind, I honored my last evening alone by curling up on the couch with pizza and having a good lazy session.
Thursday evening she blew into town and brought with her a latent, nervous energy that fueled a manic two week bender. We started off with dinner and many drinks at Yuca Bar in the East Village, stumbling home to pass clean out. The next day we wandered the city. New York was the first dear friend of mine I had the pleasure of introducing her to. That evening I hosted an insane Koreatown Karaoke party and introduced her to the good, the bad and the ugly in my fair group.
The next week was a boozy, non-stop parade of introductions and late nights. She met my Gay Godfather for brunch, my neurotic Gossip Girl Kaitlin, had an epic dinner with my friend Nelson, several girls nights with Em and a disastrous night out in the Lower East Side. In between these activities, I continued meeting up with my various amigos individually.
I drank, I slept little and I still made it to the gym most days. I was filled with an energy that threatened to consume me if I stopped for even one moment.
By the second week, we were finding our footing. We began sleeping soundly, staying in a night or two and truly enjoying the new life forming around us.
My energy is dipping, (perhaps back to a more human level!) I am craving food over wine, and it has begun to just feel like life. Without changing a thing, simply inviting her into my world, it has enriched it for me. If it is possible, she allowed me to fall even more in love with my city, my friends, my life.
I feel it is honest to say that her presence has always made me sentimental, especially when it comes to D. This held true for the first few days, perhaps part of the reason I was running like my life depended on it was that I was afraid of some piece of me or my old life she might take me back to, but with my attention drawn back to all the people and adventures at my fingertips, the sentiment drifted away and was replaced with all the burning glory of things yet to come. As we slowed our pace and began to talk I found myself face to face with someone as brand new as I am. She is no longer stuck in the desert where we first met, she is free and ready to charge into the horizon with me. We are finally both free to live and dream and feel as we never where able to in our old world. She is no longer a reminder of the past, but a vibrant part of my journey into the future. Yes, my sister is here and I am seeing her for the first time as she was always meant to be.
She is thinking of coming here to stay, and walking along through the East Village, watching her and Emily laughing, I could barely stand to hope it. That much joy is to scary to even hope for. Could I actually have it all? I may not yet be completely settled into my new life with Kansas Jo, but I am having one hell of a ride.
Friday, May 14, 2010
The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow!
"Bet your bottom dollar on tomoroooooooow!" The sun did in fact peek through the clouds on Thursday. With it's rays came a hint of optimism.
I think I may truly be solar powered, with the sun comes hope, positivity and the possibility that things might actually be okay.
I am surrounded by friends, getting stronger by the moment and have nothing but wide open spaces ahead of me.
You can knock me down, but you certainly can't keep me there.
I think I may truly be solar powered, with the sun comes hope, positivity and the possibility that things might actually be okay.
I am surrounded by friends, getting stronger by the moment and have nothing but wide open spaces ahead of me.
You can knock me down, but you certainly can't keep me there.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Sometimes Life Just Hurts
I have experienced quite a bit of pain in my life, both physical and emotional. When undergoing minor surgery in Iraq without anesthetic, I did not ask the question, "why is this happening to me?" I shrugged off any compassion or questions to this effect with the explanation that maybe it was because I could handle it. Better me with my strong pain threshold than someone less capable of enduring it. This line of reasoning, while not entirely logical, was enough to keep me from slipping into a state of dribbling self-pity.
On Friday, I found out I needed to have my IUD removed. I was nearly in tears before I ever entered the exam room, so this information left me shaking. It hurt, it hurt a lot. It hurt more than it should have, probably due to the surgeries I endured years before. On Friday, while fighting back my tears with all the pride left in my bleeding body, I finally whimpered that question: "Why me?" I wondered why I had to experience all this pain. I was overcome by the pain I had felt over all the years in every stabbing reminder of what had just transpired. I scheduled a date to have the IUD replaced, though I shuddered at the though of going through that agony all over again.
Again unprotected from a pregnancy I knew I did not want, I felt vulnerable. I felt beaten. I heard again all the voices of my superiors in the army taunting me, telling me that I would be the next pathetic soldier to end-up knocked-up and useless. Telling me it was only a matter of time. I heard their voices really telling me that I was a fool to think I could control my destiny or even my body. I felt so angry, so assaulted, so sad.
I went on a lovely date with D Friday night. We had drinks and then dinner at a private little Italian restaurant in the East Village. I had a great time, but then, curled up on the couch with him I felt trapped in between his embrace and my isolation.
I have become deeply independent over the last few months. Part of being independent is being fiercely protective of yourself. When he wrapped his arms around me, my instinct was to become defensive. This reaction was so foreign in the context of our history together that it made me feel sad, angry and vulnerable.
The next day I let down those defenses, those walls I carefully crafted around myself, and had a wonderful day wandering around the city with him. It felt natural again. It was not until Saturday evening that I felt the first stab. Looking at him on the couch next to me, I once again had to fight the tears. He would be leaving the next day. I would go back to my life and he to his. Back to the separate lives we now lead. There are consequences to letting your walls down, they allow both for connection and for pain.
He left today. I went uptown to my EWI event and he jetted off for Las Vegas. The party was a fantastic success, but on my way home I felt the familiar ache I though I had cured myself of. I missed him. Even sitting in the bar, surrounded by my adoring friends who had sustained me all these months, I felt his absence like a knife.
Like my faulty IUD that had to come out, it was time for him to go back to pursuing his dreams and me to mine. Still, I sit in astonishment at the pain; suspecting but not realizing how much it was going to hurt. Wounds heal, defenses can be rebuilt, but these facts to not bring relief to those in the midst of their distress. This time I will not ask the futile question, "Why me?". There is no answer. Sometimes life just hurts.
I guess we have to learn to live with this fact. I am still learning to navigate the world with both a coat of armor and an open heart. I think that to live life avoiding pain at all costs is to lose out on some of the things that make it worth living. The key may be to discern which things those are. Though I may be able to endure the assaults of life on my body and heart, I am also able to accept the joyful moments and pleasures the world offers me.
I will be gentle with my heart and body, protecting them from the unnecessary agonies and nursing them back from all the rest.
On Friday, I found out I needed to have my IUD removed. I was nearly in tears before I ever entered the exam room, so this information left me shaking. It hurt, it hurt a lot. It hurt more than it should have, probably due to the surgeries I endured years before. On Friday, while fighting back my tears with all the pride left in my bleeding body, I finally whimpered that question: "Why me?" I wondered why I had to experience all this pain. I was overcome by the pain I had felt over all the years in every stabbing reminder of what had just transpired. I scheduled a date to have the IUD replaced, though I shuddered at the though of going through that agony all over again.
Again unprotected from a pregnancy I knew I did not want, I felt vulnerable. I felt beaten. I heard again all the voices of my superiors in the army taunting me, telling me that I would be the next pathetic soldier to end-up knocked-up and useless. Telling me it was only a matter of time. I heard their voices really telling me that I was a fool to think I could control my destiny or even my body. I felt so angry, so assaulted, so sad.
I went on a lovely date with D Friday night. We had drinks and then dinner at a private little Italian restaurant in the East Village. I had a great time, but then, curled up on the couch with him I felt trapped in between his embrace and my isolation.
I have become deeply independent over the last few months. Part of being independent is being fiercely protective of yourself. When he wrapped his arms around me, my instinct was to become defensive. This reaction was so foreign in the context of our history together that it made me feel sad, angry and vulnerable.
The next day I let down those defenses, those walls I carefully crafted around myself, and had a wonderful day wandering around the city with him. It felt natural again. It was not until Saturday evening that I felt the first stab. Looking at him on the couch next to me, I once again had to fight the tears. He would be leaving the next day. I would go back to my life and he to his. Back to the separate lives we now lead. There are consequences to letting your walls down, they allow both for connection and for pain.
He left today. I went uptown to my EWI event and he jetted off for Las Vegas. The party was a fantastic success, but on my way home I felt the familiar ache I though I had cured myself of. I missed him. Even sitting in the bar, surrounded by my adoring friends who had sustained me all these months, I felt his absence like a knife.
Like my faulty IUD that had to come out, it was time for him to go back to pursuing his dreams and me to mine. Still, I sit in astonishment at the pain; suspecting but not realizing how much it was going to hurt. Wounds heal, defenses can be rebuilt, but these facts to not bring relief to those in the midst of their distress. This time I will not ask the futile question, "Why me?". There is no answer. Sometimes life just hurts.
I guess we have to learn to live with this fact. I am still learning to navigate the world with both a coat of armor and an open heart. I think that to live life avoiding pain at all costs is to lose out on some of the things that make it worth living. The key may be to discern which things those are. Though I may be able to endure the assaults of life on my body and heart, I am also able to accept the joyful moments and pleasures the world offers me.
I will be gentle with my heart and body, protecting them from the unnecessary agonies and nursing them back from all the rest.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Perfect Anticipation
This week I experienced something like bliss. I, for a moment, had everything I wanted. To me it is not the actual having, but the knowledge that it will be had, the attaining that matters. There is joy in the destination, but the journey is much longer and therefore gives the opportunity for even more joy. I have been granted the opportunity to study with the greatest minds in my field, on my way to gaining the career I have always wanted, surrounded by friends, loved, in the city I adore. I may not yet own my own apartment, or make the kind of money I want, or have the job I am after, but it's coming. It is all at my fingertips. Walking through the Village, feeling the warm breeze and perfect 75 degree weather that is neither hot nor cold, I had everything I ever wanted. I had the concrete version of hope: anticipation.
I left work early to go listen to a panel discussion on food in the context of memoirs. Entering the vast Bobst Library at NYU, I was overwhelmed by the grandeur of it all. The atrium is open, pulling your eye up the seemingly endless floors of books. There was a lounge area to my right, all wood paneling and portraits. There was so much history, so much greatness, I was in awe. As the speakers were introduced, my sense of wonder was heightened further. Before me were men and women who knew James Beard and Julia Child, the first panelist was the great-nephew of MFK Fisher! These people are my superstars, my heroes, the people I long to know. I want to collect them like porcelain figures, lining them up in pretty display case in my home. I want to keep them all and surround myself with them and bask in their stories and ideas. This is what I get to do! I have the unimaginable honor of working with these people, learning from them and perhaps one day teaching them something too. I want to be one of them, in the company of these giants.
It is not helpless longing, it is a reality. I have gotten something that I wanted so deeply, transforming a fantasy into a reality. It is no wonder than that walking out of the building, into that perfect spring air, that I felt so completely, peacefully happy.
The present and future are inextricably linked for me. I used to live in the past or the future, in a constant state of sentiment or dream. This can lead you down a very dark path. The past is untouchable and the future, especially if you have a dark vision of it, uncertain and cold. The place I now reside is solidly in the present, with the future as my horizon. It is always moving back as I move toward it, but knowing it is there, seeing it everyday more clearly as I near, that propels me forward.
In Colorado you can always tell West by the towering mountains, seeing them orients people. On a cloudy day, if they were to be masked, one would suddenly feel a bit lost. How could you feel anything but pleasure watching the beautiful, towering peaks in the distance? They are there, they are solid, they are waiting for your arrival. This is how I see my future and my dreams. I do not reside there, but they decorate my landscape, orient me and fill me with a glowing warmth.
My dreams do not make my present look inadequate, they make it breathtakingly beautiful. I can only hope the view from the top can compare.
I left work early to go listen to a panel discussion on food in the context of memoirs. Entering the vast Bobst Library at NYU, I was overwhelmed by the grandeur of it all. The atrium is open, pulling your eye up the seemingly endless floors of books. There was a lounge area to my right, all wood paneling and portraits. There was so much history, so much greatness, I was in awe. As the speakers were introduced, my sense of wonder was heightened further. Before me were men and women who knew James Beard and Julia Child, the first panelist was the great-nephew of MFK Fisher! These people are my superstars, my heroes, the people I long to know. I want to collect them like porcelain figures, lining them up in pretty display case in my home. I want to keep them all and surround myself with them and bask in their stories and ideas. This is what I get to do! I have the unimaginable honor of working with these people, learning from them and perhaps one day teaching them something too. I want to be one of them, in the company of these giants.
It is not helpless longing, it is a reality. I have gotten something that I wanted so deeply, transforming a fantasy into a reality. It is no wonder than that walking out of the building, into that perfect spring air, that I felt so completely, peacefully happy.
The present and future are inextricably linked for me. I used to live in the past or the future, in a constant state of sentiment or dream. This can lead you down a very dark path. The past is untouchable and the future, especially if you have a dark vision of it, uncertain and cold. The place I now reside is solidly in the present, with the future as my horizon. It is always moving back as I move toward it, but knowing it is there, seeing it everyday more clearly as I near, that propels me forward.
In Colorado you can always tell West by the towering mountains, seeing them orients people. On a cloudy day, if they were to be masked, one would suddenly feel a bit lost. How could you feel anything but pleasure watching the beautiful, towering peaks in the distance? They are there, they are solid, they are waiting for your arrival. This is how I see my future and my dreams. I do not reside there, but they decorate my landscape, orient me and fill me with a glowing warmth.
My dreams do not make my present look inadequate, they make it breathtakingly beautiful. I can only hope the view from the top can compare.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Tamale War Zone
I began preparing for battle last weekend with a scouting trip to Essex Market. I had to find corn masa as well as a few other Hispanic ingredients. It is trickier that you might think to track down these items, even in New York. Upon arrival, I knew I had found the mecca of Mexican ingredients in Manhattan!
They had the elusive masa, amazing piles of produce and the lingering aroma of cilantro and peppers. I purchased my ingredients and splurged on some real animal lard! Everything was dirt cheap, what a coup!
I finally made my way home and, poof, lost my motivation. The masa and corn husks stayed in my fridge, questioningly looking at me, for another week. I had an EWI new members even the following Saturday and I decided to make pork buns (yes, I am a procrastinator!), fate had other ideas though. Unable to find pork belly on such short notice, I was forced to face my opponent. The day of the event no less!
It is generally a bad idea to be in a rush when trying a new recipe, but apparently I like to do things the hard way! To make sure I was making a good, authentic dough, I pulled several recipes to compare. They were all similar enough, I felt confident enough to get started. I distinctly remember that the first recipe I studies said to use half of a 4 lb. bag of masa, the second recipe concurred that 2 cups of masa should be combined with 3 cups of stock or broth.
I dumped the four in my bowl, nearly overflowing, and added the broth. Huh. It still looked pretty dry. At that moment I realized I was an idiot. Yes, yes, I'm sure you caught the 2 lb versus 2 cup issues right away. Well, I was rushing. Ok, fine, I will increase everything in the recipe. Yeaaah, well, that mixing bowl was not going to be accommodating and other six cups of stock! I just laughed at my oh, so typical folly and pulled down a pasta pot. Desperation is the mother of invention, and the clock was ticking.
As I desperately mixed, splattering masa, water and broth all over my tiny kitchen/apartment I decided to just go for it. I threw down the spoon like a gauntlet and started kneading with my bare hands. I mixed and added until I had two bowls of dough. Going for the consistency of peanut butter, I dipped my finger in one bowl and then the other, desperately trying to remember what peanut butter felt like! Were we talking warm peanut butter or cold? Screw it, I picked a bowl and started adding clumps of whipped lard.
One site had given the tip that the dough was ready when a small pinch of it floated in a glass of water. That indicates that enough air has been whipped in. I pushed my trusty hand mixer to the max, and the first pinch did not float. I kept mixing and praying that I did not kill my mixer in the process. This was a war and I was not backing down!
In the mean time, I had the husks soaking in my sink and I have to admit, they smelled like wet dog. I tried to ignore this disturbing fact and began putting together my filling. I believe in working smarter, not harder, so I used some pre-cooked carnitas and some Cuban black beans. I also am cheap and wanted to stretch the expensive pork! I seasoned it up and it was good to go.
Alright, go time. I laid down a towel and began pulling my husks out of the sink. I spread the masa, again with my fingers, and put dainty spoonfuls of the pork mixture down the middle. I used the method described online to roll and wrap the little buggers, and they looked pretty damn cool!
About five tamales in, my back started aching from bending over the counter and I made the executive decision to make twenty of them instead of the fifty recommended! As long as there was enough for the party, I would deal with the left over masa later. I wrapped and wrapped and got them all done. Exhausted and in a rush, I jumped in a cab and headed downtown.
I arrived and set-up the steamer, only about ten of them fit in the little pot. I fired-up the burner and poured myself a big glass of wine. Guests were due to arrive in just over an hour. Nothing like testing a new recipe on unsuspecting strangers!
After about an hour, it was the moment of truth. I gingerly pulled out a tamale and unwrapped it. They were good! They were really good! Ha! Take that you tamale bastards!
I decided to cut them into bite sized pieces and set them out for the party. They would be cold, but whattaya gonna do? They seemed to go over well, and as the party wore on I started fishing out fresh, hot tamales and serving them. The hot ones were much more popular, go figure.
All in all, I would have to say that the reverence given to the art of tamale making, the near mythic level of difficulty assigned to this task, is a total exaggeration. They were not that difficult. A bit time consuming? Yes. Messy? Yes. Rocket Science? No. I say this, though the extra masa dough is still sitting in my fridge! Regardless, I came, I steamed, I conquered! That is enough for me.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Dr. Stranglove: VA GYN
I went to the gynecologist at the VA a couple weeks ago. I had a bad experience last year with a fellow who literally drew blood during my PAP with his barbaric methods, and I was relieved that I had a different doctor this time. My relief was short lived.
The tall sallow-faced doctor began asking me standard questions until he came across my IUD in the chart. With an eyebrow raised, he asked me why someone who did not yet have children had such an invasive birth control device. I told him that I suffered from migraines and the hormones in the pill don't agree with me.
He was still perplexed.
He asked me flat out, "So, do you ever want to have children?" A bit startled, I muttered something about possibly wanting them at some point, but not now. He then asked, "Do you want children with your current partner?". Startled further, I explained that I had just come out of a 4 year relationship and was not currently seeing anyone. This sent him into a lecture on the fact that getting an infection with an IUD can make one infertile. I stammered that I was not sexually active, but would definitely use a condom if that changed. He was unmoved, he went on to tell me to think long and hard about any future partners, sleeping with them was risking my fertility and "they better be worth it".
Thankfully, the Q&A section was almost over and I was getting ready to disrobe. He then realized that my period had just ended and said their might be some, "residual still up-in-there". He swiftly asked me to reschedule. Seriously? Well, he is the doctor, maybe there is something about blood and tests that I don't know about. I went out front and reschedule for today.
Making my way down to the basement where the VA banished the gyn clinic, I was not looking forward to another meeting with doctor strange love. After chatting with the nurses and patients and re-filling-out all the damned forms, he finally called me in. He looked puzzled, he said, "you look different, I don't even recognize you!" Confused, I told him I dyed my hair and perhaps it was styled differently last time. He continued to stare. Finally, he shrugged and said, "Well, whatever it is, it looks very complimentary". Weird.
I was careful during Q&A, not wanting to set him off again. I made it through relatively unscathed and was taken to the exam table. It got weirder. During my breast exam he began making awkward small talk, asking about where I was from etc. Moving to the "main event", he decided to mention that my IUD string was quite long. Okaaaaay. He then asked me, "has anyone mentioned your IUD string to you?"
What the fuck?
I told him that my ex once told me he could feel it. He proceeded to ask, "with his fingers?" I was a bit taken aback and said, "No, while he was, um, inside me".
He nodded and said nothing.
I then asked if it could be a problem or an indication that it was coming out. I fully expected him to laugh, like all the other doctor's had when I asked similar questions, but no, he looked at me with a strait face and said, "It's possible, but you haven't gotten pregnant yet."
After this startling proclamation, he simply went over to his computer and began typing notes.
I was aghast!
"Well, I would like to know if there is a problem BEFORE I get pregnant! That's the whole point." He shrugged again and told me he would schedule an ultrasound so they could look at the placement. He said he wanted me to come back to see him a couple weeks later so he could read me my results.
Now, the first thought through my mind was, "if this guy is making all this up just so I will come in for a follow-up to see him, there will be hell to pay!" This thought was quickly replaced by a deep concern that I was becoming cripplingly paranoid.
On my way out tonight I stopped by Little Boss's office. I make a habit of coming in to shoot the shit and gossip about other employees with her. I began telling her about the dungeon of GYN and how awkward my visit was. It was only after my story left her gripping the desk in fits of laughter that I realized, "I'm not paranoid! This guy is a weirdo!"
I don't know how I find these people, or why, but my life seems to be a zoo of strange and bizarre individuals. Interesting that the first man to see "The Cat" since my breakup would be a crack-pot gynecologist, at least I was able to wait until the second "date". I guarantee there will not be a third!
Sunday, April 11, 2010
The Season of Bleeding Feet
Spring is here and with it came the bleeding feet.
Every spring I feel like a prisoner being paroled, the wicked cold not longer keeps me trapped in the house, dreading my walks to and from work and impeding my otherwise active lifestyle. I go out and buy brand new flats to accommodate all the walking I am going to be doing.
Like said prisoner, I find my new found freedom throws me into a fit of hedonism. I walk and walk, greedily taking in all the excitement and drama of the city in bloom. I walk so much in these new shoes (which were very comfortable when I tried them on!) that my feet end of looking like they came out of a meat grinder. This all happens the first weekend of Spring, the following week of spring finds me gingerly trying to get my battered feet into whatever pair of shoes don't cause me unbearable agony!
Well, my feet are beginning to heal and the shoes will get broken in eventually. I must say it is worth it though, each passing block offers me its own story or character. For example, last week I walked to the library on my way home from work. On my way in, two young boys passed me carrying children's books. They could not have been more than 10 years old. I though little of it, assuming their parents were waiting for them outside. On my way home I pass the outdoor cafe on my corner. There they were: the two little boys were sitting at at table by themselves, sipping soda and reading their books. I found their adultness to be endlessly amusing, only in New York! Turning the corner, I give a nod to the Empire State Building, thinking how amazing it is that I have such an icon as a neighbor.
The city herself seems to be celebrating; the parks are alive with tulips and lavender, and the trees lining the streets are covered in cherry blossoms. I notice old temples nestled between the brownstones and storefronts I never seemed to see before. She is singing to me, radiant and beautiful, finally waking from her winter slumber.
Walking through her streets I feel that familiar sense of satisfaction. I feel so full inside, like there is nothing else in the world I need at that moment. I suppose I have every reason to feel that way: my professional life is about to begin, I have amazing friends who think I am capable of anything, my family adores me, I have a great apartment, a bearable job and I live in the most magnificent city in the world. I also have a deep sense that all the things I don't yet have are coming to me. Mostly though, when I wander through New York on a beautiful spring day, I don't feel loneliness is possible.
Spring is a time of change and growth, and I suppose then it is only appropriate that it comes with a little pain. The season of bleeding feet is here and I couldn't be happier.
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