electric eelism

little me - with big me

2011-01-12T20:24:00.000-08:00

Can you imagine?

2010-01-16T12:22:00.000-08:00

Life this week: interrupted by a devastating earthquake in Haiti.

After being sucked into media coverage of past tragedies around the world, I decided this week to only tune in on occasion, to see what is happening in Haiti. Up until this week my knowledge of Haiti was limited to the stories and pictures I had seen at my friend Kerry's house. Her son Ethan and her had gone to Haiti this past summer on a mission. They had asked if I wanted to go with my oldest son, but he wasn't interested. It wasn't meant to be, for us. Not at that time.

After serving us a luscious and hearty lunch that day, we settled in to hear stories and look at images of their trip. Kerry is one of my very favorite people - one of the most "whole" women I know. Trusting her completely, I take on her feelings as if they are my own. When she told us that at points the trip got so unbearable that she just couldn't partake in the activities of the day, I understood in a way, what she was experiencing. She told us that she just could not bare to visit the dump where people were living. Existing off of other peoples' garbage. Living in their waste. Not just staying for a period - living there. She showed us pictures of young children who spent the days sitting naked on concrete floors of their orphanages. And then she showed us some of the more hopeful experiences. A home where young boys and men were brought off the street and housed and taught to entertain. To dance. To perform. To find hope through the arts. And she introduced us by story to the wonderful old woman, Heidi (aged 85) who brought them to Haiti and guided them on their mission. But still, what she told us and how I felt at that moment, were in direct contrast with each other. A full tummy in a beautiful house with goodness and delight all around me made it hard to comprehend completely what she had experienced.

So this week when I heard of the devastating earthquake in Haiti I thought right away of my friends, and their friends. It turns out that Heidi and her group had just gotten to the island the night before the earthquake. They left Port au Prince and headed out to a village 30 miles away, to begin their work less than 24 hours before it happened. . . and thank God they are okay.

But with that good news, I have to wonder, why would they be any more important than the tens of thousands that died? Why would I care more for a woman I had never met, than a Haitian that met with untimely misfortune? What would make one body and soul any more selective than another? And why couldn't I wrap my head around ANY of it?

One of my goofy goals is to some day be able to watch a surgery. I think it's fascinating and have good friends that are doctors and nurses in the O.R. I love stories of healing and am intrigued by the whole concept of health. I watch television channels devoted to stories of illness and injury, and keep hoping that some day I will be able to watch the process of surgery. Each time I put one of those shows on, I watch intently intending to watch the procedure all of the way through. But for some reason I can't. Squeamishly I turn at the last second, slamming my eyes closed. Unable to force myself to see what is commonplace for people in the professions that work in those situations day in and day out. In my head I know that it would be educational - but I simply cannot get myself to watch it.

And the same thing happened this week, when I decided to take in a little bit of the pain and tragedy that was playing endlessly on the media. Purposefully I had decided to not overload and not become desensitized to the tragedy, but I wanted to try and comprehend what the pain would be like. I wanted to feel - to experience empathy by watching and by letting myself "in" to what was going on there. In small doses, I began to look.

It bothers me when the media pulls certain images that end up etched into our minds, accompanied by a name they cleverly create with some typography that somehow "brands" a cataclysmic event. I don't want to categorize tragedies with some visual rolodex in my head - like the Oklahoma Federal Building bombing illustrated by the firefighter carrying the little girl draped over his arms or the 9-11 events enhanced images of people jumping from the twin towers. I've limited watching news channels and seek out information on Haiti on my own time, when I'm ready to sensitively try to really open my eyes and my heart - and take it in.

So yesterday when I got an email labeled something like Horrors in Haiti from Life pictures, I thought I would stop - and really look - and try to absorb what was going on there. The night before I had seen commentators on a show, microphone in hand, walking down streets in Port au Prince, that were scattered with bodies. Dead people! Humans. Brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers. Friends. Children! Sons and daughters. Laying on the curbside lifeless and waiting to be picked up, like yesterday's trash. In fact, it made me wonder if their loved ones even knew they were there.

I wondered what it would be like to be that newsperson. What kind of shock it would have to take for a person to be able to walk through that - and not stoop down to mourn and grieve.

I could make sense of none of it in my own head.

When the Life email notification of the images of Haiti showed up in my email box, I decided that I would let it in and try to actually feel what was going on there. I opened and slowly went through the 20-or-so images they had compiled. Some were labeled with a warning that the picture was disturbing, but I couldn't help but wonder who had decided which should be labeled and which shouldn't. I wondered how we could not all be disturbed by what we were seeing. I wondered how we could become so desensitized to it that we could watch it while eating dinner or could casually listen to the stories on the radio as we drove to the store to go shopping. I wondered, looking at the pictures, how some people in our world have become so hardened that they could spew out hateful insults about the way people lived there instead of even considering what it would feel like to be a part of that devastated society.

I looked at each picture carefully, trying to absorb what I could - knowing that with each bit of sensitivity I could nurture in myself, I could help to make the world a better place. A bit more caring and compassionate, simply by caring.

But looking back though - I realize that I wasn't able to really take it in. Just like I haven't been able to watch a surgery even though I know in my head I want to see how it works so I can better understand the human body, I realized that I wasn't able to really look at the pictures I saw of the tragedy in Haiti. Today I still cannot understand what happened there. I cannot wrap my head around the pain and suffering the people of Haiti are experiencing. I realize now that even though I thoughtfully and consciously looked at the pictures, I was still protecting myself by not truly letting the images into my soul. Apparently they call this "emotional intelligence." Our emotional intelligence tells us what to do when we feel empathy, and it decides what to do when
experiencing too much would not be good for us.

So - I can wonder what it would feel like to be in Haiti this week. I can wonder how 85-year old Heidi feels, and I can wonder what it would be like to be a camera man or news correspondent, walking down a street filled with wounded and dying and dead, but I cannot imagine what it really feels like. I guess that's a good thing. God doesn't give us more than we can handle, but I can't imagine how the people of Haiti were given what they were. How can anyone handle that? And what can we do, to understand and to help? How do we grow our emotional intelligence?

For now all I can do is to pray for understanding, knowing that when one person hurts, all of mankind hurts. And when one person cares, it affects us all. And when the time is right, I know that my capacity to feel will grow. Unless my husband is right, and we're just not meant to feel that. None of it makes sense to me. Why?

2

2010-01-09T11:15:00.000-08:00

They said that whoever got to my mom first was the one that kept her alive.

I guess that was a good thing, because that meant that the whole big family could come in and say their peace to her as she laid in the hospital bed with cotton balls taped over her fluttering eyelids. A stroke. A blood clot at the base of her brain. They had to keep the blood thin apparently, to keep more clots from forming, so they couldn’t operate. And they hoped it wouldn’t dislodge from where it lay and go to her brain.

I think.

Doesn’t really matter. That’s how I understood it as a 16-year old, anyway. She was gone - but she was somewhat still there for people to come and say good-bye. And people liked to make me feel good about doing CPR, since whomever it was along the way that supposedly got to her first, made it possible for her to still be however alive she was for those days for people to come and sit vigil. It gave us time to prepare for her inevitable death, I suppose.

It was a powerful time in my life, but as I look back, I wonder how such important things can be treated with such ignorance. I wonder how we as a culture came to handle such big things as death, with such little preparation on how to live through that. Interacting with my mom’s body at the moments of her death, you’d think would take great consideration. But instead, I went back to school the following days as if nothing had happened. “Good girl!” people would say. “You’re handling this so well!”

I learned quickly that “good girl” was awarded when I ignored the feelings of hurt and pain, and the natural inclination to mourn and grieve. I was applauded by going back to school quickly and learned to not talk about my mom’s death, and that by handling things that way I was “doing so good.”

The quicker we all learned to not talk about it, the better we were doing, I guess.

So life went on.

At age 16 most girls aren’t getting along with their moms. Most are fighting with their moms. They’re yelling “I hate you” and slamming doors and hurling ugly insults. My mom and I hadn’t had that relationship, though ours had its own ugly side. Balanced with a saint-like acceptance for me and an almost smothering acknowledgment of her love for me, was my mom’s alcoholism. Now that I have teenagers of my own I understand why my mom drank, but I didn’t back then. It was embarrassing to me as a child. It was pathetic and it was an ugly secret that just a few of us carried. It was another of those things that I learned you should just ignore and pretend wasn’t there. Years later it made sense when I heard people describe family secrets as the elephant in living room.

People LOVED my mom. Everyone loved my mom. The community loved her, the church loved her. Old friends, new acquaintances, neighbors, relatives. She was intelligent and giving. She was stylish in her own crazy way. She was talented. Driven. She fought hard for what she believed deeply. She knew right from wrong and how to treat everyone with dignity and respect. She fought for the underdog and for peace and social justice. She volunteered to help the handicapped and sewed to help the underprivileged. And in her last years, she drank herself silly.

I’m guessing that most people didn’t know the extent of her drinking. Not even the older kids in our family. Being ninth of ten kids that survived (she gave birth to 14) there was a big gap in our rearing even though there had only been 17 years difference in the ages from the first to the last.
The older kids in our family were surprised and miffed years later, to have me make that accusation. They had no idea the extent of the discomfort and embarrassment it brought to the last few kids. It was our ugly secret. One of my sisters brought it up first. “Mom was an alcoholic,” she said, and the words sat ugly in my mind. I denied it in thought though it rang true in my heart. I struggled with the acknowledgement. I had lived it out firsthand, but because my mom had lived so sweetly and with so much love, it was like an awful betrayal to admit that she could have had a drinking problem - especially after she was gone.

So I let it roll around in my head for years, while I went on about life. I had learned to perfect that facade of perfect control with chaos fighting it out inside of me. I had learned how to carefully project a life of happiness and ease, while burying pain and secrets deep inside. I learned very quickly after my own mom’s death that alcohol was a great escape - and that drinking not only washed away the pain but that it made life so much more fun! I developed courage of steel and found that I was afraid of nothing.

So how then, did I come to this point?

My phone rang a bit ago. My 14-year old, asking me if I can pick him up tonight, from the ski hill about forty minutes away. “I don’t do winter driving,” I reminded him.

It’s cold and sunny today. 15 degrees and bright blue skies with an occasional snow flake. It could be perfectly clear tonight. I don’t know. The last time he went skiing, he was driven home in a viscious snowstorm by a mother who had lost her 17-year old daughter in a car crash exactly three months earlier, to the day.

I’m not sure where people get their strength, and I’m just working to understand where I got my fear and more importantly, how I can overcome it.

One of the hardest things is dealing with peoples’ stabbing comments of “get over it.” “Quit living in the past.” “Don’t blame your family.”

“Get over it?” Really? How come so many people feel that way? That used to make me crazy-mad, until I realized that anyone that could make such a comment had obviously never dealt with the realities I had. I could no more “get over it” than I could change my eye color from blue-green to purple. The worst part of hearing those kind of comments is that it actually put me years back in terms of healing. Not only had I experienced the pains I had, I was made to feel crazy about it, and on top of that - GUILTY! In some odd way I was being told that I had done everything wrong. I had twisted my experiences to somehow misshape them so I could blame my life for my discomfort when I’d grown up. When I finally started accepting some of the real truths it was not only good for my own healing, but it helped me become a really compassionate person. And you know what I think? We’re really too damn hard on each other.

My mom was right. Don’t judge a person until you’ve walked a mile in their moccasins. (and speaking of sins - well there’s a whole other story.)

It’s all so deep. It’s all so complicated - this simple, flowing thing called life. It just keeps coming faster and faster. I reach out and grab at stars along the way hoping to learn some new truth to make it all seem better.

It’s getting there. I’m getting there. But then I have to wonder what comes next. What if when you figure it all out - it’s the end?

The Illusion of Control

2010-01-09T09:13:00.000-08:00

I realized today that part of why I haven't written here is that the thoughts I have are either totally fleeting - and lost before I'd post them - or they're huge, rich, deep - and way too tangled to write about. But part of my goal for 2010 and beyond, is letting go. While I know that has to happen on many levels, as I go along I'm realizing the depths of some of the issues that keep me hanging on for dear life.

Life lessons. That's what I think we're here for. Mine are so twisted. . . and when I think I've figured something out it just seems to end up going deeper.

Things seem unsettled right now in an odd way that I can't exactly pinpoint. But then on the other hand, as I feel like I figure certain things out, things seem more settled than before. So as I work on letting go - and as my first instinct is to freak and grab onto life tighter - things seem to be getting more comfortable with the acceptance that control is totally an illusion. And I feel like a young child teetering on my two-wheeler for the first time without training wheels. Will I succeed and ride along forevermore? Too bad in reality the first time I had my bike out for a spin as a child, I took a bad spill. Left my bike around the corner from our house to run home for some nurturing, and my bike was ripped off. I have a hard time now realizing that life doesn't always turn out that way.

I want to hold on tight and pretend that as long as I hold all dear to me very close in my arms, all will be well.

This morning as I took my 14-year old to a friend's house to head out snowboarding, I had a thick, but kind of brief conversation with his friend. His sister died tragically at age 17, just three months ago. She was killed in a car crash when she skidded around a corner and rolled her car. I asked if it would be okay for me to ask a few questions, since her death is one that keeps creeping into my head. I wonder how it would be to be her parents. His parents. Maybe if I can write some of these things out, I can help myself figure some of these things out. I got stuck along the way and while I feel like I had let go years ago, I'm realizing that until I really fully do, I will be trapped forever by that illusion of control.

For me, the story starts with the crystal clear slice of a vision that will be forever trapped in my mind. My bedroom door flung open and my dad frantically yelling "Go do that emergency stuff to your mom!" He, standing there in his Jockey boxer shorts. Me, suddenly just half awake wondering what the hell he was talking about. "That stuff you learned in school!"

In a heartbeat I went from fast asleep to another world. I flew out of bed and ran into their bedroom where she lay on her bed. Quickly, I moved for the next however long, trapped in some kind of a time-warp that seems like both a matter of minutes balanced with a life-time.

My mom really should have been moved to the floor, to a hard surface, but he had been awakened when she rose from bed and fell to the floor, so he put her back on the bed. I didn't have the heart to tell him that CPR needed to be done on a hard surface. He had sweetly put her back on her bed, to comfort her obviously dead body.

As I heard him in the other room fumbling to call for an ambulance, I started to do what I had been taught the year before in health class. What was pretty routine on a plastic CPR dummy was another whole thing on a real person laying in their real bed in your real house. And especially when it's your mom.

The pre-cardial thump, I think they call it. You slug the person. But how hard? If you slug them too hard you can break their ribs. But if you slug them just right you can bring them right to life! Much easier on the dummy, it just didn't seem natural to slug your mother. My heart was racing and I wanted to be anywhere but where I was. The vision of my dad and his skinny legs in his boxers. . . the pain in his eyes. . . the way he called out "Momma! Come out of it!". . . all still haunt me.

As he spoke in the other room, I began. The thump. The clearing of the airways, my fingers in her mouth and throat. I pulled up on the back of her neck to open the passageway. Listened for breathing and heard nothing but an ugly gurgle which I pretended may be life. I checked for a pulse again and again not sure exactly what I should feel and thinking that I hopefully just wasn't doing something right, and then I began.

Alone, my scrawny legs in my red and white striped footie pajamas, knees knocking. I found the spot which I thought was below her sternum and started compressions. Again, on a dummy it was easy, but in real life found this surreal. Too hard, they had told us, and you puncture the lungs. Too soft and you do no good. I am not sure if I went through the actions or if anything I did was doing any good - but I went on for what seemed like eternity.

Time couldn't move any slower in that blur which was eventually broken up by the sound of the neighbor's dogs howling. My mom used to laugh about the fact that they'd hear sirens long before anyone else and I was grateful to hear their piercing howls. Seconds later, I think, there were paramedics by my side. I was happy to turn the work over to someone else, but was thinking suddenly that the house was a mess and was unhappy to be hosting them at that moment. They got her onto a stretcher and pulled out all sorts of things that I had seen on TV. Bottles and needles and hoses. They needed more light, so my dad grabbed a lamp and pulled it over for them. It all happened so fast. Within minutes she was outside and was being loaded into the back of the ambulance. My dad climbed in with her and off they went, lights flashing and sirens soon to follow, off into the dark of the night and into a deep, deep fog.

I was standing alone in the dark in the middle of 79th Street. And I stood there for a minute. Or forever. Wondering if that was all real. Knowing it was, but wondering how. And what to do next.

tiptoeing in

2010-01-08T06:49:00.000-08:00

hmmmmm.
It's been so long - and I have ideas - and not so much time.
Or, the time I have, I've been using in other ways. I can't complain about time even though it seems to be flying so fast. I still make choices about most of it.

Hi k and hi h and hi l.

Ask for help. . .

2009-07-14T08:32:00.000-07:00

I don't have time to write all that I want to here, today. (or ever).

My brother died about 24 hours ago. My heart is breaking, though I'm doing so much better than I was a day ago. Part of what helped me so much was the outpouring of sympathy I received on facebook. While each person handles their grief differently, I've learned the importance of grieving out loud. My family's tendency in the past was to buck up and stand tall. "Get over it" and "Move on."

Not this time. And not the time before. I'm learning to say out loud "I'm hurting." "I need help."

The outpouring of love directed at my family because of that cry has been so heartwarming. I feel like I'm supported - held up - and like I'm growing because of it. I think the healing will be quicker and more full.

The sad thing is that my brother would not be gone right now if he'd learned how to ask for help.

Specifically, he may have died because he had no insulin to treat his diabetes. And he wouldn't ask for help. Or couldn't? Where does that stubborn pride come from and why do we serve it?

He died an alcoholic that suffered for years and years. I understand that struggle and felt his pain for a long time. I know that trap.

Why is it so hard to ask for help? It's the simplest thing and the most complex thing, all in one.

If only he could have asked. . . If he could have humbled himself to accept that there is a loving God that could have helped him. And family and friends that cared so much about him on so many levels.

May we all learn from lessons like this - we are never too big, too small, too important, too wrecked, or too whatever-it-is-we-think-we-are, to ask for help.

All sorts of things I want to write

2009-06-20T07:13:00.000-07:00

Why is it that all during the day and night - except when I'm sitting here - do I think of a million things that would make great blog posts. I create these fantastic episodes in my head, and then poof - they're gone.

Sometimes I realize that - that I'm going to forget - so I create them as lists. And poof - those go too.

Maybe next time?

MY new bike

2009-06-04T19:39:00.001-07:00

Treasure Hunter

2009-06-03T18:59:00.000-07:00

I just got back from picking up my bike.
An awesome blue Schwinn Hollywood.
It was built and launched on November ??, 1965.

I'm getting bad at remembering things.

But the bike!
It's one of my rummage sale treasures from the 2009 Season so far.

Another key purchase? Six pair of shorts for Son Two. A&F, AE, Hollister, etc.
A buck a pair. Six or seven shirts to go with them - for fifty cents each.

And I bought a saxaphone, too! I'm not sure if it works yet, because the high school kid I have testing it out for me has been busy.

Plus four pair of brand new shoes. A buck a pair.

What will I do with all of these treasures, you ask?

Treasure them.

What will Friday bring?
I'll take my camera along and snap some pics for you. On my treasure hunt. . .

(photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/juli/)

Could this be?

2009-06-01T16:22:00.000-07:00

Son Number One has a beautiful girl over, to "study."
Son Number Two went to a friend's to work on Math, and then off to the library with his mother.

This past weekend, Son One had a "concert" at a friend's house when the parents weren't there but a babysitter was. (they're 17)

Am I gullible, or is it just that I was terribly naughty when I was young?

Could it be? Could life be so apple pie?
I hope?

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!

2009-05-23T18:15:00.001-07:00

One Man's Trash

2009-05-23T18:04:00.000-07:00

This picture includes:
a surface of a cedar chest which I purchased from a neighbor for ten bucks.
the edge of the mission oak rocker I picked up from the trash.
a rain stick I got for a buck.
a raku vase I found for $3.
another raku vessel - the one with the ornate top - I purchased for five bucks.
a coil pot my son made for me in fifth grade.
a vase I found in a "free box" the other day.
marbles I got for fifty cents.
and lillies of the valley I picked from my yard.

Treasures!

2009-05-21T07:15:00.000-07:00

2009-05-19T10:54:00.001-07:00

2009-05-19T10:53:00.001-07:00

2009-05-19T10:51:00.001-07:00

2009-05-19T10:50:00.001-07:00

2009-05-19T10:49:00.001-07:00

this morning

2009-05-19T10:43:00.000-07:00

Stray Boy

2009-05-15T17:49:00.000-07:00

So here's my husband, and his new friend.
Our boys are both gone out tonight, but this is my husband having a beer with his new buddy Brody.
Brody comes here daily looking for "him."
"Is he here?" "He said he's gonna take me golfing."

They just called for me to go get Brody a bottle of water.
"Can you get Brody a bottle of water?"

"Who's that?" the boy asked, puzzled. I heard my husband ask "Were you pulling my crank? That's not your name?"

So there they are.

His dad lives in Texas. He's new in the apartments down the street.

The doorbell rings many times a day - for "him."

Could be a long summer.

Richless. . . a matter of perspective.

2009-05-14T12:35:00.000-07:00

NPR.org , May 13, 2009

Overheard in the toy-strewn playroom of a rambling three-story house in the suburbs of Cleveland:

Victoria, 11: "We're poor."

Madeline, 8: "Yeah, we're richless."

Richless. Out of the mouth of babes, a word that captures precisely where so many of us truly are as we take stock of our situations in these distressing — but not yet Depressing — economic times.

We are richless. Some of the riches we had are gone.

We are not poor. We are not really likely to become poor.

It's a crucial distinction to make in an America that has such a lousy sense of its own history.

Let's take Victoria and Madeline's family, for instance. I know them well; they happen to be mine, too.

In the Great Depression — long before the girls' parents or grandparents were born, but well within the memory of their 88-year-old great-grandmother — our family had very little money and very little else.

They did not own a home. They often moved because they couldn't make rent. They carried their few possessions with them, took good care of them and eventually handed them down.

They ate tomato sandwiches and — since the patriarch worked as a meat cutter — they also ate lard sandwiches.

The lesson learned from that experience was simple: Be thrifty. Be driven by need, not greed. And by making the most of their resources over the years, the family managed to get ahead.

"I complain today because a loaf of bread is $2," my father said to me, more than once. "But I have the $2. When a loaf of bread was a nickel, I didn't have the nickel."

Yet many of us who grew up able to afford that loaf of bread all along wound up with eyes too big for our stomachs.

We joked about buying things "to stimulate the economy." When we felt discontented, we found ourselves engaging in "retail therapy."

We had plenty of encouragement to keep up with the Joneses. All we had to do was turn on a TV to see what we didn't have and to tune out all the things we did have.

In the end, we acquired more than we needed. More even than we WANTED.

And we have wound up doing what Franklin Roosevelt warned us against: We're fearing the fear itself.

Now here's the good news: HAVING all that stuff gives us a head start if we do keep sliding toward a "Capital D" Depression.

We have more clothes than we could ever wear — if we focus on need and not greed.

We have food on the shelves that will keep for weeks and months and years — if we focus on need and not greed.

We can work together to find a million ways to share all of these hidden resources with friends and neighbors and even strangers — if we focus on need and not greed.

So ask yourself if you have the money for the loaf of bread.

If the answer is yes — even if things look pretty grim at the moment — please consider the possibility that you're not down and out yet.

You're merely richless.

Todd Holzman is supervising senior editor for NPR Digital News.

new life

2009-05-13T18:28:00.001-07:00

The colors are so rich on rainy days.

today in my front yard

2009-05-13T16:51:00.001-07:00

I got outside just as it started to rain. . .

2009-05-12T07:57:00.000-07:00

2009-05-12T07:49:00.000-07:00

Today, in my back yard.

Spring is intoxicating.

a pain in the neck

2009-05-11T05:45:00.000-07:00

Monday morning. Before I even start my day.

I leaned over the dishwasher to throw some dishes in - just to tidy up before I begin work - and ZING! Down my neck, through my shoulder, into my right arm. Intense pain. Deep, sharp pain.

Monday mornings are Monday mornings already. But it's bright and sunny out - it's spring - I was determined to be optimistic about the day and the week ahead - and then that?

I blew out my knee two weeks ago at the Y, and haven't been back since. This morning I thought I would attempt a return to work out - but wham!

And I've got a list of work to do - of course.

I'm going to breathe this kink out.
Practice with me. . .

It's Monday. Lovely, peaceful, gentle Monday.
The start of all things good.
A clean slate, and an opportunity to spin the world in all different directions.
The sun is wonderful and warm. The grass and all things growing are surging forth with new growth.
The colors of nature are vibrant and alive.
A day for health and healing.

Breathe in through the nose. Fully - bringing nurturing oxygen to all parts of (this aching body!)
And out through the mouth. Taking pain away.

----------

I think we need Sunday night again. . . ?
Start this thing over?
Skip the dishes?
Who cares about cleaning?
There's always tomorrow to work?. . .

Bueller?

courage

2009-04-29T19:15:00.000-07:00

2009-04-29T18:50:00.000-07:00

be

2009-04-29T18:42:00.001-07:00

Rev Run

2009-04-29T16:52:00.001-07:00

2009-04-29T16:28:00.003-07:00

GO

2009-04-29T16:28:00.001-07:00

2009-04-29T15:00:00.001-07:00

2009-04-29T14:27:00.001-07:00

gift of today

2009-04-28T06:05:00.001-07:00

You

2009-04-27T18:37:00.000-07:00

just ask

2009-04-27T17:37:00.001-07:00

That other one was too blah

2009-04-27T16:21:00.000-07:00

2009-04-27T08:49:00.001-07:00

I wish. . .

2009-04-01T20:09:00.001-07:00

I could put pink on the outside edges, with white behind my posts. . .

These days, I'm really drawn to pink.
So I drew my electric eel in pinks. Oranges and pinks.

I wonder. . .

2009-03-29T15:59:00.000-07:00

Since some of the most important places for people to use throat lozenges require quiet. . . why don't they make the wrappers out of some kind of material that doesn't crinkle like crazy when you open them?

Just wondering.

This really makes me squirm

2009-03-25T07:20:00.000-07:00

After being a blocked artist for more than 20 years. . . I am forcing myself to paint.

In many ways, I live art. I am art. I wear art, I cook art, I nurture my children as art. I have made a great living for many years by creating design that I would consider art - but the kind of thing most people would call art - paint on a canvas or other traditional mediums - scare the hell out of me.

When I was a young girl art oozed out of me. I always had crayons and paint and fabric and paper and wood and whatever else I could lay my hands on, and created things with great energy. Our house was filled with art and talk of art. It wasn't until I got to college that I had my first collision with people that didn't appreciate what I did. Part of that was I didn't know how to use the mediums like most other kids my age. In high school I was a musician. I learned how to play the oboe and read music and perfected that craft. In college most of the other people in art had already learned the techniques and were then honing their skills. I was too embarrassed to ask how to paint with oils and acrylics and how to work with clay, so I muddled my way through. The other issue was that my style is totally graphic in nature. Color. Balance. My inclination to create graphic looking works was against the professors desire to churn out artists that worked traditionally. I had one watercolor teacher that would continually take my paintings off the wall before she'd begin the critique. She said my art was too commercial, and not worthy of critique. She would walk up to my work, take it and place it face down on the table, and then say "There. Now we can begin."

I refused to give in, and continued to paint whatever I wanted to paint. Inspired by Paul Klee. Not anywhere near her comfort zone.

Close to the end of my degree (which stretched for many years) (long story. it postponed student loan payments) I took the required watercolor class, which only she taught. At the end of the semester when I turned in my portfolio full of work, she wrote a note that said "I can only grade this portfolio if you include a landscape or a still life."

I went home in tears, unsure what to do. I refused to give in. I didn't paint things like the other students. I definitely didn't paint things like her star pupils. But - watercolor class was a requirement to graduate and would fail if I didn't do what she asked.

One of my roommates, a talented artist in every media, insisted that I had to do the painting and re-hand in my portfolio for critique. I had no idea where to start, so that friend threw a vase up in our window, added a single flower, and in a heartbeat did a lovely little watercolor for me. She was so talented that she was able to paint in a style that would be comparable to what I'd have done, if I knew that traditional technique.

I turned in my portfolio with her painting on top of my stack, and I received a C for the final grade.

But - I haven't painted since. I'm still deathly afraid of watercolor and its random ways. It seems unable to be contained, and I can't imagine even trying. As part of a process I'm working on for myself though, I recently decided to slay the dragon in some form. I've begun a couple of tiny acrylic paintings. One was promised to my niece Heidi before I even started it, and the other is for my husband, who has fallen in love with the painting from the minute it was begun. I can't believe I have people who would be interested in having my paintings!

I don't really even care what they do with them. I've thrown lots of art away before, and that wouldn't kill me. Mark has said his painting is going in his office, and with that thought I'm thrilled! This process makes me feel so naked and so exposed, but I am going forth even though I feel so vulnerable. I've learned that putting myself "out there" when I feel insecure is the best way to help myself grow. I'm finally learning to ignore the perfectionist in me and I'm willing to accept whatever comes out. I'm growing. I'm trying.

And so, as much as this act fills me with anxiety, I am posting my UNFINISHED paintings here. They're not perfect. . . but they're okay! In fact, they're just fine. . . and some people LIKE THEM!
ahhhhh.

Living My Life Out Loud

2009-03-23T06:24:00.001-07:00

Many years ago when my boys were young, I was at the Rec Department waiting for the kids' class to finish, when the conversation turned to movies. I commented that my movie viewing was changing since the kids were starting to stay up later. When they were very young we'd watch family movies before bed and then could watch more action-type movies when they were asleep. Since they were staying up later the older they got, the more grownup movies were eventually squeezed out of the lineup. (Note. The adult movies weren't "adult" movies but were PG or R-rated, inappropriate for young kids)

One man who had been standing there quietly, piped in "Maybe if the kids can't watch it with you, it isn't a great influence for you, either."

I argued with him about it for a bit, but for years now I've thought about it. I've learned to use things like that for my moral compass. If my kids can't know something, maybe I shouldn't be doing it. If I wouldn't want my neighbors hearing it, maybe I shouldn't be saying it.

Try living your life like an open book. Make note of what you are watching, listen to what you are saying. If there are things going on that you wouldn't want broadcast on YouTube, chances are they are things that may be holding you back from being all that you can be.

I call it Living Your Life Out Loud. I'm not there yet, but I'm working on it. By using these simple markers as guidelines, I've come a long way towards living a truly honest life – and it feels good.

I did something gross today

2009-03-22T12:08:00.000-07:00

I was making banana bread, and after pouring the walnuts in I noticed a spider in the bowl. Not really small but not too big. It was the same color as the walnuts and I was really glad I saw it before I mixed the nuts in.

I picked it up with my fingers!
I touched it. Gross. And threw it in the sink and mixed up the bread and baked it.

I don't really like spiders. I'm not afraid of them, but they are gross.

The bag had been opened the other day, and was closed with a twist tie. I'm hoping the spider had just crawled into the top of the bag and was a harmless kind of Wisconsin spider - and not something that came IN that bag and is going to grow baby spiders inside my body. You see, I have a good imagination.

An Icecube or a Butterfly

2009-03-17T19:05:00.000-07:00

Thinking about change.

I just wrote about change.
But now that I think about it, even more than change, I am thankful I've been open to
t r a n s f o r m a t i o n

Water changes from water to ice, but it can go back to being water again.
They're different but they're the same.

I'm grateful that I've been open to being transformed.

Like a caterpillar. Once hunkered down in the cuckoon. . .
And then finally ready. . .
and transformed.

I don't think I could ever be a caterpillar again.

I mean, wooly bears are nice, but they mean a long winter and I hate winter.

your one wild and precious life

2009-03-17T18:45:00.000-07:00

My blog is random and scattered and eclectic. Should that be a surprise?
The perfectionist in me envisioned something slightly different. A theme, perhaps.
But since I started this with no real vision of what it would be, I'm seeing now that it's kind of a scrapbook.
Or maybe more like a sketchbook.
Some words, some scribbles, some things ripped from magazines for inspiration.
I think I may start posting work that I've done each day. . .
maybe.

But for today, I wanted to post this poem, one of my favorites.

I see so many people around me that seem to be stuck in places they don't want to be. Relationships, jobs, cities. Ruts.

Life is so precious and short.
I pray I never take any of it for granted. Especially the moment in life when I knew I needed to make some changes and I started planting one foot in front of the other.

Funny - during one difficult period in my life I read that what had happened to me physically probably stemmed from my opposition to change. I scoffed and said to a friend that I had no problem with change. I did it all the time. She looked at me like I was crazy and said "well you need to change," as if what I had just said was pure nonsense. She informed me that I needed to put both of my hands over my throat (the chakra for change) and affirm to myself "I am willing to change."

So, I did it. I walked around all day long, hands over throat, repeating "I am willing to change. I am willing to change. I am willing to change." . . . all the time sure that I was always willing to change and it was pure poppycock. Whateva.

Guess what? I'm STILL changing.

And looking back, that was a time in my life that I was truly blind to my own needs. I am grateful for that wise friend that didn't judge and instead simply helped me along my way.

But anyway - that wise woman was my dear friend and mentor, Kiernan.

And this is one of my favorite poems which she read in her beautiful storytelling way.

It has helped change my life.

The Summer Day

Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

from New and Selected Poems, 1992
Beacon Press, Boston, MA

oooo, nice.

2009-03-16T12:15:00.001-07:00

"Love After Love

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life."
— Derek Walcott

the start of a vision

2009-03-16T06:32:00.001-07:00

Last Night's Dream

2009-03-06T05:37:00.001-08:00

I often dream about living in fabulous houses with many, many rooms. Some are old houses, some are new, but they always have cool nooks and crannies. I'm always delighted to discover some awesome detail that I'd forgotten we had. I'll open a door or a cupboard or walk down a hallway and think "this is amazing!! Why did I forget that we had this ______?!"

Last night's dream was a little bit different. We had a wonderful new house. It was probably about 20 years old. Maybe 2500-3000 square feet, so large without being monstrous. It was a ranch, very spread out with oak shake siding. There were rooms that were cool and mysterious and there were rooms that were light and fresh. One detail I recall were some funky windows that had screens on both sides, with shelves inbetween to display rustic-looking nicknacks. The old owners had left a lantern there. While it all appeared to be old and covered with dust and cobwebs, it was just created to look like that, and the screens on each side kept it clean and tidy. The old rustic look was just an illusion.

The back yard had a large pool that at first glance looked dirty, but actually had been designed to be a green color rather than the usual aquatic blues. It was created to blend in with nature. (in my dreams there are always cool things like that, which seem to make sense but aren't usually found in the real world). Next to the pool was a wading-type pool that was also very natural green, with two adirondack chairs in it. It was so parents could sit and cool their feet while watching their kids in the connected swimming pool.

When I got the chance to finally take a swim, I found two women out in the pool with a young baby. (one of those details I have in dreams that aren't yet invented in real life was a little plug the baby was wearing so he couldn't poop in the pool. While it seemed like a great idea in the dream, this morning it seems not so.)

I didn't ask why they were in our pool. I let them swim with me and listened to their conversation trying to figure out who they were. They mentioned something about the train tracks, and waiting, and they eventually got out and left. I thought that the next time they came for a swim I'd let them know that we had purchased the house and that the pool wasn't "open" any longer.

When I went inside to change (remember, we were just moving in so all of our belongings were in boxes everywhere!) I found a friend of mine asleep in the master bedroom. I made a mental note that I was going to tell her too, that the bed was ours and she would be welcome next time to take a nap in a guest room. She looked comfortable at the time though, and was suffering from a cold, so I let her stay there for the time being although also in the bed was my youngest baby, taking a nap. As I left the room I saw her roll over and pat him on the back as he slept, and I thought it was good for her to have some human comfort. Simple love like that of nurturing a baby.

I went back outside and was surprised to see from the side of the back yard, a train come cruising past the front of the house. It startled me and made me a bit anxious, as the curve on the tracks had the train turning so that if it jumped the tracks at the point the train would derail into our new house! And it was probably set up just 10 feet or so from the front of the house. I wondered suddenly how we purchased the house without realizing that the tracks were right there. Not wanting to diminish the excitement and satisfaction about the new house, I decided that we'd become acclimated to hearing the train and very soon wouldn't even notice it when it passed. I also convinced myself that trains rarely derailed and that the chances were unlikely that a train would end up crashing into that part of our house that had the master bedroom, (even though the tracks took almost a ninety degree turn right there and in real life it would probably happen every time.)

I stepped out for a bit to run to the store, and didn't notice the surroundings again, until I was headed back home. This time I noticed that the block our new house was located on was built very tightly. Although the homes across the street appeared tidy and neat at first glance they were actually part of a trailer park. The trailers were placed within a few feet of each other, and the facades that faced the street had been created to look like a sweet old-fashioned block of row houses. They varied in color but all had the same look of rehabbed homes that you see in large cities. The places where money moves into old, decayed neighborhoods and turns trash into treasures.

While I wanted to believe that the content of the neighborhood matched the pretty facade, my stomach sunk as I realized that wasn't true.

How could we have missed such details when we purchased this gem of a house? Location, location, location?!

It made sense where the ladies in the pool came from. Our backyard was the neighborhood's park. How would we end that?! After returning home, I stepped outside the front of the house to make another assessment of the situation. There was a huge commotion going on across the street where I noticed a group of people congregating around a squad car. And then I saw the yellow, police caution tape. And I heard someone talking about the murder.

Outside of our front door was a beautiful, curved, built-in bench, so I sat down broken-hearted, thinking that our dream house (and major investment) was in fact a nightmare. Two teens came and plopped down next to me and I came to realize that the bench built-in to our house front was considered by the neighborhood as the trainstop. I asked one about what happened across the street and he recited the details as if it had been no big deal. When I asked about the house, and what they thought of the house in the 'hood, he said they all wondered why anyone would build such a gorgeous house in such a terrible place. They thought it laughable. Ignorant of the owners. And then he pointed out that in the exact spot he was sitting, a teen had been killed waiting for the train one morning on the way to school. On our front bench! He said that was probably what put the previous owners and builders of this dream house, over the top.

I was filled with anxiety. Sick for the child that had lost their life, and wondering how in the world we had purchased this place which we had considered a dream - without knowing "the rest of the story." Somehow we had been totally duped. We had only seen what we were shown, without spending the time to learn the truth.

Interesting, that last night's dream turned into this morning's nightmare.
What you see isn't always what you get.

I'm wondering how much of this is tied into my disdain right now for the media. I've given up watching the news, for Lent. I'm tired of the stories I hear. The lies. The misrepresentations. I'm wondering how we can raise our kids to understand the importance of truth when everywhere around them they're seeing untruths. I'm tired of quick fixes that put bandaids on real ills (the facades on the trailer park homes). And I'm so saddened that so many young people especially, can see this all going on and think it's no big deal. Another day, another life, another lie, no big deal.

How did I get to this point in life? Where do I want to live? In my dream house? There's so much going on . . .

thank you, Cia

2009-03-02T08:24:00.000-08:00

An Aha! Moment

2009-03-02T07:12:00.000-08:00

The list of titles was intriguing: “Channeling Grace” “Illuminating the Afterlife”“Meditations to Live to Be 100” (ug. Not sure I like that one so much. Who wants to be 100?) “The Power of Slow” (note to self: order that one.)

And then I saw this: “Fearless Love” by Gary Renard. In the description I read “Q: Fearless love seems reckless. How do you find the courage to love fearlessly?” “A: Remember what you really are: Immortal Spirit. This might appear reckless to those who identify solely with their body, because as a body there is much fear of damage and death. Immortal Spirit is free of fear and therefore free to be…fearless”

“Fearless love is not love the way the world commonly thinks of it. It’s an all-encompassing kind of love that is innocent and unflawed. It excludes no one and includes all.

A flash went through me and I realized that somewhere along the road I’d come to a new chapter in my life. I’m not completely sure where this chapter goes, or even when it started, but I know for sure that it’s new. And good.

For years I was able to recognize that I was terrified of love. Not so much of love itself, but of losing love. The typical “Fear of Abandonment” that I was able to name and understand. Afterall, I’d lost my mom when I was 16, my dad when I was 24, my oldest brother the year after that, along with my grandpa. I was pretty experienced at having love yanked out of my life. But I’d experienced that in more subtle ways, too.

My mom was an alcoholic. A lovely, tender saint of a person, who found her way to the big, green, gallon jug of wine every afternoon. By dinner time and after, she was pathetically licking her lips over and over and over, saying “I love you.” “I love you.” “You are a good girl.” “I believe it you.” “You have your head straight on your shoulders.” “I love you.”

It made me sick. Because really, if someone loved you so much, would they be hiding away under the ugly mask of alcohol every day? It took me years to figure out that the contrast in what I was hearing and what I was experiencing, was very confusing for a young girl. It took me a lot of discerning to figure out that her drinking was her problem, and not mine.

A year after she died, my dad remarried. While I was happy for him, the chaos of introducing another (crazy) family into our household was insanity for me. I had to put my real feelings on hold while I was forced to acclimate to a new life. A new family. We weren’t the Brady Bunch. It felt more like intrusion to me.

Our stepmother didn’t know us, and she didn’t understand us. We were a loud and boisterous clan of ten that worked as one. Although only two of us were at home, we still were a group, but only two of us were experiencing the ugliness of what was going on at home with the (unwanted) addition of a new family into our space.

Everyone outside was saying “Look how happy it all is!” “How wonderful!” … but inside that house happened things that were foreign to the way we had grown up. When we my brother and I had the courage to speak up we were told that we were bad. That we needed to be accepting of our new family and our new (crazy) stepmother. We were reminded that our father was happy again and that what we were being was unaccepting and judgemental.

There was nothing loving about any of that, to me.

It was no small wonder then, when a beautiful young man asked me out, treated me like a princess, introduced me to his solid family, and swept me off my feet, I was head over heals. I could escape the insanity at my own house and was accepted into his where I was introduced to worldly things. A beautiful house on the lake, an international famlly, cultural foods, new arts, and an affinity for the finer things in life. It was a fairytale come true.

We dated about a year before we were engaged, and although by that time most of my family and friends had seen through him and knew it would be shortlived (or hoped, at least) - I was enamored. So, I worked hard to forgive and forget each episode of infidelity I experienced. Afterall, he loved me sooooo much, and I loved him more than anything. A young girl’s folly.

Of course that too came crashing down on me eventually. And in the midst of all of that I, like my mother, learned that alcohol was an amazing mask for all things uncomfortable. So I lived that way for years…

Going through the motions.

----------------------------------

Ah, the cliffhanger.

I don’t have time to write more today. The real meat and potatoes of this story, like I wrote in the beginning, is my newfound realization. That deserves more attention than the few minutes I can take right now - but I’ll be back.

In memory of Paul Harvey, who passed away last week, I must recall still “the rest of the story…”

Notes on Abundance

2009-02-26T18:43:00.001-08:00

Some of my favorite ideas from Week 6:

As you expect God to be more generous, God will be able to be more generous to you.
What we really want to do is what we are really meant to do. When we do what we are meant to do, money comes to us, doors open for us, we feel useful , and the work we do feels like play to us.

(that's TRUE!)

Stuck and stymied, Alan described his block this way: "I try to play and I hear myself, and what I can do is so far away from what I want to do that I cringe." (and then quit.)

(ME TOO!) (but I'm really, really, really trying to be kinder and gentler to myself. Once I was labeled as being hypercritical with unrelenting standards (for myself) I was able to start letting myself settle for less and feel okay about it.)

Creative living requires the luxury of time, which we carve out for ourselves – even if it's fifteen minutes for quick morning pages and a ten-minute minibath after work.

(I'm working on that one. Baby steps. Like eating a whale, one bite at a time. Fifteen minutes. I can make that. Right?)

----------

It does feel good to create the luxury of time to write all of this out.

Next up?
The God I believe in and the God I'd like to believe in. . .

Recovering a Sense of Abundance

2009-02-26T18:18:00.001-08:00

Week 6: The Artist's Way.
Recovering a Sense of Abundance. It was interesting to hear what each person in our Artist's Way circle had to say about luxury. One described a wonderful facial treatment she has four times a year. One friend described taking a limo to Chicago for botox every three months. One lusciously recalled a spa treatment she affords herself every six weeks. We'd been prompted in the book in the chapter before, to think about things like "If I were 20 and had money. . . " or "If I were 65 and I had money. . . " but honestly, for the life of me I couldn't think of a list of THINGS I would buy. Sure, a nice big house would be great, but once again I found myself yearning for the month by the sea.

Abundance? Money. That's what holds many people back, I guess. You'd think I was rolling in the dough with my lack of concern about that. I consider my family very blessed. We have a nice, modest house which is paid for. We have cars which are paid for. We've paid off our student loans and we live without credit cards - but none of that is because we inherited money or make a lot of money. I'm convinced it's because we've been able to let go of money as a luxury. I find that in life, whatever I yearn for most, is what I am most lacking. I learned long ago to live without much, and to make do with what we have. The thing that I'm seeking more than anything now - is time.

Time! The biggest luxury I can imagine now, would be the gift of more time. They say that as you grow older time speeds up, but I can't comprehend how much faster it can go. I'm getting dizzy spinning at this speed.

It's interesting this week, to think about money, at this time in history when so many in our society are struggling with the deep recession we're in. We grew up with nothing, made it through college with nothing, started our marriage with nothing, and have built up such a wonderful life, with very little. I'm glad to say that in our house it's not so much the 'things' that matter - it's the things that we can't buy that are most valuable. Love. Energy. Peace. Acceptance. Self respect. Friendships. And on, and on. If I could work on creating a sense of abundance, I would like to get a grasp on time. More time to learn and grow. More time to love. More time to share. More time to do nothing at all.

I'm thankful that in a world where many are feeling great need for 'things' we are truly blessed with all that we need and much of what we want. I'm thankful that I understand the concept that in giving we receive, and I'm able to share some of what we've gotten.

But if you have any ideas of how to create more time, I'm all ears. Please let me in on the secret.

Recovering a Sense of Possibility

2009-02-22T18:20:00.000-08:00

Chapter 5: The Artist's Way. . .
I probably should have started my observations on the Artist's Way 5 weeks ago when I started the group meetings on it, but I didn't, so I will now. A recurring theme I'm finding this time through the book (my third time, second time with a group) is that I want to be a lady that takes a month by the sea. It's come up many times now, and I'm starting to visualize the place. The sounds. The sand, the curtains, the colors. . .

The first or second time through the book I visualized moving out - farther away from where we lived in Milwaukee. Years later after moving, I reread my thoughts that I'd compiled when doing the book, and was surprised to see how many times I had mentioned that. Moving "out" to me meant moving a little farther away from the center of Milwaukee. Somewhere a little safer. I had no idea that within a few years we'd move completely out of Milwaukee, to a safe and comfortable, much smaller city. When I imagined and wrote about moving, I really didn't think it would be a reality, and I was delighted years later when I saw how my intentions had worked.

So this time through - my recurring them is the lady with a month by the sea. The first times I've thought of it though in life, have been times I've experienced great difficulties and thought I really, desperately needed a break from life. Now I'm envisioning it just as a sweet time. Some solitary, and some with family and/or friends.

In fact, I'd love to buy a cabin. A cottage. A place in the woods. On the water, preferably.

As part of our work this week in Chapter 5, we need to start finding images that match our vision. It was great synchronicity then the day after I read that, to have an email in my box that was advertising what else?. . . but houses for rent. By the sea.

So I haven't decided yet. Will it be a week by the sea? Or will buy a cabin in the woods someday?

I'm at least putting the thought into motion. Somehow. Someday. . .

day two

2009-02-19T05:36:00.000-08:00

sooooo. . . Who do I address this to? If I write this as a sort of journal or diary entry, which seems kind of logical, then I wouldn't be posting it on the internet for all the world to read. If I direct it to some certain people, then maybe I should just be writing a letter.

I'm often composing letters in my head. Letters to Oprah are quite frequent. I work on solving society's problems a lot. Letters to the school board. Pointing out some injustice. Sometimes now I write letters in my head to the president. Like he'd have time to read them and use my opinions to help understand us little people. I've written so many anonymous letters to coaches and teachers which I usually don't have the nerve to send. Don't want to totally screw my kids chances for success by speaking up (but I have been known to. Speak up and screw up my kids chances).

So who am I writing to here? I can see I'm going to have to 'get over' this insecurity about writing to the world out there, but I keep wondering who gives a rats ass what I have to say?! (but then inside I yell at myself 'you have ALL SORTS of important things to say to the world. Just SAY THEM!' . . . so I will.

Hi you guys.

today is the first day

2009-02-18T18:21:00.000-08:00

So who do you know that wants to read my blog? Ernie von Schledorn. Used cars. I kind of feel that way about blogging. Why would I think that anyone would want to read what I write? Okay. It doesn't matter. I will write this for me.

For the longest time now, Cia has told me to write a book. In fact, she even designed the book cover for me. I've started writing it a million times in my head, but a few reasons hold me back. One - I can't write real stories about real people - or I'd soon lose all of my friends and would have no one to write about anymore, and two - really - why would anyone want to read what I have to write? Isn't that a little egotistical? It really IS about me, or it ISN'T about me? I'm confused.

I'll start here. The name. "I am not eccentic, I am more alive than most. The unpopular electric eel, swimming in a pond of goldfish."

There. I said it. That's me.

Who cares, right?

The censors come at me from every corner of my brain. . .