I remember reading my mom's novel for the first time. I was working in a profession that required 150 percent of my attention, only 50 percent of the time. In other words, I had a lot of time on my hands, in between the busy days. It took a day to read her life's work. But I was useless for days after I read it.
Her novel was scrawling. She was a very smart woman, but it was still weak. The obscure, rambling, language wasn't strong enough to form a foundation for anything substantial. She was crazy. Schizophrenic, actually. It didn't matter how smart she was. She was writing from a dream world. The bravado of her writing revealed that she was convinced, in her limited and convoluted perspective, that what she was writing was the best story that had ever been written. It wasn't.
Her book was jarbled and half-hearted. From my perspective, the book was nothing more than the ravings of a mad woman. She rambled on about celebrity encounters that had never happened, using multi-syllable words indiscriminately. It was sort of tragic. It was evidence that she used to be smart, but was now just...well...crazy
And now, I've written a book. I'm scared about others reading it, of course. I'm terrified of their judgments. But more than anything, I'm terrified that others will read it and respond to it in the same way that I responded to my mother's "book". I'm worried that they'll read it and think that there is no real value or structure to hold it up.
But then I am reminded that I am my worst critic. And I don't have the option to drift into a fantasy world comprised of fake encounters with celebrities, like my mother did. I don't have the option to create a fake sort of confidence. I am forced to be subject to the harshest critics. Including myself.
I hope that people don't read my book and think that it is the work of a lunatic. Actually, I don't mind if they do. As long as they'll publish it.
Monday, December 06, 2010
When a child is being potty trained, there is much that is revealed about humanity in general. Many children have a difficult time seeing their first premeditated "effort" flushed down the toilet. It may seem strange to fully bathroom trained adults like us. But these youngsters hate to see their achievements disposed of. You see, these lumpy logs are part of them. Like a limb, or something.
I just realized that many of the poems of my youth have been lost. They may be doodoo, but I'm still sad that they are gone. In fact, most of my writings, drawings, songs, paintings, etc., will never see the light of day (although some of them have been shown through your shining monitors due to the miracle of facebook). Still, I'm sad that these things that I created are gone.
I guess that I'm not potty trained yet.
I just realized that many of the poems of my youth have been lost. They may be doodoo, but I'm still sad that they are gone. In fact, most of my writings, drawings, songs, paintings, etc., will never see the light of day (although some of them have been shown through your shining monitors due to the miracle of facebook). Still, I'm sad that these things that I created are gone.
I guess that I'm not potty trained yet.
Plink
The rain in Los Angeles
Hesitates like a wave,
Stalled by a tied tally.
Whether or not to weather?
The drops, like lover’s spats,
Range from slight speckles
To slaps of splats.
The sky waits, agape,
For a rating.
The rain in New York
Enchants you, at first-
The scent of the soles
Of a million drained souls
On drowned concrete.
It teases, tickles, and trickles.
Then it builds to a bullying bay.
Until, trudging
Through leaves, oil, and waste,
You’re left with its acrid taste.
The rain in Miami
Is sultry,
Pooling slyly in dry places.
Its rhythm, a welcome relief.
The sweat of the city
Between boundless bouts
Of dance and drink.
It’s a plink
Of a cool cube of ice
As it taps a perspiring glass.
The rain in Seattle
Is light on the righteous cheeks
Of sprightly artists
And aspiring thugs.
It mists, but wants to flood.
To pour underground.
To course through intangible trenches.
The rain in Los Angeles
Hesitates like a wave,
Stalled by a tied tally.
Whether or not to weather?
The drops, like lover’s spats,
Range from slight speckles
To slaps of splats.
The sky waits, agape,
For a rating.
The rain in New York
Enchants you, at first-
The scent of the soles
Of a million drained souls
On drowned concrete.
It teases, tickles, and trickles.
Then it builds to a bullying bay.
Until, trudging
Through leaves, oil, and waste,
You’re left with its acrid taste.
The rain in Miami
Is sultry,
Pooling slyly in dry places.
Its rhythm, a welcome relief.
The sweat of the city
Between boundless bouts
Of dance and drink.
It’s a plink
Of a cool cube of ice
As it taps a perspiring glass.
The rain in Seattle
Is light on the righteous cheeks
Of sprightly artists
And aspiring thugs.
It mists, but wants to flood.
To pour underground.
To course through intangible trenches.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
White Lie
The starched white collar of a rented suit
Scours the back of his tender,
Sun scorched neck.
His smile sits stiffly,
Like an uninvited guest at a wedding,
Who is perched uneasily on an unyielding seat.
The weight of shame sinks in his stomach.
Trepidation tightens and tugs at his throat,
Like a rented bow tie.
His daughter, dressed in the snowy
Flimsy film of hand stitched silk,
With fingertips sore from a thousand
Accidental stray points of a needle,
Has offered her last desperate dollar.
Now she strains to sell the facade.
His invitation to her wedding,
Escorted by a packet of cumbersome cash.
Now stuffed in his pocket
With a pack of cigarettes,
Beneath the commanding weight of
A borrowed cummerbund.
The destitute father,
His pocket brimming with hired pride,
Bars his heart from resentment
For the bride.
The starched white collar of a rented suit
Scours the back of his tender,
Sun scorched neck.
His smile sits stiffly,
Like an uninvited guest at a wedding,
Who is perched uneasily on an unyielding seat.
The weight of shame sinks in his stomach.
Trepidation tightens and tugs at his throat,
Like a rented bow tie.
His daughter, dressed in the snowy
Flimsy film of hand stitched silk,
With fingertips sore from a thousand
Accidental stray points of a needle,
Has offered her last desperate dollar.
Now she strains to sell the facade.
His invitation to her wedding,
Escorted by a packet of cumbersome cash.
Now stuffed in his pocket
With a pack of cigarettes,
Beneath the commanding weight of
A borrowed cummerbund.
The destitute father,
His pocket brimming with hired pride,
Bars his heart from resentment
For the bride.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Staking Claim
The fat of the land
The idea enamors you
Living off of it's fruits
Perhaps the land, the dirt, reminds you of your own nature
Unevolved, unconscious
And unlike the beasts that ruled the land
Before humanity devoured it
You don't seek the challenge of the hunt
Perhaps you love the land because
Dirt does not challenge your place to tramp on it
The earth does not judge you
Yet you despise the fat of humanity
It's supple, comfortable nature
It's complexity, and uncertainty
It's weakness is what you hate
You love hard sinew, dirt, and sweat
You see me, and want to stake your claim
You see the dry, unfeeling, timeless parts of me
That remind you of yourself
And want to own the thing that you can walk on
Without judgement
Dirt
I am dirt
Billions of years of ground rock and minerals
Forced apart by oceans, winds, unknown and unexplainable things
Then brought back together
So complex
So simple
That is me
And you do not own meShe brims with enamor over the notion
Of the rolling curves; the fat
Of the land.
She forages through the land’s lovely crevices,
Prospecting for the offering of its fallen fruits.
The pristine, primeval soil lays dormant.
Like her, its surface is only stirred by
Sporadic storms.
Unlike the beasts that ruled the land
Before the cruelty of humanity devoured it,
She scorns the challenge of brutish pursuit.
The land is her darling.
It never challenges her place to tramp on it.
It cannot threaten her with infidelity.
The supple, comfortable nature of
The fat of humanity repels her.
Its complexity, uncertainty,
And the manner in which it moves, thinks,
And refuses to regard her.
She reserves the right to sink her stake
Into the gritty soil, the unresponsive regions,
Of others.
And only into the parts that allow themselves
To safely be walked on.
But the soil shelters something,
Rooted far beneath the fathoming of man.
Beneath its layers that are marked by
Innumerable manufactured years,
Hidden within its body of powdery rock,
And profoundly inexplicable parts,
Which were fiercely forced asunder by the
Fervor of floods,
The icy blanket of inclement winters,
Slashed and scorched, but never consumed,
By ancient flame:
A secret.
She, a mere sliver
Of rapidly disintegrating sinew,
Will never know
That the dirt of the earth
Won’t be owned.
The fat of the land
The idea enamors you
Living off of it's fruits
Perhaps the land, the dirt, reminds you of your own nature
Unevolved, unconscious
And unlike the beasts that ruled the land
Before humanity devoured it
You don't seek the challenge of the hunt
Perhaps you love the land because
Dirt does not challenge your place to tramp on it
The earth does not judge you
Yet you despise the fat of humanity
It's supple, comfortable nature
It's complexity, and uncertainty
It's weakness is what you hate
You love hard sinew, dirt, and sweat
You see me, and want to stake your claim
You see the dry, unfeeling, timeless parts of me
That remind you of yourself
And want to own the thing that you can walk on
Without judgement
Dirt
I am dirt
Billions of years of ground rock and minerals
Forced apart by oceans, winds, unknown and unexplainable things
Then brought back together
So complex
So simple
That is me
And you do not own meShe brims with enamor over the notion
Of the rolling curves; the fat
Of the land.
She forages through the land’s lovely crevices,
Prospecting for the offering of its fallen fruits.
The pristine, primeval soil lays dormant.
Like her, its surface is only stirred by
Sporadic storms.
Unlike the beasts that ruled the land
Before the cruelty of humanity devoured it,
She scorns the challenge of brutish pursuit.
The land is her darling.
It never challenges her place to tramp on it.
It cannot threaten her with infidelity.
The supple, comfortable nature of
The fat of humanity repels her.
Its complexity, uncertainty,
And the manner in which it moves, thinks,
And refuses to regard her.
She reserves the right to sink her stake
Into the gritty soil, the unresponsive regions,
Of others.
And only into the parts that allow themselves
To safely be walked on.
But the soil shelters something,
Rooted far beneath the fathoming of man.
Beneath its layers that are marked by
Innumerable manufactured years,
Hidden within its body of powdery rock,
And profoundly inexplicable parts,
Which were fiercely forced asunder by the
Fervor of floods,
The icy blanket of inclement winters,
Slashed and scorched, but never consumed,
By ancient flame:
A secret.
She, a mere sliver
Of rapidly disintegrating sinew,
Will never know
That the dirt of the earth
Won’t be owned.
Sunday, November 08, 2009
When I was a teenage girl, I flipped through the slick, impossibly perfect pages of stolen fashion magazines. Each page introduced a new and unfamiliar sensual experience. The images depicted beautiful alien models. Over their gaunt and ethereal bodies draped pleated, pintucked, smocked, and ruffled clothing. Their eyes were so deliberately vacant, and their postures painfully statuesque. Everything - the lighting, the colors, the glossy lipstick, was impeccably flawless. The new smell of the freshly printed pages would transport me. I would forget that I was wearing stolen thrift store clothing. I would forget...everything.
It was moments like this that inspired me to become a designer. I wanted to be a part of this alien world. Even if it was only in a very small way. So I did. Despite my father's warnings (he tore up my college acceptance letter to prove his point), I put myself through fashion school.
Years later, I had a job in New York as an accessories designer. Those painful years growing up had almost been forgotten. I had finally been accepted. I had almost forgotten what it felt like to be taunted for being sub par. I had faked, fought, and toiled my way into what I thought was the real world. And I was on top of it. Sure, I was designing bags for mid-income women. It wasn't exactly high fashion. but it was something better, nonetheless.
Now I think back on this time and realize how foolish I really was. A series of life's somewhat standard events knocked me off my mid-tier horse (the horse wasn't really that high, you see). A recent interview at the famed BCBG Max Azria was the most recent of life's crash courses in humility.
A recruiter from the company had contacted me and scheduled an interview with me. Her utterance of the letters "B.C.B.G" inspired memories of those perfectly printed pages of modern goddesses, draped in the finest materials. This was high fashion, baby. And this was my chance. Or so I thought. If a company like this was interested in me, I must be worthy, right? With high confidence, I chose my outfit for the interview and reworked my portfolio.
When I walked through the doors and into the lobby of their corporate office in Los Angeles I knew in an instant that I didn't belong. Everything was stark white and cold, from the white leather sofa to the white walls. Colorful images of those gaunt, alien-esque models that I spoke of from my teen years were the only points of interest in the room, hanging on the wall. I timidly signed in and sat down. The female employees that clodded down the hallways in their high end leather ankle boots were not very different from the models that sparsely decorated the walls. Their posture, makeup, and clothing were perfect in an almost indefinable way. And like the decor in the lobby, they were barely there. Designer jeans were stretched over their tiny legs. Silk blouses draped over their waifish torsos. They cast wicked glances at me, scanning me from head to foot. I was suddenly aware of how ridiculous I must have looked to them.
Were they looking at me so strangely because my dress was a rayon printed nightmare? I had so carefully chosen my outfit, thinking that I had chosen something stylish, yet professional. However, I was apparently very mistaken. I kept thinking that my slouchy leather boots would certainly save my reputation. But they did nothing to help my first impression. Or were they looking at me like this because I was overweight? I felt ashamed and terrified...and poor. I felt like I was a teenager again. But the magazine pages were not transporting me to a fascinating world this time. They had come alive, and were judging me harshly.
My hands began to shake and sweat, leaving misty marks on my leather bound portfolio, which I was clutching tightly like a security blanket. When the two recruiters finally came to call me into the interview I felt like a shell of myself. I was sweating, and forcing what I thought was a confident smile. They gave eachother what they must have thought was a subtle glance that said "what is she doing here?" I knew at that moment that I didn't have a chance. My heart dropped like a rock.
During the interview I wasn't my usual assertive self. In the last ten years I haven't had an interview that hasn't resulted in me getting the job. I always study the night before, asking myself all of the questions that they may ask. I diligently work on my portfolio and carefully choose everything from my words to my outfit. This did nothing to help me. Bits of my confidence had left me with each perfect B.C.B.G. employee that cast a scornful look in my direction. I didn't have the confidence to sell myself or my skills. And the inexpensive rayon dress that I wore seemed to cry "look at me, look at me!" My shoulders slumped and my hands shook. The opportunity was over before it even began.
I came home that night, defeated. But the more I thought about it, the angrier I became. The experience made me wonder how many other girls had been made to feel inadequate, fat, poor, and generally inferior because of the influence of this beautiful, yet brutal industry. I still love fashion, don't misunderstand me. But high end fashion is a slap in the face to the average woman. It's only natural to, sometimes, want to slap back.
So this is what I have to say, from my mid tier, to Max Azria and all of the others like them: Fuck you and the high end horse that you road in on, I'm taking the bus.
It was moments like this that inspired me to become a designer. I wanted to be a part of this alien world. Even if it was only in a very small way. So I did. Despite my father's warnings (he tore up my college acceptance letter to prove his point), I put myself through fashion school.
Years later, I had a job in New York as an accessories designer. Those painful years growing up had almost been forgotten. I had finally been accepted. I had almost forgotten what it felt like to be taunted for being sub par. I had faked, fought, and toiled my way into what I thought was the real world. And I was on top of it. Sure, I was designing bags for mid-income women. It wasn't exactly high fashion. but it was something better, nonetheless.
Now I think back on this time and realize how foolish I really was. A series of life's somewhat standard events knocked me off my mid-tier horse (the horse wasn't really that high, you see). A recent interview at the famed BCBG Max Azria was the most recent of life's crash courses in humility.
A recruiter from the company had contacted me and scheduled an interview with me. Her utterance of the letters "B.C.B.G" inspired memories of those perfectly printed pages of modern goddesses, draped in the finest materials. This was high fashion, baby. And this was my chance. Or so I thought. If a company like this was interested in me, I must be worthy, right? With high confidence, I chose my outfit for the interview and reworked my portfolio.
When I walked through the doors and into the lobby of their corporate office in Los Angeles I knew in an instant that I didn't belong. Everything was stark white and cold, from the white leather sofa to the white walls. Colorful images of those gaunt, alien-esque models that I spoke of from my teen years were the only points of interest in the room, hanging on the wall. I timidly signed in and sat down. The female employees that clodded down the hallways in their high end leather ankle boots were not very different from the models that sparsely decorated the walls. Their posture, makeup, and clothing were perfect in an almost indefinable way. And like the decor in the lobby, they were barely there. Designer jeans were stretched over their tiny legs. Silk blouses draped over their waifish torsos. They cast wicked glances at me, scanning me from head to foot. I was suddenly aware of how ridiculous I must have looked to them.
Were they looking at me so strangely because my dress was a rayon printed nightmare? I had so carefully chosen my outfit, thinking that I had chosen something stylish, yet professional. However, I was apparently very mistaken. I kept thinking that my slouchy leather boots would certainly save my reputation. But they did nothing to help my first impression. Or were they looking at me like this because I was overweight? I felt ashamed and terrified...and poor. I felt like I was a teenager again. But the magazine pages were not transporting me to a fascinating world this time. They had come alive, and were judging me harshly.
My hands began to shake and sweat, leaving misty marks on my leather bound portfolio, which I was clutching tightly like a security blanket. When the two recruiters finally came to call me into the interview I felt like a shell of myself. I was sweating, and forcing what I thought was a confident smile. They gave eachother what they must have thought was a subtle glance that said "what is she doing here?" I knew at that moment that I didn't have a chance. My heart dropped like a rock.
During the interview I wasn't my usual assertive self. In the last ten years I haven't had an interview that hasn't resulted in me getting the job. I always study the night before, asking myself all of the questions that they may ask. I diligently work on my portfolio and carefully choose everything from my words to my outfit. This did nothing to help me. Bits of my confidence had left me with each perfect B.C.B.G. employee that cast a scornful look in my direction. I didn't have the confidence to sell myself or my skills. And the inexpensive rayon dress that I wore seemed to cry "look at me, look at me!" My shoulders slumped and my hands shook. The opportunity was over before it even began.
I came home that night, defeated. But the more I thought about it, the angrier I became. The experience made me wonder how many other girls had been made to feel inadequate, fat, poor, and generally inferior because of the influence of this beautiful, yet brutal industry. I still love fashion, don't misunderstand me. But high end fashion is a slap in the face to the average woman. It's only natural to, sometimes, want to slap back.
So this is what I have to say, from my mid tier, to Max Azria and all of the others like them: Fuck you and the high end horse that you road in on, I'm taking the bus.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
The strangest apparition, so rare and so refined
Are your words, like winter's branches, with their pained and pointed lines
Have I a foolish heart, holding fragile dreams of glass?
For within your peculiar gaze hide tender ghosts of lovers past
Your quick and nimble fingers bleed with every careful strum
But the bones of hapless prey rattle softly in your drum
The heathen kings that rule the darkest corners of your mind
Have fondled all the muses and drank all the jester's wine
My able pen scratches the lines of your cherub face
Around your eyes I draw the lies and focus of the chase
The autumn branches rustle, I sit here waiting to receive
Your words that lie beneath their twisting, frail, and brittle leaves
-C
Are your words, like winter's branches, with their pained and pointed lines
Have I a foolish heart, holding fragile dreams of glass?
For within your peculiar gaze hide tender ghosts of lovers past
Your quick and nimble fingers bleed with every careful strum
But the bones of hapless prey rattle softly in your drum
The heathen kings that rule the darkest corners of your mind
Have fondled all the muses and drank all the jester's wine
My able pen scratches the lines of your cherub face
Around your eyes I draw the lies and focus of the chase
The autumn branches rustle, I sit here waiting to receive
Your words that lie beneath their twisting, frail, and brittle leaves
-C
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
I've recently been struck by a wave of empowerment, and I feel fantastic! I've decided to no longer indulge others' needs at the sake of my own, unless the person in need appreciates my efforts. I will no longer find myself in one sided relationships. They must be reciprocal. I will no longer apologize for my strengths. I will only devote my time to people that are capable of making me feel good about myself, and vice versa. So often recently, I've found myself devoting my time and efforts towards people that do nothing but ask me to give more and more, without expressing any sort of gratefulness for my sacrifices. I'm a wonderful, compassionate, devoted person. But from now on, I will only be this way with people that appreciate these traits in me.
It's sad to say, but people are either on your side or not. Either they give or they take far more than they give or deserve. Either they add a positive value to your life or a negative one. I've had so many people in my life that refuse to encourage me, or when they do encourage or support me it's only when they know that other people are watching. I'm really tired of being used as a device so that others can feel good about themselves. Fuck them. Every last one of them. Truly.
It's sad to say, but people are either on your side or not. Either they give or they take far more than they give or deserve. Either they add a positive value to your life or a negative one. I've had so many people in my life that refuse to encourage me, or when they do encourage or support me it's only when they know that other people are watching. I'm really tired of being used as a device so that others can feel good about themselves. Fuck them. Every last one of them. Truly.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Poor, Pitiful Poughkeepsie
New York was crawling under my skin. I was saturated with the city's muggy, dirty, salacious atmosphere. I was being swept away with it's undercurrent of cynicism, sarcasm, and jealous ambition. And I was sure that the scampering rats that occupied the city's lower east side would have agreed with me. Brad and I decided to escape the city for a day. I would have been happy to be anywhere else for that day, and he agreed. So we trudged through the sticky, summer weather to our car and turned on the A/C full blast. Moments later, we were watching coniferous trees happily dance through the windshield as we drove aimlessly north. We were slowly shedding our New York shells.
Hours later, we had decided on our destination. Poughkeepsie, New York (pronounced poo-kip-see). For no other reason than it’s ridiculous name. We had no knowledge of the city’s history or what it had to offer us. My first impression of the little city was that it had been woefully neglected. The antique buildings were rusted over, boarded up, and forgotten. The city was like a time capsule from the seventies. The worn and tattered signs on the abandoned buildings spoke of a different time. Something had happened in the seventies that had turned this once proud town into a ghost town. The city’s occupants were sluggish. Their appearance was dated, although not as dated as the rest of the city. It was as if they had reached the early 1990’s and had given up. In fact, the atmosphere of the town reflected that exact attitude. The city, itself, had given up. While driving through the town we came across something that resembled a sculpture graveyard. It appeared that the city’s scraps had been joyfully fused together, creating colorful metal shapes that spotted the grassy null. We welcomed the sight of such inspired ingenuity. We pulled the car over to get a closer look. Close up, it was clear that these sculptures had also been neglected. The paint was peeling off in places, and spots of rust had begun to spread over these creations like a cancer. But still, the art seemed to infuse this small section of the city with a small amount of inspiration.
What had led to the town’s decay? I wondered. Brad and I discussed the phenomena intently on our way home. We deduced that something had happened in the 1970’s that had led to it’s neglect. Perhaps industry had been sent overseas, and all of the jobs had vanished, leaving only the town’s laziest or unskilled citizens to roam the streets. Whatever had happened, we were content to return to our bustling, fast-paced city. After hours of driving south, we were finally home. And my attitude about the city had drastically changed after wading through it’s antithesis. I realized that I was surrounded by the most creative, ambitious, talented, powerful people in the country. Of course, this comes at a cost. The dirty city is filled with secrets and betrayals. But at least it’s filled with something.
New York was crawling under my skin. I was saturated with the city's muggy, dirty, salacious atmosphere. I was being swept away with it's undercurrent of cynicism, sarcasm, and jealous ambition. And I was sure that the scampering rats that occupied the city's lower east side would have agreed with me. Brad and I decided to escape the city for a day. I would have been happy to be anywhere else for that day, and he agreed. So we trudged through the sticky, summer weather to our car and turned on the A/C full blast. Moments later, we were watching coniferous trees happily dance through the windshield as we drove aimlessly north. We were slowly shedding our New York shells.
Hours later, we had decided on our destination. Poughkeepsie, New York (pronounced poo-kip-see). For no other reason than it’s ridiculous name. We had no knowledge of the city’s history or what it had to offer us. My first impression of the little city was that it had been woefully neglected. The antique buildings were rusted over, boarded up, and forgotten. The city was like a time capsule from the seventies. The worn and tattered signs on the abandoned buildings spoke of a different time. Something had happened in the seventies that had turned this once proud town into a ghost town. The city’s occupants were sluggish. Their appearance was dated, although not as dated as the rest of the city. It was as if they had reached the early 1990’s and had given up. In fact, the atmosphere of the town reflected that exact attitude. The city, itself, had given up. While driving through the town we came across something that resembled a sculpture graveyard. It appeared that the city’s scraps had been joyfully fused together, creating colorful metal shapes that spotted the grassy null. We welcomed the sight of such inspired ingenuity. We pulled the car over to get a closer look. Close up, it was clear that these sculptures had also been neglected. The paint was peeling off in places, and spots of rust had begun to spread over these creations like a cancer. But still, the art seemed to infuse this small section of the city with a small amount of inspiration.
What had led to the town’s decay? I wondered. Brad and I discussed the phenomena intently on our way home. We deduced that something had happened in the 1970’s that had led to it’s neglect. Perhaps industry had been sent overseas, and all of the jobs had vanished, leaving only the town’s laziest or unskilled citizens to roam the streets. Whatever had happened, we were content to return to our bustling, fast-paced city. After hours of driving south, we were finally home. And my attitude about the city had drastically changed after wading through it’s antithesis. I realized that I was surrounded by the most creative, ambitious, talented, powerful people in the country. Of course, this comes at a cost. The dirty city is filled with secrets and betrayals. But at least it’s filled with something.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Phantoms and Physics
I've been reading a lot about both religion and the scientific schools of thought that refute religion. There's still something missing. And that's what I was referring to in my last post. The subject of the spirit is rarely addressed. If it is, it is usually "lumped in" with either organized religion, or disregarded by scientists as a byproduct of the mind and body. My question is, what is the spirit?
To determine what something is, we must first agree on what it's not. When I speak of the spirit I'm not referring to emotions. I'm even willing to consider the idea that emotions are an evolutionary trait that manifest themselves to warn our bodies, and keep them out of harms way. I'm not referring to ghosts, or the dualistic view that our bodies and spirits can be separated after death. I'm speaking of that barely perceivable side of us that is tapped into other living things. It's the thing that some people may refer to as "animal instinct". It's a part of us that most people don't regard, and spend their lives ignoring. I think that most people ignore it out of fear that they'll be categorized as pagan, religious, or crazy. But if you're one of the few that pay attention to it, it's hard to deny it's existence.
In August of 2003 I had the first of many experiences that led to my complete belief in the existence of the spirit. I was in an elevator reading a book. The door opened and someone entered. I was immersed in my book and didn't look up. But as I was reading, I became suddenly aware that the elevator had become full of an oppressive feeling that felt like anger. I perceived all of this as I was reading, and it was more of a passing observation because I was really enjoying my book and didn't want to be distracted from it. But in between chapters, I made a point of looking up just before the doors opened and the man exited the elevator. His facial expressions revealed that he was seething in anger. His jaw was clenched and his face was red. But he walked out of the elevator with the same calm stride that he had entered it in.
After that point, I began to become increasingly aware of these occurrences. At that time, I was also friends with a couple other people that were willing to talk about things of this nature without passing judgment on me. Since that time in my life, I don't think that I've become more sensitive to these things, just more aware of them. And because I'm a very rational person who is interested in science and evolution, these "feelings" or "sensations" tend to be simultaneously disturbing (because they're unexplainable) and interesting at the same time. So far, the scientific community has been able to explain a great deal, but the subject of the spirit is still unexplored because of the stigmas that have been forced on the subject by various institutions.
I was a Christian from ages 8-13 (or I should say the child of Christian parents). Before that, I lived with my mother who dabbled in witchcraft, tarot, and basically anything pagan. So I'd like to think I'm uniquely qualified to express an opinion on the subject of religion and spirituality. BTW, I think that both ends of the theological spectrum are equally misguided. Neither pagans nor Christians are really searching for the truth. Pagan rituals and most claims of experiences with the paranormal are equally unnecessarily grandiose to me. And it's my experiences with both radical schools of thought and my discovery of science that, up until that point in my life in 2003, had made me wary of anything having to do with spirituality. I think that most rational people probably feel the same way that I felt about the subject of spirituality.
But both the scientific and religious communities are so busy fighting with each other that they can't see the "gray area" in between. I can't wait for the day when controlled scientific experiments reveal the workings of simple day-to-day things like the maternal instinct, or true love. Until then, I guess people will have to hold on to their stories of gods, and their curious rituals to explain and categorize the human spirit.
I've been reading a lot about both religion and the scientific schools of thought that refute religion. There's still something missing. And that's what I was referring to in my last post. The subject of the spirit is rarely addressed. If it is, it is usually "lumped in" with either organized religion, or disregarded by scientists as a byproduct of the mind and body. My question is, what is the spirit?
To determine what something is, we must first agree on what it's not. When I speak of the spirit I'm not referring to emotions. I'm even willing to consider the idea that emotions are an evolutionary trait that manifest themselves to warn our bodies, and keep them out of harms way. I'm not referring to ghosts, or the dualistic view that our bodies and spirits can be separated after death. I'm speaking of that barely perceivable side of us that is tapped into other living things. It's the thing that some people may refer to as "animal instinct". It's a part of us that most people don't regard, and spend their lives ignoring. I think that most people ignore it out of fear that they'll be categorized as pagan, religious, or crazy. But if you're one of the few that pay attention to it, it's hard to deny it's existence.
In August of 2003 I had the first of many experiences that led to my complete belief in the existence of the spirit. I was in an elevator reading a book. The door opened and someone entered. I was immersed in my book and didn't look up. But as I was reading, I became suddenly aware that the elevator had become full of an oppressive feeling that felt like anger. I perceived all of this as I was reading, and it was more of a passing observation because I was really enjoying my book and didn't want to be distracted from it. But in between chapters, I made a point of looking up just before the doors opened and the man exited the elevator. His facial expressions revealed that he was seething in anger. His jaw was clenched and his face was red. But he walked out of the elevator with the same calm stride that he had entered it in.
After that point, I began to become increasingly aware of these occurrences. At that time, I was also friends with a couple other people that were willing to talk about things of this nature without passing judgment on me. Since that time in my life, I don't think that I've become more sensitive to these things, just more aware of them. And because I'm a very rational person who is interested in science and evolution, these "feelings" or "sensations" tend to be simultaneously disturbing (because they're unexplainable) and interesting at the same time. So far, the scientific community has been able to explain a great deal, but the subject of the spirit is still unexplored because of the stigmas that have been forced on the subject by various institutions.
I was a Christian from ages 8-13 (or I should say the child of Christian parents). Before that, I lived with my mother who dabbled in witchcraft, tarot, and basically anything pagan. So I'd like to think I'm uniquely qualified to express an opinion on the subject of religion and spirituality. BTW, I think that both ends of the theological spectrum are equally misguided. Neither pagans nor Christians are really searching for the truth. Pagan rituals and most claims of experiences with the paranormal are equally unnecessarily grandiose to me. And it's my experiences with both radical schools of thought and my discovery of science that, up until that point in my life in 2003, had made me wary of anything having to do with spirituality. I think that most rational people probably feel the same way that I felt about the subject of spirituality.
But both the scientific and religious communities are so busy fighting with each other that they can't see the "gray area" in between. I can't wait for the day when controlled scientific experiments reveal the workings of simple day-to-day things like the maternal instinct, or true love. Until then, I guess people will have to hold on to their stories of gods, and their curious rituals to explain and categorize the human spirit.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
I think that the biggest, most seemingly unsolvable dilemmas of our time could be resolved if we were able to answer this question - "what is the human spirit?". Or, to be more general - "what is the spirit?". The problem is that most scientists disavow the existence of the spirit, and most theologists feel the need to attach the concept of it's existence to religion. But I think that the answer lies somewhere in between. The problem is that there is no denying that the spirit exists. The fact that we are capable of individual thought and action proves this. So why is the scientific community so resistant of this topic? Because they don't have the answers. Why are theologists so resistant? For the same reason. People are simply uncomfortable with not knowing.
But the greatest discoveries of our time have started with the few people that were capable of saying "I don't know". Unadulterated curiosity has spawned the greatest discoveries of our time. And the mother of curiosity is self admitted ignorance. So if scientists were able to admit (or at least address) the fact that they don't know what comprises the human spirit, and what it's origins are, then they would at least be capable of beginning the search to answer this age-old question. And if the religious population had a direct answer to the question of the origin of the human spirit, then they wouldn't find the need to subscribe to a particular religion (which conveniently answers the question for them). And if religion wasn't around, there would be none of the following: suicide bombers, witch hunts, Muslim/Serb massacres, Christian Crusades, or any of the other examples of mass killings in the name of religion.
So as an advanced society, we should challenge the greatest thinkers of our time to answer the question of the human spirit and the origin of our species' capacity for original thought and free will. If they could find a way to define it, human beings may stop killing each other in the name of god, and start putting their unique capacity of original thought towards greater conquests.
But the greatest discoveries of our time have started with the few people that were capable of saying "I don't know". Unadulterated curiosity has spawned the greatest discoveries of our time. And the mother of curiosity is self admitted ignorance. So if scientists were able to admit (or at least address) the fact that they don't know what comprises the human spirit, and what it's origins are, then they would at least be capable of beginning the search to answer this age-old question. And if the religious population had a direct answer to the question of the origin of the human spirit, then they wouldn't find the need to subscribe to a particular religion (which conveniently answers the question for them). And if religion wasn't around, there would be none of the following: suicide bombers, witch hunts, Muslim/Serb massacres, Christian Crusades, or any of the other examples of mass killings in the name of religion.
So as an advanced society, we should challenge the greatest thinkers of our time to answer the question of the human spirit and the origin of our species' capacity for original thought and free will. If they could find a way to define it, human beings may stop killing each other in the name of god, and start putting their unique capacity of original thought towards greater conquests.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Our successful plot to tie the knot
So after months of wedding and maid of honour dress and centerpiece sewing, designing, printing, cutting, cd burning, shopping, and bow-tying, the wedding happened. Being the oldest of a household of six children, and therefore a little bit of a control freak (and also broke), I handled almost all of the little details myself by hand - from the favors to the programs. Brad worked away at his computer even harder than usual to make sure that the event was paid for. And when the big day happened, all of our extra hard work made me all that much more elated to see it come together.
But it was the big efforts of all of my loved ones that made me misty. My sister spent hours slaving over a beautiful seashell themed cake. Brad's aunt was the careful and attentive photographer for the evening. His brother, sister, and father painted, planted, posted, manicured, and mowed and flower arranged in preparation for the reception at their beautiful estate-like property. I was awestruck by everyone's efforts. So when we said our "I do's" I was not only grateful to be marrying Brad, but also grateful to be marrying his family. It was a lovely and intimate affair because everyone put a piece of their heart into it's creation. Just thinking about that brings tears to my eyes.
I couldn't have asked for a more perfect day. After a week of bleak weather forecasts, and holding back tears and fears of rain, it was the most beautiful beach ceremony that we could have hoped for. And although it did rain at the reception, I think that it added an element of excitement and cooled down our guests (and the boggy bride under 8 tiers of silk) just in the knick of time. Thank goodness for the tent!
A final thanks to all of my family - new and exisiting. And to all of our friends who worked so hard and traveled so far, and for contributing to the best day of our lives.
So after months of wedding and maid of honour dress and centerpiece sewing, designing, printing, cutting, cd burning, shopping, and bow-tying, the wedding happened. Being the oldest of a household of six children, and therefore a little bit of a control freak (and also broke), I handled almost all of the little details myself by hand - from the favors to the programs. Brad worked away at his computer even harder than usual to make sure that the event was paid for. And when the big day happened, all of our extra hard work made me all that much more elated to see it come together.
But it was the big efforts of all of my loved ones that made me misty. My sister spent hours slaving over a beautiful seashell themed cake. Brad's aunt was the careful and attentive photographer for the evening. His brother, sister, and father painted, planted, posted, manicured, and mowed and flower arranged in preparation for the reception at their beautiful estate-like property. I was awestruck by everyone's efforts. So when we said our "I do's" I was not only grateful to be marrying Brad, but also grateful to be marrying his family. It was a lovely and intimate affair because everyone put a piece of their heart into it's creation. Just thinking about that brings tears to my eyes.
I couldn't have asked for a more perfect day. After a week of bleak weather forecasts, and holding back tears and fears of rain, it was the most beautiful beach ceremony that we could have hoped for. And although it did rain at the reception, I think that it added an element of excitement and cooled down our guests (and the boggy bride under 8 tiers of silk) just in the knick of time. Thank goodness for the tent!
A final thanks to all of my family - new and exisiting. And to all of our friends who worked so hard and traveled so far, and for contributing to the best day of our lives.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
A dash of love
Yesterday I was suddenly invaded with the spirit of inspiration. And it didn’t hit me in the way that it usually does (through art, music, design). This time I was suddenly inspired to create flavors and textures in a meal that my man could savor. What better way to express love than through the most carnal of senses...taste. I began to dream up the perfect meal. This is what I made - Pork chops with an orange, mint, and sage glaze, topped with fresh pear compote. The side that I made was mashed cauliflower with sage and goat cheese. The sage really complimented both the cauliflower and the pork, and tied the meal together beautifully. All of the flavors were unexpectedly harmonious, which is what I was hoping for. If a meal is made really well, every bite tastes a little like love. I think that this is because love is exactly that - traits that are each unique, but when combined thoughtfully they are surprisingly harmonious.
The glaze - add fresh squeezed orange juice, lemon juice, chopped sage and mint and bring to a boil. Add corn starch to thicken.
The pear compote - Dice the pear. Add nutmeg and butter. Fry in a pan until soft (but not too soft - it’s the freshness of the pear that really compliments the heavy glaze).
The mashed cauliflower - Heat up the oil and add the chopped sage. Cook just long enough for the flavor of the sage to release into the oil, but don’t burn the sage. Turn off the burner *pretty much* 30 seconds after the sage is in the pan.
Blanch (don’t steam) the cauliflower. Add the sage oil to the cauliflower and mash. Don’t puree - the texture of the cauliflower really adds to the experience, and preserves the strong flavor. Add the goat cheese and mash it until the goat cheese blends in completely. No lumps.
I put the mashed cauliflower in a glass casserole dish and baked it with the pork chops for ten minutes. Baking it makes the top a little crispy, and the extra heat allows the flavors to mingle.
The pork chops should be cooked for 20 minutes at 425 degrees. spoon the glaze on thickly and cook for ten minutes. Then turn and do the same thing. Cook on broil for the last five minutes. Top with the pear compote.
Most importantly, do all of this with a lot of love. It really adds to the flavor of the dish. Everything tastes, looks, and feels better with an open heart.
I think that my man would agree with me. At least, I’m assuming that because of the seemingly uncontollable joyful sounds that he was making as he consumed the meal! Sometimes it’s hard to express feelings in words. So it’s lovely that art, music, and even food can sometimes express the unspeakable.
Monday, March 31, 2008
At times, I am overwhelmed with a feeling of bliss. It's a feeling of surprised elation that I have made it. I'm happy on almost every level. And it always overcomes me in a sudden all encompassing wave. It's the first time in my life that I've felt this way. And I'd like to think that it's a sort of reward for every one of my struggles, and that my happiness is like a medal of valor.
The ability to find beauty in the most grim situations is a skill that very few privileged people are able to cultivate. But when you're faced with the ugliest side of human nature, it becomes necessary. It's necessary because hope is the key to survival. But the wonderful benefit of cultivating this skill is that when things are going well, and life itself provides enough innate happiness to fulfill you, your life becomes a perpetual state of bliss. The normal level of happiness that the average person feels, by comparison, feels like heaven.
The ability to find beauty in the most grim situations is a skill that very few privileged people are able to cultivate. But when you're faced with the ugliest side of human nature, it becomes necessary. It's necessary because hope is the key to survival. But the wonderful benefit of cultivating this skill is that when things are going well, and life itself provides enough innate happiness to fulfill you, your life becomes a perpetual state of bliss. The normal level of happiness that the average person feels, by comparison, feels like heaven.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
I knew this guy when I was young. Dreadlocks, pierced tongue. He was the mascot for tainted youth. He was always brooding. I mean, you really don't know the meaning of the word "brooding" unless you've seen this guy. He wore eye makeup and tight, black jeans. His dreadlocks were so carefully and painstakingly maintained that he made me feel like a slob. And he was always searching, searching for a reason to be angry.
I was fascinated by him. I was captured by his mysterious and devoted efforts to appear to be troubled. I wished that I could have given him some of my natural ability to achieve the state of mind that he was endlessly searching for. And some time along the way, I think that my fascination was mistaken for a crush. Whenever I was in his presence, he would put on strange airs. He would lean towards me, with an expression that he must have considered to be sexy and mysterious. But I knew that he had practiced that same expression in the mirror numerous times. And, unbeknownst to him, I was always overwhelmed with a feeling of pity for him.
One day, while I was working on a drawing, I captured his attention. He had always considered himself to be somewhat of an artist. I had noticed that he nurtured a secret affinity for comics. Through my careful observation, I had seen him secretly sketching comic book heroes. This is something that he never would have admitted to his friends. It would have instantly destroyed the image that he had so carefully built. So when he saw me sketching, he approached me. He demanded to see my drawing. The drawing was of an angel. It was drawn on red paper, with white and dark red values. It was spookilly underlit and surprisingly powerful, considering how young and untrained I was.
"I'll never draw again", he muttered, with his usual tone of disdain. "If someone like you is good at it, what's the point".
I was hurt. He saw the look of surprised dejection on my face, and instantly assumed it was because of my assumed crush on him. But the real reason for my bruised ego was because my drawings were very close to me. He didn't understand that I wasn't creating art as a tool to build my reputation. I was creating art because it revived me. It gave me hope, propelled me, and made me happy. And unlike him, I was definitely not looking for a reason to be unhappy.
Though I've grown older and more self-confident, I still find myself experiencing that same feeling of surprise and dejection. When I'm creating art or music, it's a labor of love. The desire to create consumes me, and fulfills me. I don't do it because I need affirmation from the people that I admire. I don't do it because I'm carefully building my reputation as an artist. I just have to make stuff. But still, when I recieve the occasional sneer of dejection, I feel aweful.
I've noticed that there are certain types of people that never feel dejected when their creative endeavors are rejected. They are people that never invest anything in their art. They have a "just business" sort of attitude that protects them from rejection. But their creative endeavors always fall flat. They lack heart and ingenuity. The subject of their project always seems one dimensional and dull. Is this the price that we pay for not getting "emotionally involved" in our art?
Although I often fall short of my intentions, I resolve to put my heart into the things that I create. They may lack perspective and skill. But, dammit, they're mine.
I was fascinated by him. I was captured by his mysterious and devoted efforts to appear to be troubled. I wished that I could have given him some of my natural ability to achieve the state of mind that he was endlessly searching for. And some time along the way, I think that my fascination was mistaken for a crush. Whenever I was in his presence, he would put on strange airs. He would lean towards me, with an expression that he must have considered to be sexy and mysterious. But I knew that he had practiced that same expression in the mirror numerous times. And, unbeknownst to him, I was always overwhelmed with a feeling of pity for him.
One day, while I was working on a drawing, I captured his attention. He had always considered himself to be somewhat of an artist. I had noticed that he nurtured a secret affinity for comics. Through my careful observation, I had seen him secretly sketching comic book heroes. This is something that he never would have admitted to his friends. It would have instantly destroyed the image that he had so carefully built. So when he saw me sketching, he approached me. He demanded to see my drawing. The drawing was of an angel. It was drawn on red paper, with white and dark red values. It was spookilly underlit and surprisingly powerful, considering how young and untrained I was.
"I'll never draw again", he muttered, with his usual tone of disdain. "If someone like you is good at it, what's the point".
I was hurt. He saw the look of surprised dejection on my face, and instantly assumed it was because of my assumed crush on him. But the real reason for my bruised ego was because my drawings were very close to me. He didn't understand that I wasn't creating art as a tool to build my reputation. I was creating art because it revived me. It gave me hope, propelled me, and made me happy. And unlike him, I was definitely not looking for a reason to be unhappy.
Though I've grown older and more self-confident, I still find myself experiencing that same feeling of surprise and dejection. When I'm creating art or music, it's a labor of love. The desire to create consumes me, and fulfills me. I don't do it because I need affirmation from the people that I admire. I don't do it because I'm carefully building my reputation as an artist. I just have to make stuff. But still, when I recieve the occasional sneer of dejection, I feel aweful.
I've noticed that there are certain types of people that never feel dejected when their creative endeavors are rejected. They are people that never invest anything in their art. They have a "just business" sort of attitude that protects them from rejection. But their creative endeavors always fall flat. They lack heart and ingenuity. The subject of their project always seems one dimensional and dull. Is this the price that we pay for not getting "emotionally involved" in our art?
Although I often fall short of my intentions, I resolve to put my heart into the things that I create. They may lack perspective and skill. But, dammit, they're mine.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
I have a very serious pet peeve. It is when women make statements like "I'm just one of the guys", as if that is something to be proud of. Comments like this indicate that she isn't proud to be female. I love being a woman. I love that I'm allowed to express my emotions. I love spending time on my appearance. I appreciate my inherent nurturing qualities. So when I hear comments like this I find it really irritating. Every day, you hear people constantly disempowering women by portraying them as cliches. We are only allowed to fall into the following categories: doormat, bitch, or "one of the guys". So I suppose that I can't blame women for wanting to become the latter. It takes a truly strong woman to be proud of being feminine while maintaining an immovable point of view. I'm proud to say that I am good at constructing things. I have no shame in the fact that I enjoy a dirty joke every once in awhile. I'd like to think that I'm pretty good at driving, especially at paralell parking. And I know a few things about cars. But I am not "one of the guys".
At some point in our childhood, we are all shaped into what society wants us to be. As women, we aren't really encouraged to pursue certain careers and hobbies. Boys receive more encouragement to learn how to build things and make things work. We are told again and again (by the media, mostly) that most of our value rests firmly on becoming what men want us to be. Obviously, men want us to be attractive. And because they are human, they want us to acknowledge their dominance and superiority. All of that is perfectly acceptable. There is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting these things from us. However, we are suckers for believing it.
So women, don't perpetuate the problem. Be proud of being whatever you TRULY are. It isn't necessary to compare yourself to the boys. And men, (the few that may have had the interest and patience to read this to the end)thank you.
At some point in our childhood, we are all shaped into what society wants us to be. As women, we aren't really encouraged to pursue certain careers and hobbies. Boys receive more encouragement to learn how to build things and make things work. We are told again and again (by the media, mostly) that most of our value rests firmly on becoming what men want us to be. Obviously, men want us to be attractive. And because they are human, they want us to acknowledge their dominance and superiority. All of that is perfectly acceptable. There is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting these things from us. However, we are suckers for believing it.
So women, don't perpetuate the problem. Be proud of being whatever you TRULY are. It isn't necessary to compare yourself to the boys. And men, (the few that may have had the interest and patience to read this to the end)thank you.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
The huts
The smell of melted candle wax triggers the most pleasant memories of my childhood. When I take in the scent, I think of the log walls of one of my first childhood dwellings, flickering warmly with the light of candles. The candles were forced into the open mouths of glass bottles, which betrayed their age with layers of melted, misshapen wax formations. The candles sat around the perimeter of the round log hut, creating the only man made light for miles. We were told that black bear and mountain lions had been known to prowl the foothills, and the more noise that we made the less likely they were to wander into our dwelling. So us girls would often stay up until the sun turned the sky that mysterious color that marked the arrival of dawn. We would tell stories to one another, loudly emphasizing unimportant details and cackling unnecessarily at each other's jokes. But before we drifted off to sleep, one of the older girls would always make sure to blow out the candles. Cheryl had warned us very firmly (which was not a common thing for her to do) against leaving the candles burning at night. Our hut was made of wood logs, after all.
Cheryl was a smallish woman with dull brown hair that hung to her waist, warm eyes, and crooked teeth. Although she wouldn't have been considered a beautiful woman, her countenance had the power to lift anyone's spirit. She had a laugh that would have scared away any wandering mountain beast for miles. And she loved us. I remember feeling so greatful to be loved by an adult, that I could barely contain my happiness when I was around her. Sometimes she would suddenly pull me close to her and embrace me firmly, and for that moment all that I could smell was a combination of patchouli oil and her natural musk, and all that I could feel was elation.
Cheryl slept in the hut that rested in the nook at the bottom of the hill. The round hut that we slept in had been named the "moon hut", and the small, square dwelling that Cheryl and our mother slept in had been named the "sun hut". The sun hut was a square room, with a wood burning stove. Cheryl would use the wood burning stove to cook eggs and bacon in the morning. But this was only in the winter, when it was cold enough to keep the eggs and bacon fresh. When we would get too cold, sometimes we would trek down the narrow, winding, dug out dirt path that led to the sun hut so that we could warm our hands around the cast iron wood stove.
We had to stumble down the same pathway at night if we had to go to relieve ourselves. Half way from the sun hut to the moon hut, there was a crapper. When I say crapper, I mean it in the historical sense. This was an "antique" john crapper toilet, mounted on a wooden block with four log posts and a little wood shingle roof. There was a chain that hung above the toilet that acted as the flusher. There were no walls surrounding the toilet. Before we sat, we would need to brace ourselves for the almost unbearable chill of the seat, which was weathered and fully exposed to all of the elements. If we were lucky, a squirrel or small animal would pass us by and entertain us as we sat. As an adult looking back on the situation, I am amazed that whoever built this contraption was able to connect it to conventional plumbing, and I wonder how they were able to do it. I also wonder why they would do it. The most fascinating aspect of this subculture was that they still seemed to cling on to certain conventional ideals, while rejecting others.
The mountain squatters were strong and proud people. Their lifestyle seemed to be an homage to the gold rush driven pioneers that had inhabited the area in the 19th century. But it was also a form of rebellion against the normal, t.v. influenced society that they grew up in. I suppose that this is what my mother found most appealing. But she was never able to fully devote herself to the lifestyle (or anything, for that matter). Sometimes, she would disappear for days on end. During these times, Cheryl would always make sure that we were warm and fed. Somehow, she was always able to make me feel safe. She would make sure that I was dressed and prepared for school.
The trek to school was even more involved that the trek to the toilet. I would hike down the steep, treacherous hill to the paved road. I would walk for miles down the winding road to the bus stop. When I finally reached the bottom of the hill, where the rest of my schoolmates were waiting, there was an even bigger challenge for me to overcome - the children.
I was always humbled by their clean, pressed clothing and carefree, white smiles. I would have to make a point not to smile, since I had a hideous brown crack down one of my front teeth. I would stand very still, hoping that they wouldn't notice me. But they always did. They would make cruel comments about my dirty clothing, or call me stupid because I could never bring myself to talk. I would endure their comments, feeling relieved that they hadn't seen where I lived. I had learned that the more people know about you, the more ammunition they had to make you feel ashamed. So I never spoke or drew attention to myself in any way. Although I convinced myself that I hated them, I couldn't deny that there was a part of me that revered them for their confidence and their shiny plastic lunch boxes.
I would struggle through my school days. Each moment of every day was dedicated to making myself seem normal. I studied the children around me intently. I watched the way that they stood, the way that they dressed, and the way that they spoke to the teacher. I never dared to try to imitate them. But I observed them. I thought that if I could understand them, I could teach myself how to be normal.
The day after Christmas, after I had turned 7, I finally gave up the notion of being normal. The children stood around, goofing and joking as children do. They recounted their memories of Christmas day. They listed the gifts that they had received as if they were badges of honor. I was astounded at the amount of gifts that they had received.
As I listened in astonishment, I conjured the memories of the night of Christmas Eve. Our mother wasn't there. When I had asked where she was, Cheryl had said something about Christmas shopping. But her nervous eyes and awkward nature of her reply had told me that she was elsewhere. My sister, Sunshine (Cheryl's daughter) and I sat on the floor of the moon hut. The candles flickered warmly. Cheryl had asked us what we wanted Santa to bring us for Christmas. Having rarely received Christmas gifts, my sister and I had replied with a very resolute "there is no Santa Klaus". Our cynicism seemed unsettling to her. A wave of concern passed over Cheryl's face. She was silent for a few moments. Then, with a burst of energy that surpassed her size, her eyes wide with excitement, she said, "I KNOW THAT SANTA EXISTS!".
We jumped with surprise. Cheryl's excitement had shaken us out of complacence. Cheryl slowly rose, her small frame casting large shadows on the log wall. She told us a story about the night that she had seen Santa Klaus. She explained that she was just a small child at the time, and that his size and the elaborate decoration of his costume had struck her with awe and fascination. She exclaimed that each step of his large, shiny, black boot on the floor created a thunderous roar. She mimicked his actions, her hands on her stomach, laughing wildly. She told us that he emitted a jovial quality that couldn't be expressed in words. His laughter shook the room, and filled her with joy. After her story, she slowly lowered herself to the floor and sat cross-legged, at eye level with us. With a sincere expression, eyebrow raised, she said "So...what do you want for Christmas?".
Still awestruck and convinced by her performance, I meekly answered "a barbie doll". Considering that I didn't own a toy at the time, this seemed to be a large request. Cheryl nodded in understanding. "I'm sure that Santa will give you a barbie". Her assuredness outmatched my cynicism. I was was overcome with hope that I may be a normal girl, with toys, a bed, and a house. Santa would make sure that I received these things in the Christmases to come, if I only had the confidence to ask. I went to bed feeling elated, and slept soundly.
The next day, I woke to the sight of stockings hanging off of the rafters of the hut. I lied in my sleeping bag, staring at the red felt stocking with all of my might, as if I could have opened it with the strength of my will alone. Just as I thought that I couldn't contain myself any longer, Cheryl climbed up the steps of the hut, bending down to crawl through the small door of the hut. She saw that I had been waiting anxiously, and waved her hands enthusiastically towards the stocking, saying, "Go, go, see what Santa brought you!".
For a fraction of a second, I considered waiting for my sister and sunshine to wake up, but my enthusiasm kept me from such consideration. I rushed to the stocking and attempted to rip it down from the rafter. Cheryl recognized my childlike struggle, giggled to herself, and walked over to help me detach the stubborn stocking from the nail on the rafter. I tore through the contents of the stocking furiously. There was a variety of hard candy, which I shoved into my mouth enthusiastically. Then, as I reached the bottom of the stocking, I felt the hard, plastic limbs of a doll.
I carefully maneuvered the doll out of the stocking. Then I saw her in all of her splendor. Her hair was patchy and brown. I could see the holes in her head, where I could only assume the rest of her hair belonged. Her clothing was crudely sewn, and obviously constructed by hand. There was a smudge on her face. But she smiled her plastic smile at me as if she were unaffected by her surroundings. I felt an instant kinship with this doll. She was me.
Confused, I looked at Cheryl and stated "this isn't a barbie doll". Cheryl smiled warmly and said, "well, I guess that Santa didn't understand what you wanted, but her NAME is barbie". I laughed and drew my "barbie" doll to my chest. At that moment, I was so overcome with gratefulness for Cheryl's efforts that I didn't care that Santa didn't exist. I ran towards Cheryl and let her embrace me. Her musky, earthy smell enveloped me. "Thank you, santa" I said, looking directly into Cheryl's loving eyes.
Waiting at the bus stop, listening to the other children's Christmas stories, I felt lucky. Even observing their fine, clean clothing, and shiny lunch boxes. I realized that I was the one that was lucky. I knew the true spirit of Christmas.
The smell of melted candle wax triggers the most pleasant memories of my childhood. When I take in the scent, I think of the log walls of one of my first childhood dwellings, flickering warmly with the light of candles. The candles were forced into the open mouths of glass bottles, which betrayed their age with layers of melted, misshapen wax formations. The candles sat around the perimeter of the round log hut, creating the only man made light for miles. We were told that black bear and mountain lions had been known to prowl the foothills, and the more noise that we made the less likely they were to wander into our dwelling. So us girls would often stay up until the sun turned the sky that mysterious color that marked the arrival of dawn. We would tell stories to one another, loudly emphasizing unimportant details and cackling unnecessarily at each other's jokes. But before we drifted off to sleep, one of the older girls would always make sure to blow out the candles. Cheryl had warned us very firmly (which was not a common thing for her to do) against leaving the candles burning at night. Our hut was made of wood logs, after all.
Cheryl was a smallish woman with dull brown hair that hung to her waist, warm eyes, and crooked teeth. Although she wouldn't have been considered a beautiful woman, her countenance had the power to lift anyone's spirit. She had a laugh that would have scared away any wandering mountain beast for miles. And she loved us. I remember feeling so greatful to be loved by an adult, that I could barely contain my happiness when I was around her. Sometimes she would suddenly pull me close to her and embrace me firmly, and for that moment all that I could smell was a combination of patchouli oil and her natural musk, and all that I could feel was elation.
Cheryl slept in the hut that rested in the nook at the bottom of the hill. The round hut that we slept in had been named the "moon hut", and the small, square dwelling that Cheryl and our mother slept in had been named the "sun hut". The sun hut was a square room, with a wood burning stove. Cheryl would use the wood burning stove to cook eggs and bacon in the morning. But this was only in the winter, when it was cold enough to keep the eggs and bacon fresh. When we would get too cold, sometimes we would trek down the narrow, winding, dug out dirt path that led to the sun hut so that we could warm our hands around the cast iron wood stove.
We had to stumble down the same pathway at night if we had to go to relieve ourselves. Half way from the sun hut to the moon hut, there was a crapper. When I say crapper, I mean it in the historical sense. This was an "antique" john crapper toilet, mounted on a wooden block with four log posts and a little wood shingle roof. There was a chain that hung above the toilet that acted as the flusher. There were no walls surrounding the toilet. Before we sat, we would need to brace ourselves for the almost unbearable chill of the seat, which was weathered and fully exposed to all of the elements. If we were lucky, a squirrel or small animal would pass us by and entertain us as we sat. As an adult looking back on the situation, I am amazed that whoever built this contraption was able to connect it to conventional plumbing, and I wonder how they were able to do it. I also wonder why they would do it. The most fascinating aspect of this subculture was that they still seemed to cling on to certain conventional ideals, while rejecting others.
The mountain squatters were strong and proud people. Their lifestyle seemed to be an homage to the gold rush driven pioneers that had inhabited the area in the 19th century. But it was also a form of rebellion against the normal, t.v. influenced society that they grew up in. I suppose that this is what my mother found most appealing. But she was never able to fully devote herself to the lifestyle (or anything, for that matter). Sometimes, she would disappear for days on end. During these times, Cheryl would always make sure that we were warm and fed. Somehow, she was always able to make me feel safe. She would make sure that I was dressed and prepared for school.
The trek to school was even more involved that the trek to the toilet. I would hike down the steep, treacherous hill to the paved road. I would walk for miles down the winding road to the bus stop. When I finally reached the bottom of the hill, where the rest of my schoolmates were waiting, there was an even bigger challenge for me to overcome - the children.
I was always humbled by their clean, pressed clothing and carefree, white smiles. I would have to make a point not to smile, since I had a hideous brown crack down one of my front teeth. I would stand very still, hoping that they wouldn't notice me. But they always did. They would make cruel comments about my dirty clothing, or call me stupid because I could never bring myself to talk. I would endure their comments, feeling relieved that they hadn't seen where I lived. I had learned that the more people know about you, the more ammunition they had to make you feel ashamed. So I never spoke or drew attention to myself in any way. Although I convinced myself that I hated them, I couldn't deny that there was a part of me that revered them for their confidence and their shiny plastic lunch boxes.
I would struggle through my school days. Each moment of every day was dedicated to making myself seem normal. I studied the children around me intently. I watched the way that they stood, the way that they dressed, and the way that they spoke to the teacher. I never dared to try to imitate them. But I observed them. I thought that if I could understand them, I could teach myself how to be normal.
The day after Christmas, after I had turned 7, I finally gave up the notion of being normal. The children stood around, goofing and joking as children do. They recounted their memories of Christmas day. They listed the gifts that they had received as if they were badges of honor. I was astounded at the amount of gifts that they had received.
As I listened in astonishment, I conjured the memories of the night of Christmas Eve. Our mother wasn't there. When I had asked where she was, Cheryl had said something about Christmas shopping. But her nervous eyes and awkward nature of her reply had told me that she was elsewhere. My sister, Sunshine (Cheryl's daughter) and I sat on the floor of the moon hut. The candles flickered warmly. Cheryl had asked us what we wanted Santa to bring us for Christmas. Having rarely received Christmas gifts, my sister and I had replied with a very resolute "there is no Santa Klaus". Our cynicism seemed unsettling to her. A wave of concern passed over Cheryl's face. She was silent for a few moments. Then, with a burst of energy that surpassed her size, her eyes wide with excitement, she said, "I KNOW THAT SANTA EXISTS!".
We jumped with surprise. Cheryl's excitement had shaken us out of complacence. Cheryl slowly rose, her small frame casting large shadows on the log wall. She told us a story about the night that she had seen Santa Klaus. She explained that she was just a small child at the time, and that his size and the elaborate decoration of his costume had struck her with awe and fascination. She exclaimed that each step of his large, shiny, black boot on the floor created a thunderous roar. She mimicked his actions, her hands on her stomach, laughing wildly. She told us that he emitted a jovial quality that couldn't be expressed in words. His laughter shook the room, and filled her with joy. After her story, she slowly lowered herself to the floor and sat cross-legged, at eye level with us. With a sincere expression, eyebrow raised, she said "So...what do you want for Christmas?".
Still awestruck and convinced by her performance, I meekly answered "a barbie doll". Considering that I didn't own a toy at the time, this seemed to be a large request. Cheryl nodded in understanding. "I'm sure that Santa will give you a barbie". Her assuredness outmatched my cynicism. I was was overcome with hope that I may be a normal girl, with toys, a bed, and a house. Santa would make sure that I received these things in the Christmases to come, if I only had the confidence to ask. I went to bed feeling elated, and slept soundly.
The next day, I woke to the sight of stockings hanging off of the rafters of the hut. I lied in my sleeping bag, staring at the red felt stocking with all of my might, as if I could have opened it with the strength of my will alone. Just as I thought that I couldn't contain myself any longer, Cheryl climbed up the steps of the hut, bending down to crawl through the small door of the hut. She saw that I had been waiting anxiously, and waved her hands enthusiastically towards the stocking, saying, "Go, go, see what Santa brought you!".
For a fraction of a second, I considered waiting for my sister and sunshine to wake up, but my enthusiasm kept me from such consideration. I rushed to the stocking and attempted to rip it down from the rafter. Cheryl recognized my childlike struggle, giggled to herself, and walked over to help me detach the stubborn stocking from the nail on the rafter. I tore through the contents of the stocking furiously. There was a variety of hard candy, which I shoved into my mouth enthusiastically. Then, as I reached the bottom of the stocking, I felt the hard, plastic limbs of a doll.
I carefully maneuvered the doll out of the stocking. Then I saw her in all of her splendor. Her hair was patchy and brown. I could see the holes in her head, where I could only assume the rest of her hair belonged. Her clothing was crudely sewn, and obviously constructed by hand. There was a smudge on her face. But she smiled her plastic smile at me as if she were unaffected by her surroundings. I felt an instant kinship with this doll. She was me.
Confused, I looked at Cheryl and stated "this isn't a barbie doll". Cheryl smiled warmly and said, "well, I guess that Santa didn't understand what you wanted, but her NAME is barbie". I laughed and drew my "barbie" doll to my chest. At that moment, I was so overcome with gratefulness for Cheryl's efforts that I didn't care that Santa didn't exist. I ran towards Cheryl and let her embrace me. Her musky, earthy smell enveloped me. "Thank you, santa" I said, looking directly into Cheryl's loving eyes.
Waiting at the bus stop, listening to the other children's Christmas stories, I felt lucky. Even observing their fine, clean clothing, and shiny lunch boxes. I realized that I was the one that was lucky. I knew the true spirit of Christmas.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Last night I had a dream. I was in the middle of the ocean, floating in a cardboard box. I felt as if I was stuck in a Winslow Homer painting. The water was an ominous ink blue color, slashed with lines of white foam. The box bobbed through the waves, always one wave from tipping over and launching me into the mysterious, murky depths.
After floating aimlessly for what seemed like a long time, I finally saw the shore. My countenance sank when I fully absorbed the sight that wavered on the horizon. The shore was lined with the most jagged mountains that I had ever seen. The sunlight of the golden hour struck the side of the mountains, which ranged from ultramarine to tangerine. They were the same Maxfield Parrish mountains that I had always revered. So dangerous, yet so amazingly beautiful.
I decided that my only hope was to reach these mountains. So I paddled frantically with my hands. The box which I had been floating in had, remarkably, held up thus far. But it had begun to absorb water at the bottom, and I knew that I was moments away from sinking. As I drifted closer to the shore, I was able to see the fate that awaited me. The waves shattered the face of the rock with their tremendous force. But I had already given control of my tiny craft to the bedlam of the sea.
Just as my mind and body began to relax and accept my inevitable fate, I spotted something moving under a thin veil of the foggy blue water. It was the incarnation of my greatest fear - a shark. It's grand streamlined body cut gracefully through the water. It's tail moving side to side, creating waves that licked the side of the cardboard dangerously. The sight of a shark has always inspired one reaction from me - a terrifying combination of awe and utter dread. It was at this point that the rate of my heart reached frightening levels, and forced my body out of my panicked state of sleep.
I always make a point to dissect dreams that are as vivid and affecting as this one was. I believe that our subconscious is the only part of us that really has the power to reveal the things that we are afraid to face in our conscious, waking state. What did this one mean to me? Brad was able to help a little when he suggested that it was an anxiety dream.
I recently quit my job. Friday was my last day. After a life of struggling, I had finally achieved financial security. But I felt that I had sold my soul. I knew that working in the fashion industry meant only one thing for me - a career full of frustration and disappointment. I have finally decided to put my energies towards creating the things that I love - art and music. But I've never been without a steady job...ever. I cleaned houses and babysat through high school. I graduated early so that I could attend art school, throughout which I maintained two jobs and full time school work. I got my first corporate job at 19. The idea of being without work is the most frightening thing that I can think of. Of course, freelance web design and illustration will provide some security. But at my core, I know that this is the only path for me.
I hope that I can steer clear of the jagged rocks, and keep myself from sinking. I hope that I will be able to create beautiful things.
After floating aimlessly for what seemed like a long time, I finally saw the shore. My countenance sank when I fully absorbed the sight that wavered on the horizon. The shore was lined with the most jagged mountains that I had ever seen. The sunlight of the golden hour struck the side of the mountains, which ranged from ultramarine to tangerine. They were the same Maxfield Parrish mountains that I had always revered. So dangerous, yet so amazingly beautiful.
I decided that my only hope was to reach these mountains. So I paddled frantically with my hands. The box which I had been floating in had, remarkably, held up thus far. But it had begun to absorb water at the bottom, and I knew that I was moments away from sinking. As I drifted closer to the shore, I was able to see the fate that awaited me. The waves shattered the face of the rock with their tremendous force. But I had already given control of my tiny craft to the bedlam of the sea.
Just as my mind and body began to relax and accept my inevitable fate, I spotted something moving under a thin veil of the foggy blue water. It was the incarnation of my greatest fear - a shark. It's grand streamlined body cut gracefully through the water. It's tail moving side to side, creating waves that licked the side of the cardboard dangerously. The sight of a shark has always inspired one reaction from me - a terrifying combination of awe and utter dread. It was at this point that the rate of my heart reached frightening levels, and forced my body out of my panicked state of sleep.
I always make a point to dissect dreams that are as vivid and affecting as this one was. I believe that our subconscious is the only part of us that really has the power to reveal the things that we are afraid to face in our conscious, waking state. What did this one mean to me? Brad was able to help a little when he suggested that it was an anxiety dream.
I recently quit my job. Friday was my last day. After a life of struggling, I had finally achieved financial security. But I felt that I had sold my soul. I knew that working in the fashion industry meant only one thing for me - a career full of frustration and disappointment. I have finally decided to put my energies towards creating the things that I love - art and music. But I've never been without a steady job...ever. I cleaned houses and babysat through high school. I graduated early so that I could attend art school, throughout which I maintained two jobs and full time school work. I got my first corporate job at 19. The idea of being without work is the most frightening thing that I can think of. Of course, freelance web design and illustration will provide some security. But at my core, I know that this is the only path for me.
I hope that I can steer clear of the jagged rocks, and keep myself from sinking. I hope that I will be able to create beautiful things.
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About Me
- Celeste
- My favorite color is Chartreuse. I love the gust of breeze that is accompanied by the clunking sound of the train as it approaches.