Olive Juice

2011-09-27T14:44:00.004-07:00

And so something new happens.

Lord, let me lay aside my plans, my predispositions, my grievances and complaints, my own opinions of how I should be or how it should look like, and embrace this with both hands.

Boxes

2011-09-12T22:45:00.003-07:00

My aunt helped me out with my storage unit rent. I am going to pay her back when I am settled and actually making money. And I am so thankful because I am no longer living under "Will all my belongings be auctioned off for money?"

I hate this. I hate debt. And I hate living in liminal spaces, life lived in the margins. This must be how mimes feel, trapped in boxes full of air. Actually, what I think I don't like is the opinions of others that I've internalized, whether positive or negative. And that problem is mine, and mine alone.

Something people don't realize: having no schedule and no agenda can be just as confining as having many plans and places-to-be. And having no responsibility is draining. We definitely are not made to seek pleasure as our highest pursuit. Vanity. There is nothing new under the sun.

People look at what I'm currently doing--traveling without a plan--and find it inspiring. And while I was just writing something cynical about it, I pray that the things I'm doing are inspiring people to move out of the corners they don't need to be in. And if God can use me to do that, then I'm happy to do it. But I am also ready to have a... place to be. To be in one area, and to actually live--that sounds nice. When you're traveling, people don't invest in you much. And as much as I'd like to think I am one way--that I am made for the open road--I am not sure that's true. And as I write this, I think that maybe the Lord is revealing a desire in my heart, one that I didn't really know I had.

I remember fighting this idea the first time it was presented. And a part of me still fights it. I'd like to move out of fighting it. But it's sounding more and more appealing.

(On a similar note, I cringe when I read the quote by Kerouac on here. Firstly, I have not read Kerouac. I am not a big fan of quoting people from things I've never read. Secondly, it's mainly for image. And that's... just a sham. I am tired of shams. I do not like living fully honest, completely myself. It wears me out. I also think I was an asshole to write that entry about coming back and hoping to not have an audience. That whole period of time, I am not a fan of. )

And I am glad for this time, and I know a lot of good things are happening. I am just tired. I would like a place to lay my head. A place to rest. And perhaps a place to be.

And I'd like some white Christmas lights in my next room. And a goldfish. And perhaps a grow-your-own-frog set. And a bed that I can sleep in and feel like I really, truly am in a room of my own. I feel like I've been living in others' spaces for too long.

I am tired right now. I need to go to bed.

Fresh Wind

2011-09-12T17:12:00.004-07:00

I feel new winds blowing. Old dreams, long since forgotten, covered in dust so thick you have to push your finger through it to find out what they are, are coming to the surface again. And parts of my heart, stored away in tiny boxes, are returning. And they're coming with life. He is good. And He is a God of big dreams and small. (Especially the small.) And He truly knows the desires of my heart.

Texas

2011-09-12T16:36:00.002-07:00

It's not about having people know about you, it's about getting to know them.

2011-08-26T01:00:00.003-07:00

I closed my Facebook account today. It feels like I discontinued the National Weather Service. Now people can't track me.

Mmmm... Rubbish

2011-08-06T16:40:00.004-07:00

I've been doing things that I thought I would never do--forcing myself to partake, and, in some sick sort of fashion, training myself to enjoy, things that I normally wouldn't. Chicken Soup for the Soul is one of those things. Pictures of kittens or puppies playing. I am not so hardened as to not find kittens or puppies cute. I simply... have been force-feeding myself absolute crap because I think that I should like these things...

Rennovation

2010-04-26T12:48:00.002-07:00

"Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of - throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself."

— C.S. Lewis (Mere Christianity)

2006-10-21T10:16:00.000-07:00

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars..." -- On The Road ~ Kerouac

Hello Again, Old Friend

2006-10-20T23:22:00.000-07:00

Hopefully I've neglected blogging here for long enough that most will have forgotten it even survives. Why have an online blog if you're not wanting an audience? Why not a journal or a diary? Something with a gold lock and tiny, shiny key? For me, those things easily devolve into my own griping and self-pity. At least with the illusion of a readership, I feel it necessary to not write entire garbage.

So yes. Hello again.

e e cummings introduction

2006-10-20T23:17:00.000-07:00

"A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feeling through words.

This may sound easy. It isn't.

A lot of people think or believe or know they feel-but that's thinking or believing or knowing; not feeling. And poetry is feeling-not knowing or believing or thinking.

Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think or you believe or you know, you're a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you're nobody-but-yourself.

To be nobody-but-yourself-in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else-means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.

As for expressing nobody-but-yourself in words, that means working just a little harder than anybody who isn't a poet can possibly imagine. Why? Because nothing is quite as easy as using words like somebody else. We all of us do exactly this nearly all of the time-and whenever we do it, we're not poets.

If, at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you've written one line of one poem, you'll be very lucky indeed.

And so my advice to all young people who wish to become poets is: do something easy, like learning how to blow up the world-unless you're not only willing, but glad, to feel and work and fight till you die.

Does this sound dismal? It isn't.
It's the most wonderful life on earth.
Or so I feel."

2006-09-24T21:33:00.000-07:00

"Joyful Girl"

i do it for the joy it brings
because i'm a joyful girl
because the world owes me nothing
and we owe each other the world
i do it because it's the least i can do
i do it because i learned it from you
i do it just because i want to
because I want to

everything i do is judged
and they mostly get it wrong
but oh well
'cuz the bathroom mirror has not budged
and the woman who lives there can tell
the truth from the stuff that they say
and she looks me in the eye
and says would you prefer the easy way?
no, well o.k. then
don't cry

and i wonder if everything i do
i do instead
of something i want to do more
the question fills my head
i know that there's no grand plan here
this is just the way it goes
and when everything else seems unclear
i guess at least i know

i do it for the joy it brings...

Bethel-- Discipline or Passion

2006-08-07T11:45:00.000-07:00

The exact sermon I needed at the exact moment of need:

Discipline or Passion

Peregrinatio est tacere: "To be on pilgrimage is to be silent"

2006-07-22T16:05:00.000-07:00

"When the door of the steambath is continually left open, the heat inside rapidly escapes through it; likewise, the soul, in its desire to say many things, dissipates its remembrance of God through the door of speech, even though everything it says may be good. Thereafter the intellect, though lacking appropriate ideas, pours out a welter of confused thoughts to anyone it meets, as it no longer has the Holy Spirit to keep its understanding free from fantasy. Ideas of value always shun verbosity, being foreign to confusion and fantasy. Timely silence, then, is precious, for it is nothing less than the mother of the wisest thoughts." ~Diadochus of Photiki

"The mouth is not a door though which any evil enters. The ears are such doors, as are the eyes. The mouth is a door only for exit. What was it that [the Desert Fathers] feared to let go out? What was it which someone might steal out of their hearts, as a thief takes the steed from the stable when the door is left open? It can have been nothing else than the force of religious emotion." ~James Hannay

"There may be a great fire in our soul, yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it, and the passersby only see a wisp of smoke coming through the chimney, and go along their way. Look here, now what must be done? Must one tend the inner fire, have salt in oneself, wait patiently yet with how much impatience for the hour when somebody will come and sit down--maybe to stay? Let him who believes in God wait for the hour that will come sooner or later." ~Vincent van Gogh

Two for the Road

2006-06-07T10:09:00.000-07:00

And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.

- 1 Corinthians 13:13

and

Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will find them gradually, without noticing it, and live along some distant day into the answer.

-Rainer Maria Rilke

Haunted

2006-05-25T12:05:00.000-07:00

"Believers are not those who dabble in an idea to see if it's interesting. Believers are those whose soul is so aglow with the idea that they live it into life. We call them 'obsessed,' but, as a matter of fact, they're not obsessed; they're haunted by possibilities the rest of us cannot yet see--except through them." ~Joan Chittister, Becoming Fully Human

2006-04-27T10:49:00.000-07:00

"To wait open-endedly is an enormously radical attitude toward life. So is to trust that something will happen to us that is far beyond our imaginings. So, too, is giving up control over our future and letting God define our life, trusting that God moulds us according to God's love and not according to our fear. The spiritual life is a life in which we wait, actively present to the moment, trusting that new things will happen to us, new things thar are far beyond our own imagination, fantasy or prediction. That, indeed, is a very radical stance in a world preoccupied with control."

-Henri J. Nouwen

And It Will Be Good

2005-10-17T09:24:00.000-07:00

In a few minutes, I'll shut off this computer. I'll fold up the blankets twisted around me, throw on some sneakers, and begin dragging my belongings to my car.

The last few days have been interesting. No, more to the point, the last year has been interesting. I moved to Washington exactly six months ago yesterday. Now I'll move to Washington again. Sometimes I'm not entirely sure why I do the things I do.

Beau pointed me to a passage in Psalms, Psalms 37:4:Delight yourself in the Lord and he will give you the desires of your heart. Oftentimes people cannot elucidate the deepest desires of their heart, Beau explained. The verse starts with loving a God that knows us inside and out. And, in doing so, God, because of who He is, gives us an unearnable gift, that loving God will confirm our deepest desires because God is the one who put those longings there in the first place.

But it begins with loving God.

Relax

2005-10-16T14:50:00.000-07:00

This morning I left my house at 10:20, which would put me exactly ten minutes late for church. But the grass held green orbs of dew and the trees shed red, pointy tears all over the highway, and I didn't much feel like going to church anymore.

So I drove past old rusty barns and scraggly dwarf horses.

Along patient evergreens and down to the sleepy harbor.

Went to the Farmer's Market and substituted the bread and wine for a marionberry danish and a bag of Concord grapes. Yet the morning was sacred.

The more I wandered, the more apparent it became that I needed to calm myself. To breathe. That these questions do not require great tragedy, and truth is found everywhere.

Worlds Beyond Your Own

2005-10-14T09:22:00.000-07:00

If I could carry you, you could come..

Such Great Heights

2005-10-13T09:16:00.000-07:00

Today's message from the guru: "The beat of your heart is the rhythm of your soul." Start off the morning with a jazzy feel as your arhythmic soul gets down and boogies. My heart beats ta-ta-TUM-tum, TUM-ta-ta-TUM-tum. Every so often it skips like a record, throwing the tas for tums and the TUMS for tums...

This is a good morning.

Last night was a good night. Talked to Hunter, Morgann, and Beau.

Hunter can sit on the porch of his new house and hear church bells on Sunday mornings. And relax on his cookie monster carpeting near his fireplace. Hopefully, I'll get to crash out on that carpeting sometime soon--I'd like to see that kid.

Morgann is coming up to Washington next week to spend some quality time with me and my new roommates.

Beau's making bold moves and even bigger strides. He's been swooping wildly with a dry paint brush, but it sounds like he's bending down to take up paint.

I've made some good friends over the years, friends of whom I'm completely undeserving.

Thank you, my friends. You help me float.

Responsibilities of Transition

2005-10-09T23:29:00.000-07:00

Finally told Scott I'm moving out. And he did it, what I feared.

He looked really somber and asked straight-out: "Am I uninviting?"

And so I sat there, stammering about how I think it'd be a good opportunity and it's something I feel I should do.

How Donald Miller Changed My Life

2005-10-07T01:21:00.000-07:00

Belleylaugh [1:02 AM]: Would you like to hear a strange bedtime story?
M2lee [1:02 AM]: hey. uh,.. sure
Belleylaugh [1:04 AM]: It's more like a strange coincidence, but you can't ask if people want to hear a strange bedtime coincidence 'cause that implies all sorts of things...
M2lee [1:05 AM]: gotcha
Belleylaugh [1:06 AM]: A bit of history you remember: Last year I was in Bookman's and found a book called Blue Like Jazz, which struck me at the right time 'cause it was when I was just beginning to seriously consider Christianity again.

[From another thread:] Now, that book affected me very powerfully. Not necessarily because of how it was written, but just some of the points he makes... This idea that there were other people, "thinking Christians", out there, which, for a small time, was the only bond confronting a tidal wave of alienation.

M2lee [1:06 AM]: check
Belleylaugh [1:07 AM]: Okay, so fast forward through a lot of life--being a Christian again, BS (Bible Study), you and dann, quitting school, no idea, moving to Washington, living in cabin, roommate moving in and looking for a place, no idea what I'm doing, go to Arizona, return to Washington, go to church last Sunday...
M2lee [1:07 AM]: check
Belleylaugh [1:08 AM]: Okay, at church last Sunday, this girl named Joy approached me, basically asking if I wanted to move in with her and her roommate, Justin. Their roommate, Shawn, is moving to New York in the middle of the month. Joel and I went to lunch that day, and afterwards I visited the house...
M2lee [1:08 AM]: [was Joy's question] out of the blue? or do you know them?
Belleylaugh [1:09 AM]: I vaguely know them. She had invited me to a bible study at their house that they have on Thursday nights, but other than that and "how was your week" conversation on Sundays, we didn't know each other.
Belleylaugh [1:10 AM]: Anyway, I knew after I visited the house that if I moved there, I would be challenged to grow and lose a lot of my assumptions... But that's what I wanted--to grow, to continue try to, anyway...
Belleylaugh [1:10 AM]: So I hesitated, but yesterday I really felt that I should move into this house, and so I called them up and told them I'd do it.
M2lee [1:10 AM]: nice
Belleylaugh [1:11 AM]: And we played phone tag all day, and finally they invited me to the bible study tonight. So I get off work just in time to run down there. I race over and get there. Don, my pastor, is there, and Justin, the roommate I met for five minutes...
Belleylaugh [1:12 AM]: Anyway, we have Bible Study and I'm feeling a bit awkward, but getting more and more comfortable...
Belleylaugh [1:13 AM]: And the whole time I'm thinking, this is the community I want to live in... Sorta like when Don Miller describes it in Blue Like Jazz...
M2lee [1:13 AM]: cool beans!
Belleylaugh [1:14 AM]: And then Joy mentions her best friend, Penny, whose real name was "Plenty" 'cause she was born in a commune, and I put two-and-two together... It felt like the sort of community because it's the exact same community. My roommate, Joy, is friends with Donald Miller and her best friend, Penny, is in the book....
[In a different thread... I'm all excited, people, so please excuse the fact that I'm telling all my friends about this:] Lindsay says:
Yes... But what's crazy is that I was sitting there with this feeling excited because I was part of an answer to Joy's prayers--the grant she had was pulled, so she doesn't have a job and desperately needs a roommate to take over after Shaun moves out... But when I realized all this, the connection, I realized they were just as much an answer to mine...

How It Feels

2005-10-06T09:58:00.000-07:00

God said we'd fly kites. Early on Sunday, we assembly-lined peanut butter and jelly, loaded a cooler with sugary drinks, and sang along with the radio a little too loudly...

So we stand in this field, and God's holding the kite, and, because I know what's next, I take off running with my little string end. But nothing happens. There's no lift-off, no drowning in a sea of sky blue.

"What happened? I did it just like they do on TV," I wonder.

And I don't get a response, just a little smile that tells me I should be patient and wait for wind.

A Bird In Hand...

2005-10-06T01:37:00.000-07:00

Forfeiting imaginary birds for imaginary birds. Clenched my fist around a bright reflection because I believed it to be real. Slowly, I relax my grip because your hand must be empty and open before you hold anything (unless you want to hit something, which is a common when it comes to birds). And I remember holding a bird, tracing the down outlines of its little neck. Real birds are better than illusions.

Today's theme: relationships.

Amy told me my bright spot doesn't exist. Morgann told me I shouldn't have bothered with bright spots in the first place. Farren, in disconnected conversation, tells me she's eating ice cream over birds and bright spots. The theme is the same: let go. Reminds me of that poem by e e cummings:

let it go-the
smashed word broken
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise-let it go it
was sworn to
go

let them go-the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers-you must let them go they
were born
to go

let all go-the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things-let all go
dear
so comes love

_______

Colin's been IMing me. After five years, he broke it off with his fiancee; now he wants to call and check up on her. Morgann wants to check on Charlie. And now I'm worried because I don't think I'm going to find anyone who fits me better than Will. Maybe I should check up on him, just to see...

No, I need to get some sleep. It's late, and none of these questions will be answered. And often things are clearer during the day. Or I'm not as susceptible to these emotional torrents...

This Manic Moment is Brought To You By the #8

2005-10-05T08:32:00.000-07:00

One of the pretty rocks I pocketed during short walks with Buddha: Be aware of the consequences you put forth. Another: enjoy the pretty rocks.

Late-night advice swaps always seem like a good idea. But I gave Morgann shoddy advice. She helped me, I wanted to help back. Profundity plugged my tiny ears, and her silent mouthing became opportunity for me to talk. We played ventriloquist for a while, but I am the dummy.

Words haven't meant anything for years. The corresponding emotions aren't corresponding--they are generally absent. And while I write this, I see the implications this statement has--writer's block, misunderstandings... I talk a lot but mean very little. Not that I intend to be a blow-hard or deceive people. I've simply learned to think out loud, to react without intention. For as deliberate as I am, I squeeze fifteen thousand hours of conversation for every ounce of action. "Meaning" is the lesson du jour.

This moment I'm straying from my planned path. I had intended to write you guys about Chris and how she threw away my favorite rock. And how I think Morgann and Charlie should be together, but last night I should have only pointed her back to herself in that exact moment...

Everything, all these windy side-streets and fast thoroughfares, seems to be pointing toward this endpoint of intention. Being fully aware of the impact of your actions. Being even more deliberate, not in the sense of "deliberation" but more in the sense that you approach the world from a position of choice. When you're able to understand better how your day will ripple, you also have a heightened capacity for play. Play is important and completely undervalued. It is the creative approach to any situation. When necessity takes over, when survival fights for top-billing, we lose something vastly important. And I don't understand all of what I'm saying. My brain is flying at fifty miles per minute. Like Don said, we can understand (think/hear) 640 wpm. But I can only type, like, 50. So you're missing out on at least 550. Fill in the blanks, people. Keep up.

Somehow, in my tiny brain, I'm seeing how these things fit together. I'm seeing how my atheistic, angry past and my agnostic tendencies despite being pretty firmly Christian all seem to be working together. Because you can be more intentional about things. I've been very ignorant, and sometimes by choice because it hurts to remember all these big questions and the corresponding pain of void. When there's nothing and no hope of anything bigger, you must focus in closely to the task at hand. Like ants thrown off-course by the juicy winds sadistic children blow, you sort of wander around in circles until you pick up your old scent. And then you file back in line. But that's where the idea of God picks up, and God in a personal, daily sense. A lot of what I find people attribute to God or put on God could be taken care of if they'd simply move their ass. (Yes, I'm speaking to myself in the third person. It's much easier to detach from this... But then detachment is another issue, wholly intertwined, like everything...) This whole idea of relationships and relations and nothing is every cut-and-dry one thing. They're all connected.

God, I hate divisions. And yet I maintain them in my daily life, by either acting purely from reaction or whatever...

I've taken my precious rocks, found over years of searching, and thrown them into the air. Obviously, some hit me in the head this morning, but now I have this fun scavenger hunt to play the rest of the day...

Ticker Tape

2005-10-05T01:05:00.000-07:00

You know what it is? This cabin is the reason I moved out here. It was the deciding "pro" over Minneapolis and Milwaukee. No cabin almost feels like no reason for staying. But that's not exactly true... I've yet to find someone who smells like monsoon afternoons or orange blossom sunsets or Milky Way midnights, but I keep a bit of faith stored away to uncork when I'm feeling lonely. Because I must hold out--there are so many lessons to learn up here...

Oh, and Morgann voted "pro."

Life Decisions By Committee

2005-10-04T22:45:00.000-07:00

While the final count has yet to be made, the verdict looks pretty firm:

Onward to new community and the horizon as seen from Washington Ave.

Voting went as follows:

Pro: Beau, Dann, Me
Con: Mom, Me
Not present: Morgann, Farren

While I got two votes, I cancelled myself out.

Take It or Bake It

2005-10-03T18:25:00.000-07:00

And thus, with a smattering of confusion and a thick shower of fall leaves, I break into religious contemplation. Sorta.

This God thing is too big for my little brain. That is my conclusion. I won't attempt to supplement this conclusion with an explanation, I'll just leave it at that. Thus ends my religious contemplation. (And there was much rejoicing.)

I came back knowing the Brian thing wouldn't work. Actually, I knew it from the beginning, but I, Lindsay, the girl who will dissociate from absolutely anyone without reason or forewarning, wasn't the first to say goodbye. Not that I wasn't right there with him. My dress rehearsals of "this isn't working out" and "it's not you, it's me" all went well. But the curtain lifts over Clubside and two coffees, and a trapdoor malfunctions. And so prayers were answered in a weird, roundabout way: with his "You should know that I'm seeing someone else." Which achieved the same result but hit me straight in the ego. For good measure, I could hear God jokingly say. That pinch to grow an inch served with each birthday cake. Brian and I hugged on the street corner, he said he hoped it wouldn't be weird, and I drove home, belting out an impromptu opera about irony and the silly complexity of human emotions. [Helpful hint: when making up an opera, use big German words like "der Zebrastreifen" ("crosswalk") and "die Geschirrspuelmachine" ("dishwasher") to make it sound more passionate.]

But the funny thing? I don't much care. Telling all you guys about this seems to disprove my last statement, but I'll implicate myself further if I tell you why I don't care. And so I quietly evade all your questions. (Hey, something new!) And I try to avoid thinking about why I don't care because I've thought about that long enough already.

Yesterday morning, Joy stopped me at church. Not in the CS Lewis sense, but in the "I know a girl named Joy, and she is looking for a roommate" literal sense. She and her roommate, Justin, envisioned starting a ministry for the street kids in Olympia. But things have shifted for them. The ministry isn't thriving like they thought, and new challenges have arisen. This is where my new challenges come in. I now have the opportunity to live in a Christian community, one that seems devoid of the usual "Christian" nonsense. This would force me to give up a lot of my present assumptions and ideas--Justin kindly offered me some "rescued" tortillas from, if I understood correctly, a local grocery store dumpster. This is where my lifestyle would shift drastically. Not only because of the new things I'd be exposed to, but also for the simple reason that I'd be forced to scrounge for a new job, or some source of supplemental income to pay rent because, while Fox's supplies me with enough money to break even with car insurance, health insurance, and the bi-monthly trip to the grocery store, there is no way I'd be able to add a $400/month rent bill on top of that without draining my savings... Joy was telling me that she's been learning from Justin how to rest in faith, and made a passing comment that my impulsive move to the Pacific Northwest is equally inspiring to her. But for some reason, this job situation seems to be really stepping out in faith. I am a commitment-phobe, and I'm a luxury-glutton. If something's working alright, I'm hesitant to risk it for something that may possibly reap amazing benefits. Gambling is not my forte.

As my last entry hints, I've been praying a lot differently in the last two weeks. Especially in this last week. Not that I think there are shortcuts or anything like that. I just started praying about the parts I've been deliberately avoiding, thinking I could strong-arm my way to the conclusion I want. And while my brief experiences with really listening and seeking God ended up radically changing my life for the better, I'm still uncomfortable with this... And the weird developments that have been happening recently make me even more uncomfortable because that means what I've been saying is true, and what I've actually practiced is crap. When God fortifies my empty words with meaning, I always feel this way.

A Hot-House Tomato Asks for More

2005-09-22T09:32:00.000-07:00

Safe prayer is not effective.

The themes of security and self-preservation justify my own laziness and fear. Laziness and fear. Two slugs endlessly devouring each other.

The Hammer of Brutal Honesty

2005-09-16T20:07:00.000-07:00

Before I bade the saguaro adios, a friend of mine introduced me to the concept of brutal honesty. She used it on other people. I will turn the method against myself:

I'm quite deliberate. Fall madly in love with people who will never love me properly; get bored of the ones who would. Unfocused and wandering. Immature with mature leanings. A lost soul. Undisciplined and unfocused. The questions I've been avoiding because I didn't want to be hurt again--well, they're back. Pretty introverted. Petty. Inhibit my own potential. Superficial (not in the customary way, but simply keep people on my perimeter, on my surface). Overly-analytical. Blunt. Non-confrontational. Inarticulate when conversation forces me to expose parts of myself. Confused. Bad at following through with ideas. Too eager to explore other peoples' ideas, becoming a sort of chameleon that they feel is exactly like them, not realizing that I must become what they are (or more like them, anyway) to digest their opinions and experiences. Scared and fearful. Guarded and untrusting. Mercurial. Have emotional amnesia. Flaky. Do not get to the questions other people get to because I have enough trouble battling the fundamentals. Slow to understand concepts. Shallow understanding of a wide range of subjects; no real understanding of any one subject or moderate understand of a few. Territorial.

Most of the characteristics I put down seem negative. But sometimes the positive can be as hard to see as the negative:

I truly care. Curious and interested. Able to find the humor in most situations. Will go to great lengths to avoid killing insects. Generous. Unconsciously push people toward the absurd. Able to relate to many different people. Listen well (generally... we all have our days). Remember weird, random facts. Derive a lot of joy from sharing. Appreciate sunsets and whistling winds and rainy days and displays of natural beauty. Passionate. Known to give good advice. Hard-working. Headed in the right direction. Intelligent. Ask lots of questions. Write well. Capable.

This entry is an experiment. What I've called writing has been pretending to wade in the shallow part of the pool. No risk involved. This is different. This is me. Detached, slightly dark, but pretty balanced on the whole. I don't like a lot of bullshit, but I feel like I've been using it as a prized commodity lately. And yes, I realize this journal has become a sick descent into my own internal monologue. This too will be experimented with, no need to worry. There is only so much self to delve into before you find out you're an asshole. ;)

Rule of Three

2005-09-16T17:49:00.000-07:00

A zombie flick, a frozen carrot, a 4-place setting of new blue-grey flatware. No Ben, no Scott, no clue where I am with a certain person. Going running, going to work, going home in three days. Fixing the bicycle, fixing bad habits, fixing my myspace profile. Listening to good advice, listening to zombie groans, listening to my instinct. Reading Worlds Apart, reading about German elections, reading the brand stamped on the lightbulb. Boring myself with this writing, boring predictability, boring holes in my readers' heads...

My Heart Hurts

2005-09-06T00:08:00.000-07:00

Nothing serious, don't worry. Simply breaking the Velcro seals of old habits.

Made a passing comment to Brian about frustration and heartache happening when reality pokes fun of our expectations and assumptions. Still rings true. But I add a hilarious spin of expecting things from when I'll no longer expect them. Soap scum layers of habit solidifying.

I'm not sure where I am. Part of me holds firm to a post, pleading and imploring that to write off these desires as foolishness is doing myself a disservice. Most of me tells me I'm too old to believe in fairy tales.

Magic beans, Lindsay.

There are no guarantees. Marriage, children, good employment, meaning... None of it can be counted on. Perhaps it's not in your cards. Elaine wanted to get married. She'll be sixty soon, and she lives with her dogs and birds. This serves as a constant reminder--the things you want may not necessarily be what you have in store.

Yes, I Bought a Bike.

2005-09-04T08:57:00.000-07:00

The modern rebellion is cost-effective. Make your meals at home, support your local library, and shun coche culture. But do these with your own flair.

Thus, I am now a Schwinner with an old, old, beautiful monstrosity. Parts will be swapped out for others. Bicycle forums emphasize how to "get the most for your vintage Schwinn." But one must live her own philosophy, and I am a bits-and-pieces gal. Call me Frankenstein.

Found it yesterday on the way to the Gig Harbor Folk Festival. After the clean-up, I'll give it a name.

Keep Up

2005-09-02T22:29:00.000-07:00

Thus sayeth the Yogi. The Yogi knoweth all. The Yogi confuseth the hell out of me with ambiguous statements.

Keep up. Am I to keep pace with others, to start running with a pack?

Or is it encouragement to continue on the path I'm treading...

I'm tired and reading too much into a two-day old mantra.

Note to self: purchase more tea from the co-op.

Disturbing

2005-09-02T09:09:00.000-07:00

Boys Smell Good

2005-08-25T21:36:00.000-07:00

I sprayed myself with my roommate's cologne. Gotta tell ya: boys smell really, really good. I've kept my distance with my roommate, laying down some firm boundary lines, so no need to worry about hanky-panky on the homefront, but... damn. Damn. I smell weak-in-the-knees, head-spinningly, soul-crushingly good.

This may also be because my olfactory senses are trying to compensate for a lack of brain function. You see, my godmother (roommate's mother) and godmother's aunt plied me with martinis, then coerced me to eat my fill at Lee's Buffet, a local Asian-inspired restaurant with as much sushi, oysters, vegetable lo mein, and fried pineapple as I could possibly eat. I am three sheets to a gusty northern breeze, feeling fine but dreading tomorrow. I am to wake early and help a friend paint her living room. Something tells me I'm going to sleep through the alarm. I'll probably go to sleep, snuggling the shirt I have on and have good dreams of beautiful, intelligent boys who are madly, passionately, wholly infatuated with me, without being overbearing or needy...

A girl can dream.

Here is the Meat of our Enchilada

2005-08-24T08:57:00.000-07:00

wombattacobar [8:41 AM]: some of [what we talked about] was how we subtly slip away, forgetting how right it is to be in tight with the HS, as well as how much works it entails to have a good relationship
wombattacobar [8:41 AM]: if you have a sucky relationship, it takes no work and isn't much of a loss. if you work hard in it, it takes more but it is far better, and it can slip away [kinda like fitness]
Belleylaugh [8:43 AM]: Everything worthwhile is a process.
Belleylaugh [8:44 AM]: Or so it seems... Anything good isn't stumbled upon, it's worked for and refined and made different..
wombattacobar [8:46 AM]: yeah, and once you've become an olympic swimmer, you have the skills to continue working and staying there but you still work to improve [as well as swim 8 hours a day]

More discipline. Maybe I should suck it up all at once, take up an instrument and some advanced-level mathematics, learn the value of persistence and dedication.

How does one develop discipline?

Ballad of the Self-Important

2005-08-23T19:50:00.000-07:00

Wonder if I'll ever find something I love more than myself.

Yesterday, when I was talking to dann, I got the order wrong. I said I didn't know how to be loved. But first you must know how to love...

Back to the Plaid I Know

2005-08-21T21:14:00.000-07:00

They ejected the remains of Hunter S. Thompson from a cannon. Made me think of launching oranges from second-story calculus classrooms. Or last summer, when I took an astronomy course, where we took turns measuring the best angles to hit frisbee players with water balloons. (So the frisbee players were casualties in the great knowledge wars. Sometimes blood must be shed. Some warriors' ballads will never be sung... Moment of silence for the doused, the impact-bruised, the fried ants of the world.)...

To be scattered in the air by an expansion of blue... The BBC caption says, "Thompson's widow Anita said the writer loved explosions." And W.H. Auden comments from his metal folding chair: "All poets adore explosions, thunderstorms, tornados, conflagrations, ruins, scenes of spectacular carnage."

This is beautiful. His friends listened... This moves me.

After experiencing the whole funeral process, I vowed I would never put my family through that--embalming, casket shopping, plot-seeking. No. Instead, my friends and family would gather under some blooming citrus trees covered in multi-colored lights. It'd be a great big Mexican/German feast complete with sauerkraut, bratwurst, tamales, enchiladas, and albondigas. And tons of guacamole. At the end of the evening, little bags of me will be doled out like morbid party favors, each person getting a bit to scatter in some exotic locale. And if I die a rich woman, I'll pay for the flights. If not, my friends and family... Well, they can do whatever they want to with me. I doubt I'll mind.

Years ago, I wanted mourners, dark skies, Irish cliffsides and sorrowful bagpipes heaving faltering sobs. I wanted people breaking down into tears, seeking shoulders for support. I've said it many times--I've always been silly.

Today would have been Colin's 25th birthday. It still makes me sad, but it goes unacknowledged. Except for this small paragraph. Every so often, when I'm driving by myself, I get the urge to talk to him. Apologize to him on behalf of the world. But it's hard to befriend the dead.

Dave, the postman at my work, used to go to the cemetery because it was quiet. He told me he learned the headstones, traced the names, gave them histories and affairs and triumphant moments. But he liked talking to one guy best. Can't remember his name, but it was something old and plain, like Mortimer or Harold.

I talk to people I know. Or knew.

In the afterword of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, the author supposes people are patterns. There are some patterns so deeply ingrained in us, we're never without them. Dead or alive.

I bought my ticket to Tucson today. September isn't coming soon enough. Whether I know the pattern or not, I like the idea of another repetition.

Breaking News...

2005-08-18T22:24:00.000-07:00

"Duelling is legal in Paraguay as long as both parties are registered blood donors."

Another interesting fact:

"Horses cannot vomit. Nor can rabbits."

As you can already tell, I have nothing worthwhile to write about.

Been in "random fact mode" lately. I'm almost finished with that book on personality tests, and then it's on to a couple books about architecture. Two days ago I spied a "History of Salt" book down at Orca. Maybe I'll put a request in at the library...

I love the library. I go there twice a week. Done are my days of accumulating books I haven't yet read. (One day I'll eat these words.) La biblioteca is one of those remaining havens for me: I don't feel obligated to buy a hot drink while I sit and read; I don't feel pressured to "opt for the technology"; there's no smoking; they can't kick me out unless I'm doing something illegal... My kind of joint. And it's open almost as late as the coffee house.

Other things I love about Olympia:

The weather. This one may soon bite me in the ass, but it's absolutely beautiful here. Most mornings are foggy, a bit misty, but the grey dissipates to some amazing afternoons. The best place to watch the sunset is my neighbor's overgrown arbor. Just sit there and eat the blackberries on nearby bushes. Watch out for spiders.

The community. Olympia is one of those towns that truly believes. It's incredible to witness--people sharing common values of social responsibility, equality, freedom of expression, etc.

I would like to say more, but I'm so tired, I'm crying. Maybe tomorrow...

You are Forewarned

2005-08-17T22:37:00.000-07:00

Am looking at flights to go home for Whitney's wedding.

Home.

Each of my friends must plan an entire day for hugging and kissing and exploring old haunts, mental or otherwise. Prepare yourselves, my friends.

Summary of Present Events

2005-08-17T09:34:00.000-07:00

Enough elbows to the ribs bruises one's lack of writing discipline. I am now writing about not writing.

Just ran out of the coffee house after a runaway black lab, but I didn't catch the number on the collar of the repeat offender before he loped off down the hill toward IHOP. They're having a “dog days of summer” special.

Mmmmm... IHOP.

Above the trees a dark cloud line looms. Keep tilting my head and making it the dividing line between two halves: one full of conifers, silver sedans and big inflatable Serta sheep, and the other... Just grey.

This isn't telling anyone about my life. Let me see. I'm sitting in this coffee shop by default. This morning was supposed to be my first day as an ESL tutor, but the son of the tutee (not sure if that's a real word) had a doctor's appointment. Being unoriginal, I come here. I've come here too often in recent weeks. Need to find a haunt that's closer to my house.

My roommate is always home. Since the beginning of July, I have been alone in this house twice. Yes, two times…

Been reading about how various personality tests are conceived. Am interested in the idea of identity and how that relates to image. Nationally. Individually. Hypothetically. Thinking Evergreen may be ready for a contract outline. At the same time, I'm deliberately flip-flopping between subtleties of definition to cover all my interests.

Last night Cheryl came to visit me at work. (She’s the director of Refugee and Immigrant Services of Oly.) We talked about how ridiculous it is that the linebackers all want size four, brand-name wear. Talked about how people spend so much, hoping to get a discount on power, success, popularity, heightened sense of self. Talked about export processing zones and Nike and dollar-days at Goodwill.

Cheryl told me about why she chose to spend her life single, how she doesn’t know what’s out there, how everyone may be lying, you can’t truly trust anyone but yourself. How she has to be selective about what she exposes herself to because the ugliness of the world will bring her down. Being safe has a bigger payoff than risking yourself.

That is not my creed.

But I’m slow. I process things slowly. The pattern lay overtop the momentary--each move so entirely packed with meaning that to dissect it would take a lifetime and to actually live it takes three months of breathing exercises and daily affirmations.

Born at the Right Time

2005-07-16T08:57:00.000-07:00

My knees are taut bowstrings. Later today I'll look for a muscular witness, flex my thigh until my kneecap raises and locks into place, and ask if they can smell what I've got cookin'.

Stayed out until four this morning. Elena and I sat and drank coffee for three hours, spit-taking emotions and past history directly into each other's face. She's completely exposed for as guarded as she'd like be. She will be devastated. Do not mingle with those who won't say good-bye, Elena.

Complex and fascinating, like anyone and everyone. Identity as personal mystery. I am a bumbling detective, profiling and unconsciously manipulating my targets with leading questions. Oftentimes intellectual curiosity is mistaken for emotional investment. An inveterate collector of people's lives trips over planes of other people's love.

This isn't making any sense. I almost wish it did. Almost.

Teeter-tottering

2005-07-12T11:25:00.000-07:00

My roommate, Scott, is here from Nebraska. He is going to school me in all the ways of anime and manga. And I am... not sure what I'm going to do.

Jubilation

2005-06-22T22:52:00.000-07:00

Morgann is coming on Monday! Morgann iscoming on Monday! Morgann iscom ing onM onda y ! Mor GAnNI scom ingonMon day!

Neue Augen

2005-06-21T09:08:00.000-07:00

Returned from Hawai'i. Every part of me wanted to pack up and move to Pa'ia or Makawao or Hana, where I would sit and talk with Charles Lindbergh, swap beers and accomplishments on cool, breezy nights. Talk about transatlantic flights and how it's ridiculous they make you purchase meals separately.

Other historical figures I'd like to drink with:

-Hiram Bingham.
-Jesus.
-Thomas Jefferson.
-Hellen Keller, although this may be more difficult with a couple of beers in both of us.
-Samuel Clemens
-Groucho Marx (I'm using "historical figure" loosely)
-William Blake
-Virginia Woolf

**************************
So I went to Google and typed in the words "historical" and "figure" to see if Groucho Marx would come up. (Google is the decider of popular culture.) And look what I found instead:

Historical Action Figures

How cool is that! You too can make Albert Einstein woo Jane Austen, who is torn between her vow to marry Nelson Mandela and her passionate love affair with Thor, the Asgard god.

("Ooh, your helmet is so... big..")
****************************
But I won't be moving to Hawai'i anytime soon. Moving there would be chasing an illusion of home, an aesthetic of carefree comfort. Life remains the same wherever you go.

Sometimes life is complex:

You begin one week desecrating a sacred offering to the gods of Iao Valley, spend the middle holding people's secrets while they use the restroom, and end it learning a person you've known for years "came out" to jeers and excommunication.

Sometimes life is simple:

I watched a black widow ensnare a mosquito the size of my fist, anchor him down on all sides, and then retire to watch him die. Spent Sunday cat-proofing my house, finding a place out of reach for my little friend, Quark. (If you notice the name of this blog change sometime in the future, you now know why.) And on my way home yesterday, I caught a glimpse of a happy fox with an unhappy field mouse dangling from his lips.

And the simpler I become, the more complex and profound the change. There's a quote I keep thinking about:

"A man who lives through conscience becomes hard. A man who lives through consciousness remains soft. Why? Because a man who has some ideas about how to live naturally becomes hard. He has to carry his character around himself. That character is like an armor; his protection, his security; his whole life is invested in that character. If you ask him a question, his answer is ready-made. This is the sign of a hard person--he is dull, stupid, mechanical. He may be a good computer, but he is not a man. You do something and he reacts in a well-established way. His reaction is predictable; he is a robot. The real man acts spontaneously. If you ask him a question, your question gets a response, not a reaction. He opens his heart to your question, responds to it."

In the past, I've had conversations with people regarding the need for vigilance, the need for revision.

(I like that word. It's not "doing over" but "seeing again," like some futuristic doctor's office installing new eyes in twenty minutes while you wait.)

And I keep coming to the same conclusion: remain fluid, open, and present. And, as a fellow Puddlelander put it, "...believe in nothing, everything is sacred...believe in everything, nothing is sacred."

Fishwalking

2005-06-03T20:42:00.000-07:00

Took Quark to the fishsitter, a little girl named Reagan (whose grandfather insists on cutting my grass because he's been doing it for the past decade... I add this for those of you privy to my battle over blade length. I say "let it grow"; he says, "It'll burn out my lawnmower."). Reagan has big blue eyes and a black-and-white rabbit named Rex and a leopard-print leotard for casual wear.

While taking Quark to the fishsitter a red fox with intelligent eyes watched me walk my fish down the street. Some passing power-walkers laughed. The fox looked at me like I was brilliant. So much for reading eyes.

I took Quark to the fishsitter because tomorrow (or late tonight) is Maui. For ten days. I like warmth. And bathtubs. Hope to soak up both.

The night before I took... This is getting tedious.

heilige Scheisse

2005-05-30T00:51:00.000-07:00

Farren called. Her mom wants us to build on her land in Nova Scotia.

We have permission to build a cabin in Nova Scotia.

My head is sloshing. Spilling hypotheticals all over the carpet.

Welcome to Meteghan.

We Went Down

2005-05-27T09:34:00.000-07:00

Dreamt of Adam last night. One of those instant connections, one with playful side-smiles and feathers floating up and down your veins. And I wake up smiling because I haven't seriously thought of Adam in years. And I like the feeling of waking up loved.

Man, I am a sentimental sap. Maybe this new piercing in my nose hit a sap artery, and one day they'll make jewelry from my solidified emotion.

A Visit from Farren

2005-05-25T07:29:00.000-07:00

Hugs. Hawk-eyed guitar-watching. Grocery shopping at the Pacific. Sugar overload. Painful ten-foot elephants. Sunny countryside. Crushed straw cowboy hats. Children born to a life of messy rooms. Leap and the net will appear. Rockstars. Grass naps. George Maharis Sings! Relationship speculation. Rusty Old American Dream. Hot market cherries. Guitar strings. Knights who say icki-icki-zoom-ba-ching-na-na. Cinderella fingertips. Crunchy cons. Olympics and Mt. Ranier. Chocolate with chili. Women's liberation and mental retardation. Jumping into high tide. Life is dandy; happy thoughts. Better-than-sex massages. Pomegranate juice. Red Vine detox. The most amazing, incredible tool for one-handed capo action. Bad accents. Charlotte. Lyrically hiding in Heath Ledger's closet. Red Studebakers named Maude. Talk to me now. David Wilcox. What is your favorite color? Volcano rolls. Sonic the Hedgehog tattoos. Nose piercing. Psychology and the human condition. Seattle. Incompatible technology. Free Fallin'. Elementary school talent shows. Bits of Metallica. Dusty dill milk chocolate. Happy rabbit posters. Purchases made with two quarters. Moons like dawn. Candied fennel. Neuroscientists and poets.

And

2005-05-23T12:06:00.000-07:00

I wake up early and dream of

Red Studebaker trucks (sans the creepy woman)

and straw cowboy hats

and baskets of fruit. And German treks. And college study... Oh, college study.

And I force a daily mantra, courteously provided by the Yogi Tea company:

"The beauty in you is your spirit. The strength in you is your endurance. The intelligence in you is your vastness."

And I don't feel like much. In fact, I feel very stupid at the moment. Feel like life's lapping idealism, throwing her used cup-o-water back over her shoulder, never seeing it bounce off his insecurity.

And I seek old friends and find Ani home. Her guitar chords hum momentary purpose. Or maybe they spell an inverted mE. So I loop the songs around me, OSHA-approved safety harnesses for viewing the void.

Detachment does not come naturally, and so when I feel like this, I must verbalize the impermanence of emotion or I may tumble headlong into the chasm... again.

I Wear My Thinking Cap At Night

2005-05-21T01:31:00.000-07:00

Not certain why I am so embarrassed to be without plan. Anyone can have a plan, but not everyone can rest in faith.

Watched "What the Bleep Do We Know?" tonight. Now I want to meditate, philosophize, explore neurology.

Feels like I've closed myself off again, shut down and formed barriers of identity. I may be a student, I am a Christian, I am a brunette, I am a lost soul. This movement away from the openness I desire towards titles I'll shirk concerns me. My memories of peace and stillness are when I forget myself completely. Swaying like seaweed in tides of possibility. Yet I strive not for purity of motivation but for security in "knowing." Things are looking far too concrete; that makes me uncomfortable.

And the word "consciousness" wanders back into my reality (my mind?). This word seems an acquaintance of much potential. Good things recur.

Lisa's words from Sunday filter back through and flirt with 'consciousness': "God gave us a brain, fully intending that we use it. We are meant to think critically about the world, to see every possibility and weigh the options. To explore each part, to stimulate ourselves to unimaginable ends."

And maybe the necessity of relocation lay in the need to break patterns, to search for a whole that integrates the assorted bits and pieces of before. "I have arrived." Life is constant arriving.

Turn, turn, add a splash of water, apply pressure to the neck, baptize again, pacify with deliberate fingers, offset lopsided weight, catch wobbling mess, stop turning, smash and punch and knead into tiny, unassuming blob, begin turning again.

Break in introspection: Shouldn't you be outside this very instant exploring what God, consciousness, and throwing clay is all about?

Interconnectedness entices me. Holistic theories, lives lived spherically, sticky web people who catch ideas and brainflies. But which comes first, the idea or the adhesive?

I'm beginning to love this mystery.

down the rabbit hole

2005-05-20T20:26:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.
- Lewis Carroll

Mystery moves me to overload. Mystery moves me. Mystery moves.

My faith is not in science but for science.

Insert other oddball comment here.

Let Your 'yes' be 'yes' and I Don't Know

2005-05-20T08:38:00.000-07:00

It saddens me that I am not an organized person. A while back I remember hearing that a person's environment is usually a good mirror of their headspace. Mine is absolutely chaotic. A ladder slumps against the wood paneling and a transplanted rubbish bin proudly stands center stage between scattered pairs of shoes and the "dining room table." Earlier this week I hauled a few thing up into the attic, one of Washington's hidden wonders, and I haven't bothered finishing yet. Too many distractions. Like this morning, I was walking past the bookshelf, looking for something to browse while I crouch down in my man-made nest for a bit. A now-pictureless copy of Real Simple lay across the top. Never intended for reading, I sorta disregarded all the articles in my tireless search for visual inspiration. But this morning I looked closer and found this:

"It may seem illogical, but I believe that even pointless impulses and useless objects have a purpose--as catalysts for change or self-discovery, if nothing else. The question "Who am I?" is one we answer by echolocation, bouncing our identities off the things around us to see which ones speak to us an which ones don't, the noes as vital to our internal guidance system as the yeses..."

Impromptu interlude: What is intuition? Just now I was going to write of new-found fondness for intuition, but what does that mean? Is that the real "me" or is it someone else whose frequency I'm picking up? Is it God or "good common sense" (I can put that in quotation marks because we're merely acquaintances, not friends) or conscience? There are many words I casually toss into pools of conversation like so many unregarded pennies. Note to self--pay attention to pennies.

My laziness and disorganization seem almost self-sabotaging, but what in me would want to keep me in familiar, distressing patterns? (Impromptu overtake, more like it.) And I do like neat, clean, uncluttered space. Amanda had a brilliant idea regarding how to keep our spaces uncluttered. Unfortunately, I am more likely to keep my quarters chock-full of clothes and unwanted mail than awe-inspiring imagery. This is changing, though. Like the woman in the letter, I'm starting to pick up on inspirational cues. I have a small collection of bottles--five in all, six if you count the empty wine bottle on the kitchen counter--and a barometer that doesn't work. Perhaps creativity will overtake the chaos, making what was distressing a blessing. (Yay for untimely rhymes.)

big, beefy broads

2005-05-18T21:33:00.000-07:00

Last year I came across an article talking about the popularity of photos of pastoral Ireland in Germany. It was talking about how Germany is a country divided--a country that doesn't have a cohesive national identity. And it's looking for a sense of home. And I find it ironic because Ireland constructed its sense of home, but Germany doesn't really have this opportunity, does it? Not to lament the plight of Germany. These fragmented collectives, like sharded souls, wander and search for bits of identity and security.

My Grandma's blood flowed thicker than reason. She was my big German woman, almost 6' most of her life, broad shoulders, at-all-costs attitude. And I think of how many stupidly-stubborn generations of big women lived before me. And how many brilliantly quiet generations. And how many determined and boring generations. I like to think there weren't too many boring ones, although it's entirely possible I come from a line of dull, unexceptional people. No matter the personality, I'm sure they were all big women. ;)

I was going somewhere with this, but I lost somewhere when I went anywhere and ended up here.

Patrick, you bastard!!

2005-05-17T22:18:00.000-07:00

The Shetland Pony. Neigh, neigh. The rhesus monkey. Ooh-ee-aah-ahh (Eep Opp Ork? Wasn't the rhesus monkey spokeperson for a Saturday morning cartoon long ago?). The leopard...

Never would I have suspected just how much amusement I get from community radio. Olympia is fortunate to have one of the better community radio stations in the country--both because the Pacific Northwest is a hub for bands/songwriters/singers whom the weather won't permit to do anything but hone their craft and because the population of the town could be classified as hippified indie-activist. The airwaves are how people hear local events or new, guaranteed-obscure musical acts. But sometimes it's just weird shit, like above. I turn on the radio, and the first thing I hear is the soundtrack from one of those 1950s, let's-glorify-suburbia informational films on the Detroit Zoo. Followed by a girl sitting in a booth at the local college, lamenting that the forecast for the next week calls for torrential rain with a chance of showers. And you can hear her eyes roll and a hand smack her forehead a bit too hard when she remembers that she doesn't want to be here in the first place.

********
Added after it hit me: You know what this girl sounds like? When I lived in Liberty, one of the volunteer projects was taping yourself reading children's books aloud for little kids (and it saved the library lots of money). Girls with too many badges and sashes in their closets would spend their Saturdays in their bathroom (because the acoustics were better there) dramatically reading "The Adventures of Mr. Toad and Mr. Frog" while sitting on the toilet. This is what this girl sounds like. Her true personality comes through when she's reading the weather, but when she's making other announcements, you can hear push her chin toward her breastbone to achieve that lower "man" voice... Holy crap, this is the funniest thing ever!
********

This really is a strange place. Yesterday, after I quit my position at Picture People, I consoled myself with a new Ben Lee CD and a trip to Orca Books. And it felt good to be back. I passed a finger across thin volumes of poetry and my eyes dragged me toward literary criticism. I was reading titles when I heard a faint sobbing. And the sobbing became less than faint. And the less than faint sobbing turned to passionate yelling:

"Patrick, I love you! Why are you doing this? I love you!"

An old man who looked much older dressed in his trendy anti-establishment t-shirt and standard-issue army cap, walked over to her and told her that he needed to take the phone back as she couldn't tie up the line any longer. She pleaded: "Just a few more words. Just a few more words and I would have him back!" The old man--we'll call him Frank--sighed and handed the phone back to her.

"Patrick?" and she wept as she redialed. "Patrick?" Evidently he picked up this time. "Why the hell would you do this to me, Patrick? I realize you're completely entrenched in Olympia's gossip-circle, but... No, you're the one to blame! You're treating me very poorly. I find your behavior appalling and your apathy is disconcerting..." And she walked outside to verbally manhandle Patrick into returning. The women behind the counter snickered, and while at first I hated them for their callousness, I couldn't help but join in after she'd gone. Just a few more words and she had him. She only failed to mention face-down and bleeding... Sometimes I would kill to hear the other side of the conversation.

Drama.

The plus-side to being alone in a cabin miles from anyone? Very little drama. Goodness me, I wish the best for Patrick. And Madam Weeps-a-lot.

Not sure where I'm going to this. Maybe I'll just stop.

Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, at it again...

2005-05-17T21:15:00.000-07:00

Karen:

It's good to meet you, too.

And I hope you don't mind, but I would like to approach these introductions a bit differently. E-mailing isn't the best place for friend-forming conversation. In my last letter, I pared down everything to the basics and simply purveyed information. In the future, I will try not to mistake the factual for the pertinent.

As new friends, I think you're right to defer some of the longer, more intricate stories to times when they'll be more natural. That being said, I do not have a firepit to offer, but I'm sure I could scrounge up a few beers, a spaghetti squash and a bulkhead that faces the sunset and the Olympic Mountains if you'd like to come visit. Then you can tell me the entire story, animated hand gestures and all...

And you're spot on with the Annie Dillard reference. I am trying to live my life by that woman. ;) I've become a Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (Budd Inlet) to pursue The Writing Life, but thus far I've been Living by Fiction. (I did remember to bring my copy of Holy the Firm. My books were the first thing I packed.)

The writing is coming along, although haltingly. Seems I'm doing more reading and observing at the moment, but they're all parts of the same creative process. And that's what excites me most--that I'm taking my creativity more seriously, that I'm taking my life more seriously. Sorry, I'm floating into the ether again, buoyed by my own head-inflating optimism. I find when I do this, I describe people as "passionate." ;) I think you're right to make a distinction between "passion" and "stubbornness." "Passion" seems too momentary, less enduring, less realistic. "Passion" throws around words like "sacrifice" and "integrity" without seeing bare cupboards or cuts in pay. And as boring a challenge as "lack of money" is, it's very real. It is a determining factor in many lives.

I won't presume to know anything about the "cost of art," as that's like explaining calculus to a mathematician. But I will say that I think it's a necessary thing you're doing. I own one copy of Beyond--the Beauty issue--but I've read the thing through so many times I can't recall. And I've shared it as much as I've been able. We need more things that draw us into the world, not distract us from it.

So thank you, Lady Karen of Calgary, for all that you do. ;) And thanks for responding to my e-mail.

I really hate to finish on a wrapped-up note. It gives such a feeling of ends-tied-up which is rarely the case.

Let's see... What else can I tell you?

I quit my second job today. My first job, at a used clothing store, came to me much by accident. The second job, at a portrait studio, came to me through traditional methods (application, interview, etc.). And I was extremely excited about the second job. What could be better than taking photographs and rough-housing with kids? Unfortunately, I forgot a large aspect, which was the sales angle. You see, their sales pitch is scripted. And I had to rehearse it with the manager, sitting on miniature stools and pretending I'm talking to a mother of five. Throughout the entire thing, the manager, breaking character, urged me to put in my personal touches. "Be genuine," she implored. Yet she wanted me to put a positive spin on every pose the photographer took. Even if it's hideously out of focus, you're supposed to come up with things like, "I love the way Cecilia's eyes blur together. That really captures her personality."

But I made it through the sales pitch rehearsal, cynicism and ironic detachment completely hidden. (Perhaps now is the part where I confess that part of the uniform is to wear a beanie; yes, complete with little plastic blade that smashes into everything... The key to wearing such a ridiculous get-up is to keep thinking rough-housing and photography and try not to pass any mirrors.)

And then the constructive criticism comes:

"That was really great, Lindsay, except you forgot one thing."
"What's that?"
"You forgot to say 'Ta-da!' when you showed the mom the 10 x 13."
"Ta-da?"
"It helps get them enthusiastic about their photos."

Indeed.

And while I poke fun, it was hard to make this decision to quit. The people were pleasant and the extra money/possible medical benefits package were really alluring. But I'd like to feel that I can be myself wherever I am. And I don't think I've ever said "ta-da" in my life.

Well, except that once...

Hope everything's well and you write me back soon,
Lindsay

Burning She Smelled

2005-05-17T19:58:00.000-07:00

It's an Angela Landsbury evening--rainy, damp, quiet. The view across the inlet is clouding over, and my burner is spitting and sputtering underneath the teapot. And I think I'll carefully study my Loengard "Pictures Under Discussion" and some Stevens. I like having these nights to myself. When Scott comes, I imagine he'll free the television from its back-closet exile. And while I hate the idea of sharing my sacred space with someone (especially someone who is not a friend), I did think of a positive note today: if Scott lives here, he'll pay half the rent and half the food costs.

This revelation comes at a good time: This morning I decided I really want to take myself to Germany. Because I don't want to learn a language, I want to use a language. The idiom isn't the goal.

There's more to say and more to think and more to read and write and do, but my burner's acting funny. I need to check it out.

"Little "i"s are dotted for a reason"

2005-05-17T18:55:00.000-07:00

Tracking friends like blips on a radar. I need reams of butcher paper and an assortment of permanent markers, and I'll scrawl mountainscapes across grids to show the level of revelations per month. [Dramatically flip to clean sheet. Use big arm gesture.] This chart shows the velocity of thought at which you rounded each brain curve. [Flip.] See here? This squiggle indicates outside factors you cannot see. [Big arms.] This is how it will affect you emotionally, physically and mentally.

We need more prophetic flow charts.

SCORPIO (Oct. 23-Nov. 21): Here's your dream dictionary for the coming week. If you have a dream of walking through the mist at dawn and coming upon flamingos nesting in a rusty red 1959 Cadillac convertible in a junkyard, it means you should expand your ideas about where you might find beauty. A dream of baking a birthday cake for Buddha in the kitchen of a ship passing through the Panama Canal means you're primed to upgrade your skill at expressing generosity. A dream of finding traces of marijuana in a seventeenth-century pipe found in the house where William
Shakespeare lived means you should rethink your ideas about where your best inspiration comes from. A dream of a driver who doesn't use his turn signal means you shouldn't follow anyone too closely. (P.S. Even if you don't have the dreams I described, you should still heed the counsel they provide.)

I'd pay more attention to my dreams if I dreamed anymore. Instead I lay in bed and sweat against the frost-laced air. I sweat more than I dream nowadays.

And I think of Amanda's mention of the self consuming the soul in the 1700s, and I think the move to black comes to gray and is really a shift to Technicolor, Doris Day and Rock Hudson embracing in saffron yellow and dew-kissed green. And I see the first emphasis of soul as a blue filter and the emphasis of self as a red, and if we could look through both, we'll see through reason and faith to something three-dimensional. Attending lectures and reading literary theories, learning how to hammer geodes to dust. The creation feels forgotten, that there is no power in a square, that we move in circles. And I think my unconscious self spins around and around, gearing for lift-off, and isn't that just a metaphor for the soul? The imagined becomes the real, and the real imagined, and the liminal spaces become us. We're neither soul nor self, but something in between, something in the transitions.

It feels good to meet the whole notes. When you've divided them into staccato eighths and legato fourths to understand composition, and the laborious rehearsal of scales and chords until one day you hum a tune while opening the fridge and pushing the butter to the side, and the echo jumps off the pickle jar and back into your brain, sloshes around in your head vat and you think, "Damn, I can sing." And then you understand the scales and chords as magnified bits of beautiful Chinese dragons at New Year, held aloft through streets and throngs.

The Magic Word is "Ripe"

2005-05-08T18:49:00.000-07:00

I'm going to start a series on food. Tonight's feature:

ODE TO A BANANA CHIP

Crystallized wafers
Tease tastebud and spirit in
Yellow communion
_____________________________
Words I like: euphonious, migratory, ebullient, illegible, ambivalent, illusory, vim, lees, zestfully, markedly, intransigence, ode, odalisque, Madagascar (but only if people pronounce the last bit as "car" and not "crrr"), Lithuanian, and resplendent.

I'm attempting to write Lady Karen of Calgary, and I want to incorporate all these beautiful words, but the only ones that come to mind are drop-out and aimless and roller coaster. Those are not lovely words.

I'm in a much sillier mood than that. I do not want to dwell on the negative aspects of a life half-lived. I would rather dwell on the positive aspects of a life not lived at all. I continue on this note:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Grower of Organic Valley Soy Beans:

My deepest, most heartfelt thanks for providing your beans to a company that doesn't make shitty-tasting milk. Two years ago I made the alarming discovery that my ambrosia, cow juice, was indeed also the cause of my intestinal troubles. Since then I've been forced to switch from a half-gallon/day diet to a simple glassful of soy milk each day. Needless to say, I've been a bit of a variety whore, never able to sustain a monogamous relationship with any one brand, lured from one hand to another by money flashing in a palm. But you, my dear Organic Valley cooperative members, have presented a most pleasant product. You have enticed this free bird to willingly renounce other competitors.

Your bean whore forever,
Lindsay

~~~~~~~~~~~~
Just Jack's "Let's Get Really Honest" is sort of a fun song.

You notice many different bands write songs about movie stars. Counting Crows supposedly wrote "Mrs. Potter's Lullaby" about Monica Potter. Claire Danes has multiple songs about her. Princess Di and Marilyn Monroe both caught Elton John's eye. And so, when I am a semi-struggling musician fronting a "promising local band" (Yay, The Onion!), I will write song about
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Mr. Val Kilmer:

I am the lead singer of "Ripe," an obscure band here in the Pacific Northwest. Right now we have a very devoted fanbase, who dig our anti-establishment, free-flowing, indie, trance, singer-songwriter vibe, but we hope to sell out soon. (Yes, there will be the return to our pre-contract roots after a brief period where we'll all fail at personal projects.) But that is looking too far ahead. There are great needs in the present.

Mr. Kilmer, I propose that we help one another. "Ripe" could be the revitalizing kick in the career that you need. Do you know what sort of praise celebrities receive when they're attached to an undiscovered indie artist/band? Especially when that band becomes "mainstream"? Your popularity will erupt simply by leeching on to us.

And we ask nothing in return.

We simply want to help you, Mr. Kilmer. Please feel free to take advantage of me in the most pleasant ways, either by inviting me to premieres or lavishing me with gifts and superfluous funds. I also wouldn't mind seeing your ranch in New Mexico.

Think about it,
Lindsay

P.S. Would you be willing to dress like Madmartigan?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Not sure what's up with this Val Kilmer thing. Before I left Tucson, I happened to have a Val Kilmer marathon. "Real Genius" was on Comedy Central, then I watched "Willow", then "The Saint" was on TNT. I remember thinking he was hot when I was, like, seven years old. Still think he's hot and fifteen years have gone by. Do you always have soft spots in your heart for the people you have crushes on?

Other celebrity crushes I have had: Andrew Bednarski (Rin-Tin-Tin K9 Cop), Mackenzie Astin (Iron Will), Cary Elwes (Robin Hood: Men in Tights), John Cusack (Better Off Dead then pretty much everything... Big sap, I know), Edward Norton (Primal Fear--don't ask why, I don't know--then that romantic comedy he did with the lady from Dharma and Greg), Steve Martin (L.A. Story first, then pretty much everything, except The Jerk and Grand Canyon), Christian Bale (Newsies and Swing Kids), Jason Statham (Snatch), River Phoenix (Stand by Me), David Duchovny (duh).

New crush: Listening to an interview with Damien Rice on sounds eclectic. My, oh, my, how I love Irish accents. Australian, too. English third. I'm sure Scottish would rank up there if I could understand what the hell they're saying.

"I can't take my eyes off you, just can't take my eyes off you." It's definitely in the way these lyrics are sung 'cause written, as I'm noticing now, they're less than impressive, just repetitive.

Go there and listen to the song Untitled that he sings with Lisa Hannigan. Not sure why I like this one so much.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Tomorrow I start my second job at Picture People. Hopefully it will go well. I'm not entirely sure what to expect. I say that like I normally have a good idea. Don't really feel like talking about this.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
I need to drink more water. And clean more. My new green jacket is on the floor, where it landed when it plummeted from the chair. For eight dollars, I now own the coolest coat in the world. It's this vintage ski jacket complete with arm cuffs and yellowing ski lift pass. It's just the right size if I don't need to hail a cab or ask a question or slouch forward for any reason. Yes, I realize I haven't been the smartest with money lately. I spent a hellacious about yesterday on food (much of it I didn't need) and cheap, second-hand clothing and knick-knacks. Bought three identical bottles, one massive teardrop shaped vase, a straw basket, a cloth grocery bag, four skirts, a couple sweaters, a cardigan, five scarves, a book, three pairs of pants, a pair of shoes, a belt. No hats, though. I'm still on the lookout for some really cool shoes and hats. No, I don't need all these things, and maybe it's completely absurd, but when I feel creative, I like feeling creative and vibrant from every single part of me. Which means that while I hate the clutter, I like having a closet of odds and ends that I can pick and choose and mix and match. I guess this splurge wasn't as irresponsible as it seems--I truly did worry because I was down to a couple pairs of jeans and two nice shirts. Not that I'm picky, but employers might be. Especially when you're working in a clothing shop.
**************************
Man, I'm rambling about nothing tonight. I should go read.

MnMnMnMnMnMnMnM

2005-05-06T21:36:00.000-07:00

Yes, right now, in galaxies far, far away, students eagerly study grammar exercises and the laws of thermodynamics. In constellations light years from me, many people toast their imported beers to another week of their life gone. And in Olympia, Washington, a little girl has devoured all the chocolate in the house.

The odd thing is I rarely desire chocolate. Nine times out of ten I would rather have a sandwich or crackers and cheese. But when that tenth time rolls around... Actually, I make it sounds like hell hath no fury like a Lindsay without a Twix bar. That's not it, exactly. I simply find it and devour it. Rarely do I think about it. As I was shoving Kit Kat number three down my face, and four trembled upon seeing the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup wrappers strewn about the table, I finally became aware of my subconscious "seek and destroy". But the Dread Pirate Roberts takes no prisoners.

A Pattern Emerges

2005-05-03T00:29:00.000-07:00

The one thing I didn't want for this blog: to be a summary of my day. What this blog is fast becoming: Who the hell cares!

Let's jump right in with the first thought, shall we?

I'm debating buying a road bike. I could definitely use one, but it's not an absolute necessity. I can get around with my car, I'd just prefer not to. And I keep talking back and forth with my brain (like how we're two, distinct entities?), conversing about whether it's a good investment or a silly idea. I'm leaning toward "a good investment", but the brain portion, the part usually talking about investments and responsibility and risk assessment, continually points out that I don't have stable employment. And I think, "So what if the woman I'm now working for seems completely loony? She promised me a job." It's been an internal struggle over this. Most likely, I'll buy the bike I found... Or at least call about it.

Next topic: finally received my reply from Lady Karen of Calgary. lowercase dann has been urging me to contact her, asking to be in her forum for people exploring contemplative spirituality and what the contemplative life looks like in practice. Why I didn't immediately e-mail her, I won't be able to tell you. I'm sure it has something to do with fear of the unknown, fear of being a fool, lots of fear. As it was, I wrote three different drafts of my letter on Friday. I finally sent one, but it was the one with the least amount of information about me. Lady Karen of Calgary replied with, "That's excellent. Could you tell me about you, though?" Yeah. Brilliant move, L. Next letter, only two drafts. I swear. ;)

Tres: The baby bird my mother has been nursing all weekend will probably die tonight. And this baby bird dying will mean more to my mother than the brief bond they shared. Tonight she couldn't talk about it, simply said that she didn't want to be holding it when it died, but that nothing should be alone when it goes. My mother is a very compassionate person generally, at least for things that are defenseless or vulnerable. Baby birds, infants, elderly persons... My mother has extreme patience with anything that needs her help. Unfortunately, this protective instinct continues to extend, blanketing anything that my mom values. She's a very reserved person, very closed off and inaccessible when she wants to be. And so it is her against the world, and tonight, against the forces of nature. I will not say that there is a reason the momma and daddy birds abandoned this tottering fluffball, but I will think it. This is life happening, and as hard as that is to accept sometimes, there is no choice but to accept it. My mother will take this personally. She's been talking a lot of people who have died in her life, especially in her youth, but I'm positive it all comes back to my dad and, more recently, my grandma passing away. My mother claims she didn't have the luxury to grieve, and she says that she needed to be the parent in the situation. My behavior didn't help, it only reinforced her need to be "stronger" for all of us. How miserable it must be to be in my mother's head right now! To feel that God is plotting against you, taking all your friends away. And I'll admit: everything in life casts a shadow. And I believe wandering through the Valley of Death is part of a healing process. And I wish I could help her, but you cannot bully someone into a perspective. I've tried with Will. I want so badly for that boy to be alright. But I went about it wrong. My "convert 'cause I did, and wow!" isn't an effective motivation. And so now I come to my mother who is increasingly insecure and uncertain--but towards better ends, I honestly believe. She's finally starting to question some of the assumptions she always had. She's learning that she isn't to adapt life to herself but that she must adapt to life. Or at least I pray this is what she's learning, this is the path I hope she's on. Perhaps that's for my own benefit because I did need to move away and make a drastic change. No, it wasn't a physical necessity, but a mental/spiritual/emotional one. And those are just as valid, no matter what the general consensus is. But it's hard to think back to my family in Arizona--my mother who feels deserted by her husband and mother(-in-law, but close enough) and daughter. And I think of how different my sister's upbringing is than my own. And it's hard to weigh my happiness against their normalcy or discontent. I realize everyone has different ideas of family, and I'm no different. Guilt is a definite theme in my life. Even when I'm completely innocent, I'd fail polygraph tests. And this balance is hard to strike.

I say this after a series of happy, beautiful, pleasant days. Not to degrade my happiness or how it's perceived. I have never been so excited for experience, so thirsty for life ever! I am falling deeply, madly, wholly for this crazy collage I've happened upon. And that's how it should be. If you're going to have an experience, you throw yourself into it fully. Otherwise, it's probably going to be shit. But this family issue lingers in my head. And I know how I work. The best thing I can do is come entirely clean and discuss this with my mom. And I shall tomorrow. But it also doesn't mean that will change anything. That doesn't mean it won't, either. We'll just have to see.

Next thought?!

I'm thankful for all my friends. I think about this a lot nowadays. Amanda and I have reunited yet again. Like she said, we zig-zag, but we're bound to be discussing "blooblackas" on a concrete curb fifty years down the road while ice cream maneuvers our fat chins like a mogul skier. Farren stuns me with her superhero determination, integrity, optimism; the kind of person comic books and epics are written about. lowercase dann, a shifting, two-toned metaphor for pure logic and insight. Morgann, to whom I've sent a letter off, trying to reconcile some things--the most straight-shooting, beautifully aware person I've had the joy of knowing. And Mark, who, when he's ready, will move to the mainland and become poetry. And a myriad of secondary players and people who will one day become principles. These are the people who sustain me. These are the people who, each and every one, have shown me a glimpse of who I want to be; they are the ones who make me who I'll become.

Listening to:

"Green Eyes" by Coldplay. My narcissism is at an all-time high. I like pretending this song is about me (of the future. I don't expect someone to sing this about me yet, but just wait.. Haha..). Welcome to my self-centered, delusional bubble. Please take your shoes off at the door.

Chili beans with chips: Went round downtown this morning. Shoved my name and a firm handshake upon the two people in The Old Bakery. Can't remember his name, and he works there, but hers was Angela. Lovely people. Good coffee. Quiet benches and kaleidescope tabletops. Went away. Checked the phone book for places to volunteer. Came back. Asked directions from guy at back of newly-formed line. Went to homeless shelter to get volunteer application. Met some interesting people, don't remember anyone's names except Rob and Mary Beth. And now the exciting part: after the homeless advocacy center, I wandered down the street and found an adult literacy program that desperately needs mentors. As the man explained, adult literacy is not a cute, feel-good project--no puppies or kiddies to flaunt--and it's not immediately gratifying, like Habitat for Humanity. You don't build things, you figure them out. And that takes lots of time. As soon as I figure out the job situation, I'm putting my application in. And I think I'll also volunteer at the local theater. For Tucsconans out there, it's a combination of Catalina Cinema and Rialto Theatre. And I'd get to attend films, festivals and concerts in exchange for working the first portion of them. I can do this thing they ask.

Speaking of which, Mike Santana and I are going to Hotel Rwanda on Wednesday (if I don't work). He's a guy I met when my Baka Beyond online ticket didn't work. Came from the Bronx, taught law at the University of Montana for a while, now is trying to start his own program for potential law students.

And Thursday I want to check out the Lutheran church here. I'm very comfortable, already, at the non-denominational church I've found. But there is something about a familiar setting or familiar liturgy that is also beneficial. We'll see how that goes.

I really need to do my dishes... And get to bed. My personal habits are odd here. Wonder what Scott will do when he moves. Rent a place nearby? I'm not that lucky. ;)

"If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out" ~ Cat Stevens

2005-05-02T19:38:00.000-07:00

I fell in love with this song after watching Harold and Maude. Predictable, yes. But I love how well this song augments my peaceful, happy moments.

"If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out"

Well
if you want to sing out, sing out.
And if you want to be free, be free.
'Cause there's a million things to be.
You know that there are.

And if you want to live high, live high.
And if you want to live low, live low.
'Cause there's a million ways to go.
You know that there are.

You can do what you want.
The opportunity's on.
And if you find a new way

you can do it today.
You can make it all true.
And you can make it undo
you see.
Ah
it's easy.
Ah
you only need to know.

Well
if you want to say yes, say yes.
And if you want to say no, say no.
Cause there's a million ways to go.
You know that there are.

And if you want to be me, be me.
And if you want to be you, be you.
Cause there's a million things to do.
You know that there are.

Fox's Consignment Shop

2005-04-30T20:48:00.000-07:00

My blog is linked in my favorite websites list, so everytime I push the button to check if something new has been added. Silly me. Nothing new gets added to my own site until I add it myself. On that note, I have something new:

I am now employed, working part-time at a clothing consignment shop. It's not an illustrious opportunity, nor a very lucrative one, but it is as good a start as any. And it happened by chance. You see, my answering machine hasn't been working properly, but I only realized this yesterday. Yes, after a week's worth of filling out applications, there is a good opportunity that I've been hired at many prominent businesses throughout Thurston County. Most likely, they're simply waiting for me to return their call. They will continue waiting...

As I was off to find a telephone, trying to recognize the "back way" from Olympia to Lacey, I passed the used clothing store I had applied to earlier in the week. (On a hot tip from the girl who works at my new credit union.) A small voice told me that I should swing through and ask if there are any questions regarding my application. I debated and pulled in the parking lot. As I did, the woman working was bringing in the racks for the night. "Maybe I should come back when she's open," I thought. But it struck me--in the same still, small voice--that it makes no sense for me to make a special trip when I'm already there. So I walk in, scare the bejeezus out of the woman rummaging through her purse for her keys. Turns out she's the owner. It also appears that she is a frantic, crazy person. I asked if she had any questions about my application and explained the phone thing. She didn't much care.

"I haven't gotten to them," says she.
"Oh no?" asks I.
"Oh yes," says she.

To make a long story short, she said she wanted someone part-time to begin with, but they'll be needing a full-time person very shortly.

"Really?" asks I.
"Indeed," says she.

After a few starts and stops--she obviously pulls megalithic mental games of tug-of-war--she tells me that she could use someone right away, and that she's not in on Monday, so I should come in on Tuesday, but call her on Monday to remind her that she hired me in the first place.

Yes, just that fast.

And so now I have a job. Came home to find that I think my answering machine does indeed work, and I thought all this new information deserved a long think-through. So I scrounged in the fridge for a couple of beers, put one back after I realized I would have to navigate the stairs that are losing their fight with gravity and thousands of pounds of shifting dirt. Grabbed the binoculars and headed for the bulkhead to watch the sun turn gray. And it did. Meanwhile, I waved hello to the seal showing off for me

(I think he's starting to expect my presence. I'm always wearing the same navy blue sweatshirt and the same stupid grin. And I'm probably the only person stupid enough to wave to a seal everytime I see the damn thing. I imagine he pities me.)

and as I sit really quietly, I hear the blackberry bushes behind me rustling. Then stop. Then rustle and quake and shimmy and shake a bit more. And, after a long birthing process, what pops out on the rocky beach but a tiny red fox! And he's obviously astounded that I got down to the bottom at all.

"How the hell did she manage to get through those tiny spaces?" asks he.
"I used the stairs," says I.

The poor little critter gets the most disappointed look and jumps back in the bushes 'cause his romantic moment has been tainted by my presence. And I hear him rustling and muttering all the way up the cliffside, back through the blackberrys with all their thorns.

And after a bit more of, well, other stuff, I am here, writing this all down. Going to eat some brats now. Maybe I'll write more later.

2005-04-29T23:56:00.000-07:00

I feel like such an asshole.

Robin Hood's Best Mate--Alone in a Cabin with a Fish

2005-04-29T22:44:00.000-07:00

Two paths diverged in a wood, and I took the road to Olympia, Washington. It's finally striking me how different my life will be because of this one decision.

Please don't mistake me. I am only partly sad about this. Because I didn't much prefer my life before. The friendships I had always relied on, I had broken. Or they had dissolved. Or the friend had gone away to further his own plotline. There wasn't a feeling of home but of limbo, lingering between life and static cling. Home had been lost years ago, to both bad and good ends.

Been listening to the same minute-and-a-half soundbite for half an hour now. A melody that accompanies a major transition in film, like someone dying or people madly passionately in love touching each other's face for one last time.

I always found it more romantic when two people who had the possibility of love but never fully explored it would shake hands, smile knowingly (sorrowfully, the audience would think) and part ways forever. (Very few movies end this way. There is a good reason they don't.) I was a sucker for nostalgia and "what could have been"s. From my earliest memory, I've loved tragic figures more than female leads. Years ago, as I was flipping through the channels looking for Saturday morning cartoons, I stumbled on some version of Robin Hood, now in Technicolor. I only remember one scene from the movie: Maid Marian is swooning in the background as Robin Hood fights off guards, and this woman in tights--supposedly one of the merry men--boldly dashes in to take a blade to the stomach. Robin Hood kills the guard and runs over to hold his fallen comrade. I can't remember if she said anything to him--truth be told, I can't even remember if the movie was about Robin Hood--but I clearly remember him holding her and thinking that was a more powerful bond than he would ever have with Maid Marian. But the fact of the matter is that while for one, tender moment Robin Hood held his fallen friend, once he dropped her, he forgot her. No matter what pangs of sentiment we wanted to attach to his character. But it's taken me a long time to realize this.

I've never been smart. The little knowledge I have has been hard-earned. Only now do I see that suffering unnecessarily is not noble, it's painful and silly. And it's painful to always be focusing on a loss. This is my pitfall--I'm always ready to see what I don't have any longer, how the present doesn't measure up to the past. This makes me wary to go searching for the situation I want because, in my head, I feel I must make do with what life has already thrown at me. I do not recommend this way of life. I've played the role of the patient sufferer too long, waiting around for the male lead or the right situation or the perfect blend of ingredients to bestow my deserved glory. And the harsh reality is that I never deserved any glory, even though I thought I did. Because I wasn't doing a damn thing but hoping and wishing. And I still find myself being lost in these tendencies toward inaction, where I can sit and daydream and forget that I do have a life in the present and if I want it to be any better, I need to start working toward that end, not simply hoping for it.

But it is a daunting thing to have to expend effort. And I am tired in theory, and so I never get started. And I must. Because while I think ahead to beautiful reunions at Christmastime, it will be a sad, sad thing if I have nothing to return to after the holiday.

I'm rambling. Probably will ramble more later on. Be prepared.

Necessity

2005-04-29T21:52:00.000-07:00

We were foraging through Red Rome and Arkansas Black
When we found the small flushed apples that
Mae needed to lift her lowness.
But the grocer’s fluorescent sky had distilled
The subtle feelings of the tiny fruit.
She said they were over-ripe with overtness.
So we selected papayas instead.

And Gaia said, I only drink organic vegetables.
And Lucy said, Carbs make me balloon up.
And Mae said, Dieting is for addicts who won’t take drugs.

We rolled to the cashier
On three unflinching wheels—
The other quaking and sidestepping
The bruises and stains
Where shoes had crashed-out on the linoleum squares.
And Gaia and Lucy and Mae
Watched the belt drag the fruit along
While I wandered near the door
Blah
Blah
Blah

And Mae said, Blah.
And Lucy said, Blah
And Gaia said, Sucker.

Blah
Blah

_____________________________

The "Blah"s weren't in the original, but I've never liked those lines, so I cut them. Sadly, they are the crux of the whole damn thing. But a top without an axis will find one eventually, yes?

I had been reading Tony Hoagland's What Narcissism Means To Me (which is an excellent, excellent title) and I liked the idea of the flat-spoken dialogue lines breaking up the rest. So this is much wordier than normal, but I sort of like the extra words. Feels less confined, more fluid, less rigid, more where I'd like to go.

Viva La Revolucion!

2005-04-26T20:43:00.000-07:00

Today I have a new friend. Today my friend has a new enemy. Quark keeps rolling his eyes behind his acqueous plant, cursing his own rotten luck. Is he jealous that I dance outside his clear boundaries? Does he loathe me because I keep referring to him as a "he" when I haven't breached that sensitive "What sex are you" question? (I don't know about checking under the legs of fish to answer this myself.) Whatever the reason, I see the hatred in those gold-foiled eyes of his--Quark is a revolutionary. He is intense and cautious, passionate and calculated. And he's plotting... Oh, how he's plotting...

Life is a Carnival

2005-04-24T00:49:00.000-07:00

Tonight she held her finger-harp and plucked her voice:

Why do we cry
When life is a carnival
And the troubles merely shadows
Eeya-eeya-eeya---eeya-eeya-eeya

Disconnected

2005-03-28T20:46:00.000-08:00

Washington lay two weeks northwest of Tucson. And I'm dragging in my preparations. Two boxes of books down, a few more to go. Other than books, I'm very ill-prepared for this journey. Due to recent purges, the status of my closet is quite bare, and I'm not bringing any large furniture, as the cabin's almost fully furnished. So I'm leaving, possibly for good, and I'm taking Thoreau and Dostoevsky and Robbins. There are worse companions, I'm sure.

A good friend of mine is suffering single-person's syndrome (the debilitatingly stupid notion that one's subjective world is absolutely flush with the happenings of reality, generally found in people with no accountability and poor self-esteem). He believes fame and recognition will alleviate his loneliness, as if some of the loneliest people in the world aren't those robbed of real human contact by attention? It's aggravating to witness, but it's more frightening to walk in the valley of SPS, intimately knowing the evil that lurks therein: Am I abandoning my newly-formed community? Perhaps this is my own worst fear preying upon me--I worry that I will make no friends or will pursue nothing worthwhile, like I did in Flagstaff. But I continue to remind myself that this is a different situation, and I am definitely another person.

And I've cut my hair. I now look like a dark-haired Ramona Quimby, age eight. I even managed to etch one of those permanent parts in my bangs--the kind that won't go away, come hell or hot iron? Yeah, one of those. Slightly to the right of center. Damn, I'm cute.

Beer, Chicken and Chocolate

2005-02-16T23:19:00.000-08:00

The best complement to a twelve-hour day at work is eight hours of sleep, preceded by beverage, bird, and a Butterfinger. Mmmmm....

So I'm intrigued by my manager at work. Guess I'll say more at a later date, but I need to go to sleep... Or go watch Lost in Translation... Or go read The El Mozote Massacre book in my bag...

Later.

Beautiful Girls

2005-02-14T23:28:00.000-08:00

Growing up female is not for the faint. While I won't go on and on about the pressures modern-day society places on young women, I will touch upon the subject of divisions. Most people form their identities through comprisons. In my case, I probably looked at the contrasting roles my parents played. My mother played nagging drill sargeant to my father's self-centered workhorse. Somehow I came to value my father more than my mother. It wasn't always like that. As a child I very much disliked my father's misplaced priorities. (Not during my sister's childhood, mind you. Thankfully, she had a much different childhood than mine.) He was never home. And when he was, we related very superficially. Not that I much cared. From an early age, I was pretty self-sufficient.

As I grew older, I valued my mother's virtues less and less. She urged me to do better, to care more. My father also urged me, but as he was telling me to care, he was leaving much of his daily responsibilities, except for work, on his wife. (Who was it that wrote that essay about wanting a wife?) And somehow that division, between private, domestic life and public, occupational life became more apparent, and the separate spheres silently repelled each other. My dad went to work (my mom did, too, but her's seemed inherently inferior), and that held a mysterious glamour. To enter into my father's world, I began to buy into a strange inversion of the advertising geared toward the middle-aged male demographic. Big trucks, loud stereos, steadfast opinions, stubbornness, bawdy humor, nights spent drinking... All these were glorified and misconstrued to mean power and feminist ideals ("Look, I can be like the boys," says the misguided adolescent.). These were the things I saw my father liking, these were the things I wanted to like, too.

A short disclaimer: Nothing is ever one thing. The simple truth is an elusive concept, so this is one reading of my past filtered through many wandering threads of thought crossed with even more strings of experience and emotion.

Anyway, I get back to my original point: Somewhere along the way I came to feel divided, separated from my own sex. I absorbed the silly rhetoric that girls are inferior to boys, as was evidenced by my constant need to prove my worth to all the boys/men in my life, to show them I was just as capable as they. I lost half the world in my narrow assessment of power and gender roles. And unfortunately it took a big turn in life to repair those chasms, to blur the lines between "me" and "you", "female" and "male." But now I'm beginning to notice the extraordinary women who surround me. There is no need for gender competition, and there is absolutely no superior sex.

This entry has become a jumble of thought-fragments, assorted memories pieced together to create a cohesive narrative that isn't so cohesive, but only poses questions it cannot answer and answers questions it hasn't posed. Perhaps I'll leave the bits... Somehow they seem to say more than an edited, well thought-out version would.

Help Me Get Out Of Your Way, Lord...

2005-02-13T23:32:00.000-08:00

Anonymity doesn't seem to be casting off my burdens. While I would hate for this blog to devolve into a catalogue of daily activities, I find that my need for originality usually trumps my urge to purge. In the back of my mind, thoughts and expectations collide--"Maybe I'll show this to someone and they'll see I'm undeniably brilliant."

Been battling my pride lately. Perhaps it's because everything's looking up, and part of me feels that these are products of my own design. There are very few times in my life that God has pointed me in a direction (maybe because I never sought God's opinion until last summer), but nothing about these past couple of months supports any idea that I have controlled my own destiny. God is definitely in control, but when things are looking good and right, I want to take credit for the positive outcomes... Maybe I'm forgetting my place. Maybe this is yet another war over identity. Lately I have been emphasizing my own role in my life, trying to see how I am different from my peers. And this method of self-identification can be helpful, but generally I find it more harmful than anything. When you're pitting yourself against the world, especially to define who you are and why you do the things you do, you're bound to end with a silhouette fogged in with misconceptions.

Yes, the more I write, the more I believe these really are problems of personal identity: I am losing my grip on myself. And now that I ramble on and on about this, I remember I truly am shaking my foundations. I've decided to uproot and replant in Olympia, Washington. For someone who's spent most of her life as a very good idea, a sound hypothesis, this is a scary realization. And with the addition of a possible life-direction, things become more complicated. My brain automatically flips to "Plan Mode" and I want to have everything figured out...

But God does things in His own time and His own way. I must work on setting my own silly desires and worrisome thoughts aside to do only what I can: give thanks to God for the moment I have, right now, and maintain the hope that He will continue to seek my best interest.

Don't Think Twice

2005-01-30T23:37:00.000-08:00

How long to extirpate deeply-rooted affection?

One week.

Been half-heartedly tugging at this weed for years, and only now have I baptized it with poison. Poison in the form of a grounded, adventurous blonde I love dearly. I cannot play the victim in this circumstance, feel wronged and forgotten and unloved and wallow: I orchestrated the entire thing. With the help of divine intervention. (I would never have come up with such a good idea on my own.) There were no convincing "cons" to offset all the "pros" of introducing them.. Because all those unconvincing "cons" were my own feelings of jealousy and selfishness. Not that I'm free of these feelings, but growing up is letting go. And so I said good-bye and that we'd meet at Christmastime, and tried to distract attention from the symbolic overtones. The indifference hurts a bit, but it's only the sting of the unrequited.

What Inspires You?

2005-01-29T23:19:00.001-08:00

Beau: "Learning and selfless service."
Farren: "Nature."
Carl: "The rhetoric of the self-made man."
Me: Creation.

When thoughts distill to words, they become less than impressive. My answer was supposed to convey the beauty of only the present moment, how we're given one split-second to witness life pass from "will" or "will not" to "did" or "did not." It should have billowed toward the cavern ceiling, absorbing all the oxygen and forcing my friends to involuntarily gasp with wonder and amazement. It did not.

We lay in the moist, water-hewn cavities of Peppersauce. Farren and Beau quietly shifting about, Carl lightly humming to impel us all to navigate the next treacherous room. I lay snuggled against a stalagmite embryo, watching my own cartesian revelation unfold: I am thought. And I am thinking. Warm blackness lends itself to questions of existence. (Hearkening back to the womb, witnessing the world before "the word" that brought light...) Creation was my inevitable parallel, and Time only was when Carl swept the jagged protrusions with his headlamp light.

All Aboard!

2005-01-21T09:56:00.000-08:00

The local university is in session yet again. At my other blog I secretly wondered if this would trigger great emotional oscillations--when I'm confronted with a reality I'm deliberately pushing aside. Surprisingly, it really doesn't affect me. Perhaps I truly don't believe in the real world.

Over beer and bread bowls of soup I floored Farren (one of my good, rediscovered friends) with my latest revelation: the real world is a mental machination that has dominated our landscape for too long. "The real world", as I told her, is merely a mass hallucination, many people buying into the same myth. And that life exists outside these accepted notions. The only problem is that "the real world" idea is so pervasive, it's hard to find other skeptics. (I really haven't thought any of this out. I tend to think aloud, bouncing ideas off people and feeding off collective wanderings.)

This being said, people don't seem to see that default persuasions of "but in the real world" or "you'll miss the career train if you don't get on track" do nothing to move me. My mom spoke with my great-aunt the other day. She was beside herself because her well-meaning yet meddlesome daughter-in-law thinks I'm throwing my life away. "TC says Lin has so much potential, and she's going to waste it not going to school."

I've quit school for much the same reason people quit their jobs and buy property in the Florida Keys: because I want to be Hemingway... No, because trying to catch sparks on dripping pieces of tinder is ridiculous. Because I need to either find a new location where I can dry out or a new use for my wet needles.

On a similar note that won't seem related:

Writing in anonymity is a joy. Before this virtual room of my own, I kept quarters elsewhere in cyberspace. While I still maintain my other space, dusting it occasionally and making sure the pipes don't drip, I needed a forum where I can be free of the opinions of friends, a place where I can talk about my spiritual journey and burgeoning ideas without the tongue-clucking and slow headshakes I know too well. Because I am becoming different, but they still look for "me" (the "me" they knew) in what I say. To be different, you must see yourself as different.

Phantom Movements

2005-01-18T20:45:00.000-08:00

Two nights ago my grandma walked around my uncle's house, slowly but unassisted. "It would be easier to walk if people weren't discouraging me all the time," she said. Tonight she told me she only dreamt of walking. Someone must have informed her that she could not have wandered around my uncle's at night, that her legs no longer work, that she's dead from the waist down. I wish they hadn't.

I am becoming...

2005-01-15T15:49:00.000-08:00

Shortly after Christmas I decorated an ornament to illustrate my story of 2004. On its frosty surface, I shaped large questions with permanent marks of green and black.

This past year resulted in some major changes. My relationship with Will ended in June. God reappeared one bright summer morning. Most recently I've quit college, suddenly motivated to find the abstract bits that fit the organic voids in my puzzle-piece world.

What happens now? Good question.