I'm packing up my past. My apartment is a mess. I haven't been able to really stay on top of things since the surgery. Somehow, now, my eyesight is a bit clearer. I see dust everywhere.
I grab a big black garbage bag and begin dumping all the things that I don't associate with anymore into it; old photos, memos on the bulletin board, papers I don't need. I look at the piles of magazines that I haven't gotten to -- and wonder if I ever will.
Why are there not enough hours in the day?
I start a massive purge of my office. My hope is that if I get a little organized, and a little less cluttered -- the ideas will flow. At the very least, it will be a cleaner work environment. I start to toss away old notes from shows I've worked on. They've gone to air so I no longer need them. I barely take notice as I plunge away. Today is not about reminiscing. Today is about creating the space so that I can invite new things into my life.
I start to pull things off one of the bookshelves that I don't need; expired yellow pages, old trade magazines. I stop at a Lonely Planet of Italy -- and think back to nearly three years ago when I was there. How I sulked in Florence on my birthday. I flip through some of the pages and laugh at all the notes I scribbled into the margins.
I pause for a moment and think about that day -- alone in the piazza; sulking. How I walked along the river dripping in melancholy. What an idiot I was. I had the power within me all along to change my circumstances; and yet, I didn't. I moped. Negative. Sullen. Repelling everyone and everything around me.
I remember walking back towards town during sunset. An old man approached me. I forget his name now, but the lesson he taught me in those brief minutes that we walked together changed my life forever. I would never look at the glass as half-empty again.
I usually make it a rule to not talk to strangers, but this man reminded me of my grandfather. He was similar in appearance -- standing only a few centimeters (at most) above 5 feet. He had kind eyes; the type that always smile when they talk to you.
In any case, his English was fairly good and so he began to chastise me for moping about Florence on my own.
"This is Italy!" he said with all the excitement of a ringmaster, "It will give you whatever your heart desires!"
I was a bit hesitant to jump on board his happy train, but I listened -- after all, I had nothing else to do.
"What would you like to do tonight?" he asked.
Hmmm..."If I could do anything?" I prodded.
"Yes, if you could do anything what would you like to do tonight?"
I took a moment. I looked across the river at all the wonderful restaurants and the people enjoying wine and laughing on the patios adjacent to the piazzas. I thought about my lonely dinners of sandwiches that I would get from cafes. And so, I said "I would love to have drinks and a good conversation tonight -- on one of those patios over there," and pointed to the nicest restaurant in front of one of the most beautiful churches in Florence.
"Brava!" he said, and laughed like a crazy man. "Brava!"
By this point, we were approaching the Ponte Vecchio. He pointed to the bridge and said, "You cross that bridge, and by the time you reach the other side; you will meet friends -- and you will go to that restaurant that you desire."
I looked at him with a bit of skepticism. But he simply tipped his hat before turning away and said, "Do it. You'll see".
So, as I waived him goodbye and looked across the bridge, I shrugged my shoulders and thought Why not? At first I stepped slowly. Cautiously. Desperately trying to make eye contact with the people around me. I really wanted it to work. I really really wanted more than anything to sit on that patio and have a nice ending to my birthday.
As I neared the midway point -- no one bit. So, I decided, should I get to the end without an invitation, I would go and get some ice cream and try to make the most of this night -- without the sullenness. I started thinking about the flavour of gelato I wanted. I started appreciating the surroundings; laughter, the moon reflecting off the river, stars in the sky, the warm air. And, as I took my first step off the bridge and was about to head towards a cafe to have my nightly ritual of a coffee and a sandwich for dinner, I was apprehended -- no stampeded, by a group of guys.
"Come!" they said and motioned me over with a waive. Normally I would find this behaviour creepy, but there was a shift in the air. I had been told that I would have a great night before I stepped off the bridge. It was all just a little too coincidental. I walked over to where they were.
"Are you here? HERE? All by yourself?" said, one of them.
"No no...my friend wasn't feeling well so she's back at our hotel. I just was getting some ice cream" I said. It was a lie, but it was the smart thing to do given that I was actually by myself. Better they know that I'm accountable to someone and that someone is waiting for me to return.
"Ah, well then. Come with us. We're going for some wine. You like wine?" they asked.
"Does a dog like a bone?" I said. But the joke was a little over their heads. I think one of them actually got it. In any case. I joined their party -- and within 20 minutes I was sitting at the very cafe I had pointed out to the old man and was sipping red wine by the decanter, and having a great time. I didn't stay too long -- only a few hours. I told them I had to get back to my friend, but the truth was I had an early morning train to Venice.
We said our goodbyes. A couple of them walked me back -- as they were heading home as well, and I went to sleep that night with a lightness in my heart. I started to realize that if you create space -- if you are open to it; anything can happen. I learned that day -- on my 30th birthday to not focus on what was missing; but rather, what is about to come.
So, as I stood in my apartment a few years later, smiling as I flip through my travel guide -- remembering that day and the life lesson I learned; my heart skipped a beat. An ounce of excitement began to trickle in. I knew once I purged my apartment -- that the world of possibilities was endless. That as long as I didn't limit myself; anything could happen. I just had to take that first step across the bridge, and have a little faith.
And so, I started filling up garbage bags -- one after the other, with ornaments from the past that were inhibiting the future that I was about to chase after. I was now crossing the bridge. And anything could happen.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
The Surgery
Beep.
Beep.
The light in the operating room swings back and forth; casting shadows on the instruments. My eyesight is blurry. I'm partially conscious as they saw away my skull and begin prodding around in my brain.
"You're doing good," one of the surgeons says. I can tell from the crease in his eyes that he is smiling behind his mask. The room fades in and out of fuzziness while the instruments continue to hum and beep.
Beep.
Beep.
"Can you count to ten?" asks another person.
"One...two..." I droll out the numbers. My speech is slightly groggy, but I manage to complete the task.
I look to my left. I can see the metal instruments poking around in my brain on a flat screen tv that hangs just over the monitors. I watch for a bit -- wondering how long this will take.
One of the nurses begins to hold my hand. I realize that tears were silently streaming down my cheek. I guess the grogginess prevented me from feeling anything.
"Why don't you strike up a conversation with her?" I hear one of the doctor's say to the nurse. She nods before saying, "So, they tell me you were having nosebleeds?"
I try to nod, but my skull is screwed into some sort of metal brace. So, I whisper, "Yes".
"You're very lucky" she says and holds my hand a little tighter. I can smell burning flesh - salty, like a barbecue, except, it's my brain. I can't bear to look at the monitor. I just want this to be over.
I don't feel like talking to the nurse, and so I ignore her when she asks me another question.
Beep.
Beep.
"Karen," one of the doctor's says "we need you to keep talking with Jackie so we know that we aren't affecting any of your speech functions."
"Ok," I whisper.
Beep.
Beep.
"You're one of the first to have this surgery" says the nurse enthusiastically. I don't respond for a moment -- but then remember what the doctor just asked of me, and so I say "yes".
She continues with the small-talk. "You must be so excited, just think how different your life will be once this is all over."
I suppose she is right. At the moment, I'm more concerned with surviving this lame conversation.
The barbecue smell has left the air, so I look back to the screen. There is a white patch on my brain where the black mass used to be. I see another nurse walk with a tray to my left. The black mass is in there. I readjust my focus to see tiny strings hanging from what must be the mass. At the end of each of those strings are all my emotional mistakes. Regrets hang from the cords like marionettes without their puppeteer. Some of their faces I recognize.
I breathe a sigh of relief as the nurse tosses the mass into a yellow bin marked biological hazardous waste. I hear it all thump to the bottom -- and smile, before sleep takes over. The last words I hear from one of the doctors is comforting, "We got rid of it all."
And with that, I fall into a deep and long overdue slumber.
Beep.
The light in the operating room swings back and forth; casting shadows on the instruments. My eyesight is blurry. I'm partially conscious as they saw away my skull and begin prodding around in my brain.
"You're doing good," one of the surgeons says. I can tell from the crease in his eyes that he is smiling behind his mask. The room fades in and out of fuzziness while the instruments continue to hum and beep.
Beep.
Beep.
"Can you count to ten?" asks another person.
"One...two..." I droll out the numbers. My speech is slightly groggy, but I manage to complete the task.
I look to my left. I can see the metal instruments poking around in my brain on a flat screen tv that hangs just over the monitors. I watch for a bit -- wondering how long this will take.
One of the nurses begins to hold my hand. I realize that tears were silently streaming down my cheek. I guess the grogginess prevented me from feeling anything.
"Why don't you strike up a conversation with her?" I hear one of the doctor's say to the nurse. She nods before saying, "So, they tell me you were having nosebleeds?"
I try to nod, but my skull is screwed into some sort of metal brace. So, I whisper, "Yes".
"You're very lucky" she says and holds my hand a little tighter. I can smell burning flesh - salty, like a barbecue, except, it's my brain. I can't bear to look at the monitor. I just want this to be over.
I don't feel like talking to the nurse, and so I ignore her when she asks me another question.
Beep.
Beep.
"Karen," one of the doctor's says "we need you to keep talking with Jackie so we know that we aren't affecting any of your speech functions."
"Ok," I whisper.
Beep.
Beep.
"You're one of the first to have this surgery" says the nurse enthusiastically. I don't respond for a moment -- but then remember what the doctor just asked of me, and so I say "yes".
She continues with the small-talk. "You must be so excited, just think how different your life will be once this is all over."
I suppose she is right. At the moment, I'm more concerned with surviving this lame conversation.
The barbecue smell has left the air, so I look back to the screen. There is a white patch on my brain where the black mass used to be. I see another nurse walk with a tray to my left. The black mass is in there. I readjust my focus to see tiny strings hanging from what must be the mass. At the end of each of those strings are all my emotional mistakes. Regrets hang from the cords like marionettes without their puppeteer. Some of their faces I recognize.
I breathe a sigh of relief as the nurse tosses the mass into a yellow bin marked biological hazardous waste. I hear it all thump to the bottom -- and smile, before sleep takes over. The last words I hear from one of the doctors is comforting, "We got rid of it all."
And with that, I fall into a deep and long overdue slumber.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
The Jump
I look all around me. The sky is grey. Dark clouds are rolling in and making the waves turn black. I look down to the rocks below and see you standing there; smiling. You're holding out your arms and motioning me to jump -- but I'm at least 200 feet above you.
Are you fucking crazy?
I survey just exactly where you're standing. Sharp jagged rocks point out all around you. Some of them soar 10 or 12 feet in the air. There is a small clearing where you stand. A miraculous patch of sun shines on you; but I look around to the dark clouds and the angry waves, and I hesitate.
The cliff I'm standing on is sandy -- so I remain a few inches back from the edge. I've been standing here quite a while; a lifetime. Although it's cold, barren, and lonely -- it's all I know.
I've surveyed the horizon and the rocks below for years; always wondering what lays beyond them. The path that you came along curves behind a bend and so; I have no knowledge of what else may be out there -- or who.
Then, on this stormy day, I see you walking down the path. At first I take a step back from the edge so you can't see me. I want to inspect you a bit more from the safety of the shadows. I watch as you grab rocks and skip them into the water. You seem impervious to the storm that is around you. You're happy.
I step closer to the edge than I ever have before. I have to be very careful how I distribute my weight -- as it is only clumps of sand holding it together. I allow you to make eye contact with me. You wave and smile. I hesitate but then waive back -- after all, I'm very far away and safe up here. There is nothing you can do to harm me.
You try to yell something to me; but the wind takes it in a different direction. We stand there observing each other for a while. I'm slightly surprised that you aren't turning around and walking away.
Why are you still here?
The storm begins to approach. Rain falls harder than it ever has before -- and the ground I'm standing on begins to turn to mud. Landslides race to the rocky bottom, and the sea jumps up and swallows them whole.
The water is rising all around you. Landslides plummet -- but you stand firm. You reach out your arms and motion me to jump.
I look around me. The cliff is beginning to shrink as more sand turns to mud before racing to the bottom. I peek over the edge one more time to calculate just how improbable this will be.
You are steadfast. Reassuring. Stable.
So I start to lighten my load -- for it is only a matter of minutes before the ground I'm standing on disappears. I start to remove the heaviness from my heart; pain, despair, regret, anger, and doubt. I throw them over the cliff and watch as they drown in the sea.
I grab some more and toss them; all the while being very careful to maintain a sense of balance as the ground begins to loosen underneath me. I'm certain that if the heaviness in my heart is lightened -- that maybe; I'll be able to land in your arms. At the very least; it will give the wind a better chance to swoop me.
So, I toss away fear, shame, guilt, and insecurity. They all scream as they plummet to their death. But I don't care. They've kept me stranded on this cliff for far too long -- and I want to see where the path leads that you came from.
I make eye contact with you to let you know that I'm about to jump. Even though the waves crash all around you -- I see you become more firm in your stance.
And, as the sand beneath me begins to slide away from my feet -- I close my eyes and step away from the edge. As I fall, I hope that I do land in your arms, and that together we can walk back down the path that you came from. But I know, as I tumble, that even if for some reason I'm not able to reach you -- and the rocks catch me first; I know that the jump is more an accurate reflection of who I want to be. Who I'm meant to be. Because I can no longer be that scared and frightened girl with a heavy heart, who could only sit and watch the storms.
Are you fucking crazy?
I survey just exactly where you're standing. Sharp jagged rocks point out all around you. Some of them soar 10 or 12 feet in the air. There is a small clearing where you stand. A miraculous patch of sun shines on you; but I look around to the dark clouds and the angry waves, and I hesitate.
The cliff I'm standing on is sandy -- so I remain a few inches back from the edge. I've been standing here quite a while; a lifetime. Although it's cold, barren, and lonely -- it's all I know.
I've surveyed the horizon and the rocks below for years; always wondering what lays beyond them. The path that you came along curves behind a bend and so; I have no knowledge of what else may be out there -- or who.
Then, on this stormy day, I see you walking down the path. At first I take a step back from the edge so you can't see me. I want to inspect you a bit more from the safety of the shadows. I watch as you grab rocks and skip them into the water. You seem impervious to the storm that is around you. You're happy.
I step closer to the edge than I ever have before. I have to be very careful how I distribute my weight -- as it is only clumps of sand holding it together. I allow you to make eye contact with me. You wave and smile. I hesitate but then waive back -- after all, I'm very far away and safe up here. There is nothing you can do to harm me.
You try to yell something to me; but the wind takes it in a different direction. We stand there observing each other for a while. I'm slightly surprised that you aren't turning around and walking away.
Why are you still here?
The storm begins to approach. Rain falls harder than it ever has before -- and the ground I'm standing on begins to turn to mud. Landslides race to the rocky bottom, and the sea jumps up and swallows them whole.
The water is rising all around you. Landslides plummet -- but you stand firm. You reach out your arms and motion me to jump.
I look around me. The cliff is beginning to shrink as more sand turns to mud before racing to the bottom. I peek over the edge one more time to calculate just how improbable this will be.
You are steadfast. Reassuring. Stable.
So I start to lighten my load -- for it is only a matter of minutes before the ground I'm standing on disappears. I start to remove the heaviness from my heart; pain, despair, regret, anger, and doubt. I throw them over the cliff and watch as they drown in the sea.
I grab some more and toss them; all the while being very careful to maintain a sense of balance as the ground begins to loosen underneath me. I'm certain that if the heaviness in my heart is lightened -- that maybe; I'll be able to land in your arms. At the very least; it will give the wind a better chance to swoop me.
So, I toss away fear, shame, guilt, and insecurity. They all scream as they plummet to their death. But I don't care. They've kept me stranded on this cliff for far too long -- and I want to see where the path leads that you came from.
I make eye contact with you to let you know that I'm about to jump. Even though the waves crash all around you -- I see you become more firm in your stance.
And, as the sand beneath me begins to slide away from my feet -- I close my eyes and step away from the edge. As I fall, I hope that I do land in your arms, and that together we can walk back down the path that you came from. But I know, as I tumble, that even if for some reason I'm not able to reach you -- and the rocks catch me first; I know that the jump is more an accurate reflection of who I want to be. Who I'm meant to be. Because I can no longer be that scared and frightened girl with a heavy heart, who could only sit and watch the storms.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Turn that Frown Upside Down
Oh no!
There's chunks of blood in my Kleenex. My nose hasn't stopped bleeding for weeks. I look in the mirror to see what a mess I've become: tear stained cheeks, puffy eyes, tasseled hair. The grief is beginning to carve itself along my forehead. I am officially aging.
I grab another Kleenex and blow again. More blood. This can't be good. I start to wonder if my broken heart is causing my brain to bleed out...
My brain to bleed out...
I read somewhere recently that when you form a negative thought, poisonous thorns form on your brain cells. These thorns secrete toxins which then seep into your body causing anxiety and other stress-related illnesses. The more poisonous thoughts -- the more toxic your body. The way the body protects itself from toxins is to attempt to dilute it by packaging it safely in a water molecule; otherwise known as fat.
I go back to the mirror and see the 40 odd pounds of negative thoughts I've packed on myself. Years of I'm not good enough have caused me to blow up like a balloon in the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade.
What have I done to myself? Or better yet...why?
I blow my nose again. More blood. The tears haven't stopped streaming in what seems like weeks. All I can focus on is everything that currently sucks in my life. And, if I don't get a handle on it soon -- I'll be 200 lbs before I know it.
I walk into the next room and pull a photo album off the shelf. I flip to smiley skinny photos of myself when I was in University. I laugh. On the outside I look happy and healthy -- the skinniest I'd ever been. But on the inside I was a mess.
I wonder if the body I have now is the physical manifestation of all the bad thoughts I had back then?
If that's the case, then the solution is simple. Start thinking good thoughts -- and eventually the physical world will reflect that. I'm tired of being a mess. I'm tired of not really living life the way I want to. I want my inner world and my outer world to connect the way they are suppose to.
I go back to the mirror. I pull my hair back and take a good look at my swollen face. I try to imagine the cheekbones I used to have.
I'll get there...
From this point onwards; I'm not going to focus on what went wrong. I'm not going to give any energy to the past -- because I can't change it. The only thing I have control over is laying the foundations for the future I want to have...the future that I was meant to have. The future that I'm going to go after.
I stop my crying and blow my nose again. More blood. I start to hope that the blood is a good thing. That the toxins are releasing themselves -- instead of poisoning my body.
I take a deep breath. I actually am starting to feel calmer. I walk over to the computer and sit down. For years I've procrastinated putting pen to paper. Now, I'm starting to believe it was because I was caught in my own web of self-deprecation and lies.
I start to type. I don't know how or where I'm going with this -- but I know that there is an element of truth in what I'm doing. And, for the time being, it is emancipating me from the feelings of doubt and self-pity.
Instead of crying about who I'm not -- I'm going to start being who I am. More blood drips from my nose amidst the leftover tears, but I don't care. I can't. I'm not paying any attention to it because I have my focus on something else; my future. And this time nothing or no one is going to stop me from being the person that I was meant to be.
I'm done being knocked down.
Turn that frown upside down...
There's chunks of blood in my Kleenex. My nose hasn't stopped bleeding for weeks. I look in the mirror to see what a mess I've become: tear stained cheeks, puffy eyes, tasseled hair. The grief is beginning to carve itself along my forehead. I am officially aging.
I grab another Kleenex and blow again. More blood. This can't be good. I start to wonder if my broken heart is causing my brain to bleed out...
My brain to bleed out...
I read somewhere recently that when you form a negative thought, poisonous thorns form on your brain cells. These thorns secrete toxins which then seep into your body causing anxiety and other stress-related illnesses. The more poisonous thoughts -- the more toxic your body. The way the body protects itself from toxins is to attempt to dilute it by packaging it safely in a water molecule; otherwise known as fat.
I go back to the mirror and see the 40 odd pounds of negative thoughts I've packed on myself. Years of I'm not good enough have caused me to blow up like a balloon in the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade.
What have I done to myself? Or better yet...why?
I blow my nose again. More blood. The tears haven't stopped streaming in what seems like weeks. All I can focus on is everything that currently sucks in my life. And, if I don't get a handle on it soon -- I'll be 200 lbs before I know it.
I walk into the next room and pull a photo album off the shelf. I flip to smiley skinny photos of myself when I was in University. I laugh. On the outside I look happy and healthy -- the skinniest I'd ever been. But on the inside I was a mess.
I wonder if the body I have now is the physical manifestation of all the bad thoughts I had back then?
If that's the case, then the solution is simple. Start thinking good thoughts -- and eventually the physical world will reflect that. I'm tired of being a mess. I'm tired of not really living life the way I want to. I want my inner world and my outer world to connect the way they are suppose to.
I go back to the mirror. I pull my hair back and take a good look at my swollen face. I try to imagine the cheekbones I used to have.
I'll get there...
From this point onwards; I'm not going to focus on what went wrong. I'm not going to give any energy to the past -- because I can't change it. The only thing I have control over is laying the foundations for the future I want to have...the future that I was meant to have. The future that I'm going to go after.
I stop my crying and blow my nose again. More blood. I start to hope that the blood is a good thing. That the toxins are releasing themselves -- instead of poisoning my body.
I take a deep breath. I actually am starting to feel calmer. I walk over to the computer and sit down. For years I've procrastinated putting pen to paper. Now, I'm starting to believe it was because I was caught in my own web of self-deprecation and lies.
I start to type. I don't know how or where I'm going with this -- but I know that there is an element of truth in what I'm doing. And, for the time being, it is emancipating me from the feelings of doubt and self-pity.
Instead of crying about who I'm not -- I'm going to start being who I am. More blood drips from my nose amidst the leftover tears, but I don't care. I can't. I'm not paying any attention to it because I have my focus on something else; my future. And this time nothing or no one is going to stop me from being the person that I was meant to be.
I'm done being knocked down.
Turn that frown upside down...
Friday, June 26, 2009
Thriller
I walk out to the pool, kick off my flip flops and lay my towel on one of the lawn chairs. It's a gorgeous day. I should be inside writing -- I have a meeting tomorrow with Warner Brothers about a script I'm working on; but it's just too nice out.
I'll go back inside in an hour...
I close my eyes and feel the sun slowly begin to kiss my skin. There's not a cloud in the sky.
I'll take a dip in the pool in a minute or two -- after I work up a bit of a sweat; but before I start to burn.
The California sun is hot. I sit for a moment; completely zen and grateful for everything that has come to me so far; a great career. Some nice things to show for it. Life is good.
Birds chirp ever so quietly in the distance. There is a stillness in the air. Moments like these are so hard to come by...
"Hola!" he says sharply. Sigh. So much for my zen.
I open one eye to see Jose standing above me. He's grinning ear to ear, and makes no effort to hide his perverted thoughts as he licks his lips and scans every inch of my body with his beady little eyes.
"Jose, can you step back please? You're blocking the sun" I say slightly agitated. The truth is -- he's actually in my personal space. And he stinks.
"No problem. Anyfing for you, Miss Karen" he says as he pulls up another lawn chair beside me; and sits down. He begins to re-adjust his balls. I sigh. If he wasn't Consuela's sister's husband -- I would never put up with him. But, I know he has three kids at home and twins on the way. This is a good job for him. And, he really does amazing work with the landscape.
He sits there; all 5 foot 3 of him. Legs wide apart as if he's in possession of an 8 foot penis. He grins constantly -- all the while staring at my body. It's getting a little awkward.
"Um, Jose" I start, "Is there something you wanted to talk about?"
He shakes his head back and forth slowly. He looks like he's constipated, but I actually think he's trying to flirt with me. As much as he's annoying -- painfully annoying, I do rather get a kick out of his delusional infatuation with me; and how he inverts it to make himself feel like I'm the one interested in him. Definitely creepy -- but harmless.
My idea of relaxing is not having Jose stare me up and down while I lie here in my bikini. I need to give him a distraction.
"Jose, why don't you put on some music?" I suggest. He smiles back at me as if I've given him a motel address and time for when we are to meet. He dips into his telenovella fantasy. I can read his thoughts:
There we are -- the two of us making hot passionate love in some seedy motel. Sweat drips from both our bodies because he is the best lover in the world. I am in exctasy. I tell him over and over again how much I love him. How I can't live without him. How I need him. But then -- we hear a noise outside the door. He shushes me all brave. He is my hero! Just when I think we are safe (after all, I need his loving so desperately!) the door is kicked open! His pregnant wife screams maniacally and races towards me with a crowbar. Jose tries to stop her -- but her adrenaline overpowers him; and before he can do anything about it, she beats me to death. He stands there astonished -- but touched. His left eye forms a tear as he opens his arms to comfort her. He is deeply moved by her undying love and commitment to him.
"No problem, Miss Karen" he flirts back. He stands and saunters over to the pool house. I hear him rustle around in there for a moment or two before the beat of Thriller begins to fill the air. Good choice Jose! I love this song.
I close my eyes and take in a brief moment of peace before Jose returns. I think about when the Thriller video came out -- and how I begged my mom to be able to stay up and watch it. I danced like a zombie for weeks after that. I was always a big fan of Michael -- after all, we share the same birthday. And, he was the King of Pop. Troubled. Potentially disturbed. But a musical genius none-the-less.
I can't believe it's been at least 5 years since he passed away.
I open my eyes to see what Jose is up to. Sure enough, he's swinging his penis back and forth like a disco dancer on speed around the edge of the pool. He smiles at me -- feeling the intensity. Now that we've made eye contact, he puts his shoulder's into it. He's the sexiest man in the Universe...in his mind at least.
I laugh. I have to. My 5 foot 3 perverted and deluded Gardiner is attempting to seduce me with one of the most repelling dance moves on earth. And man, is he ever feeling it. I stand up. I'm starting to turn a little pink. I give Jose a thumb's up before I dive in the pool. I stay under the water for a while -- because there is nothing cooler than listening to Michael Jackson submerged in water; feeling the beat - like a heart, a pulse, a lifeline to the Universe. And, I'm in utero -- here in my pool; on this gorgeous sunny day.
I'll go back inside in an hour...
I close my eyes and feel the sun slowly begin to kiss my skin. There's not a cloud in the sky.
I'll take a dip in the pool in a minute or two -- after I work up a bit of a sweat; but before I start to burn.
The California sun is hot. I sit for a moment; completely zen and grateful for everything that has come to me so far; a great career. Some nice things to show for it. Life is good.
Birds chirp ever so quietly in the distance. There is a stillness in the air. Moments like these are so hard to come by...
"Hola!" he says sharply. Sigh. So much for my zen.
I open one eye to see Jose standing above me. He's grinning ear to ear, and makes no effort to hide his perverted thoughts as he licks his lips and scans every inch of my body with his beady little eyes.
"Jose, can you step back please? You're blocking the sun" I say slightly agitated. The truth is -- he's actually in my personal space. And he stinks.
"No problem. Anyfing for you, Miss Karen" he says as he pulls up another lawn chair beside me; and sits down. He begins to re-adjust his balls. I sigh. If he wasn't Consuela's sister's husband -- I would never put up with him. But, I know he has three kids at home and twins on the way. This is a good job for him. And, he really does amazing work with the landscape.
He sits there; all 5 foot 3 of him. Legs wide apart as if he's in possession of an 8 foot penis. He grins constantly -- all the while staring at my body. It's getting a little awkward.
"Um, Jose" I start, "Is there something you wanted to talk about?"
He shakes his head back and forth slowly. He looks like he's constipated, but I actually think he's trying to flirt with me. As much as he's annoying -- painfully annoying, I do rather get a kick out of his delusional infatuation with me; and how he inverts it to make himself feel like I'm the one interested in him. Definitely creepy -- but harmless.
My idea of relaxing is not having Jose stare me up and down while I lie here in my bikini. I need to give him a distraction.
"Jose, why don't you put on some music?" I suggest. He smiles back at me as if I've given him a motel address and time for when we are to meet. He dips into his telenovella fantasy. I can read his thoughts:
There we are -- the two of us making hot passionate love in some seedy motel. Sweat drips from both our bodies because he is the best lover in the world. I am in exctasy. I tell him over and over again how much I love him. How I can't live without him. How I need him. But then -- we hear a noise outside the door. He shushes me all brave. He is my hero! Just when I think we are safe (after all, I need his loving so desperately!) the door is kicked open! His pregnant wife screams maniacally and races towards me with a crowbar. Jose tries to stop her -- but her adrenaline overpowers him; and before he can do anything about it, she beats me to death. He stands there astonished -- but touched. His left eye forms a tear as he opens his arms to comfort her. He is deeply moved by her undying love and commitment to him.
"No problem, Miss Karen" he flirts back. He stands and saunters over to the pool house. I hear him rustle around in there for a moment or two before the beat of Thriller begins to fill the air. Good choice Jose! I love this song.
I close my eyes and take in a brief moment of peace before Jose returns. I think about when the Thriller video came out -- and how I begged my mom to be able to stay up and watch it. I danced like a zombie for weeks after that. I was always a big fan of Michael -- after all, we share the same birthday. And, he was the King of Pop. Troubled. Potentially disturbed. But a musical genius none-the-less.
I can't believe it's been at least 5 years since he passed away.
I open my eyes to see what Jose is up to. Sure enough, he's swinging his penis back and forth like a disco dancer on speed around the edge of the pool. He smiles at me -- feeling the intensity. Now that we've made eye contact, he puts his shoulder's into it. He's the sexiest man in the Universe...in his mind at least.
I laugh. I have to. My 5 foot 3 perverted and deluded Gardiner is attempting to seduce me with one of the most repelling dance moves on earth. And man, is he ever feeling it. I stand up. I'm starting to turn a little pink. I give Jose a thumb's up before I dive in the pool. I stay under the water for a while -- because there is nothing cooler than listening to Michael Jackson submerged in water; feeling the beat - like a heart, a pulse, a lifeline to the Universe. And, I'm in utero -- here in my pool; on this gorgeous sunny day.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Off Roading
We're driving down the highway. It's night. Everything seems fine; except I realize that we haven't laughed or smiled at each other in a while. I start to inspect the situation. Sure we've only been together for 4 or 5 months -- but something is off. I can feel it; even if I can't put my finger on it.
Maybe we've made a wrong turn and he's going over the route in his mind?
"Everything, OK?" I ask. He doesn't respond. I start to get the sense that we might drive into a ditch. I don't have a good feeling. We pass a sign that says, "HAPPINESS BACK THAT WAY". I double-blink to make sure that I read it correctly. I don't think I like where we are heading.
He turns the car off the road. The lights from the highway are quickly swallowed up by the dark of night. I roll down my window a little to hear the sounds. Nothing. Not even a cricket. We continue to drive in awkward silence. I'm not sure where he is taking us; but I don't think I want to go there. I want to go back to the highway. Back to Happiness.
I mention that to him, but he remains mute. I feel the car start to accelerate into the darkness. I double-check to make sure that my seat belt is on.
"Maybe we should slow down" I say. I'm a little more firm. I want him to know that I'm really unhappy with what he is doing. But he pushes his foot a little harder on the gas pedal, and we pick up speed.
I know that wherever we are headed -- it won't be good. I start to get angry, then frustrated, that he doesn't take how I feel into consideration. He doesn't seem to care that what he is doing could put the both of us in serious harm. I fear the worst is coming.
The road becomes more bumpy. It's filled with potholes. We drive along for days like this -- hitting this pothole, then that one. At first I try to make do with it, but the shocks on the car eventually go; and the jagged jerks from the bended axles begin to wreak havoc on our composure.
"Just stop!" I plead with him, but my cries are once again ignored. I have no idea where we are headed. There was a point (when we were closer to Happiness) that I could look to the stars and more or less figure out where we were. But, by now the the drive has exhausted me -- and looking up only confuses me more.
He continues to accelerate into the darkness. I grab the door handle out of fear. Just when I think it can't get any worse it does. The back tire is blown off by a landmine. I suddenly realize that the potholes aren't potholes - but craters. And, from his lack of uncertainty and fixed gaze on the darkness ahead, it becomes obvious that he has driven this road before.
"Stop! I don't want to do this anymore!" I plead. But he only hits the gas a little harder. He takes us past another landmine. This one blows off one of the back doors. I scream, but he still continues to drive forward. Each time hitting another landmine -- until the car eventually can not move any further.
I sit there for a moment and try to regroup. I don't even make eye contact with him. He's not the person I used to know back in Happiness. Back in Happiness this person would never put me in harm's way. He used to care about me. But now, here, on some dark lonely road -- I see his true maniacal colours. I open the door and slowly spill out onto the ground. I pray with every step that I won't hit one of his landmines. I only see the most recent craters on the road in front of me -- but I know there are hundreds. It may take a long while -- weeks or months, before I get back to the highway.
Regardless, I press on. I take careful steps in the dark night -- hoping not to disturb any of his landmines. And, knowing, that even though the road ahead seems insurmountable -- it is the only way out. So I walk. Bloodied and broken. Because only I am able take me away from here.
Maybe we've made a wrong turn and he's going over the route in his mind?
"Everything, OK?" I ask. He doesn't respond. I start to get the sense that we might drive into a ditch. I don't have a good feeling. We pass a sign that says, "HAPPINESS BACK THAT WAY". I double-blink to make sure that I read it correctly. I don't think I like where we are heading.
He turns the car off the road. The lights from the highway are quickly swallowed up by the dark of night. I roll down my window a little to hear the sounds. Nothing. Not even a cricket. We continue to drive in awkward silence. I'm not sure where he is taking us; but I don't think I want to go there. I want to go back to the highway. Back to Happiness.
I mention that to him, but he remains mute. I feel the car start to accelerate into the darkness. I double-check to make sure that my seat belt is on.
"Maybe we should slow down" I say. I'm a little more firm. I want him to know that I'm really unhappy with what he is doing. But he pushes his foot a little harder on the gas pedal, and we pick up speed.
I know that wherever we are headed -- it won't be good. I start to get angry, then frustrated, that he doesn't take how I feel into consideration. He doesn't seem to care that what he is doing could put the both of us in serious harm. I fear the worst is coming.
The road becomes more bumpy. It's filled with potholes. We drive along for days like this -- hitting this pothole, then that one. At first I try to make do with it, but the shocks on the car eventually go; and the jagged jerks from the bended axles begin to wreak havoc on our composure.
"Just stop!" I plead with him, but my cries are once again ignored. I have no idea where we are headed. There was a point (when we were closer to Happiness) that I could look to the stars and more or less figure out where we were. But, by now the the drive has exhausted me -- and looking up only confuses me more.
He continues to accelerate into the darkness. I grab the door handle out of fear. Just when I think it can't get any worse it does. The back tire is blown off by a landmine. I suddenly realize that the potholes aren't potholes - but craters. And, from his lack of uncertainty and fixed gaze on the darkness ahead, it becomes obvious that he has driven this road before.
"Stop! I don't want to do this anymore!" I plead. But he only hits the gas a little harder. He takes us past another landmine. This one blows off one of the back doors. I scream, but he still continues to drive forward. Each time hitting another landmine -- until the car eventually can not move any further.
I sit there for a moment and try to regroup. I don't even make eye contact with him. He's not the person I used to know back in Happiness. Back in Happiness this person would never put me in harm's way. He used to care about me. But now, here, on some dark lonely road -- I see his true maniacal colours. I open the door and slowly spill out onto the ground. I pray with every step that I won't hit one of his landmines. I only see the most recent craters on the road in front of me -- but I know there are hundreds. It may take a long while -- weeks or months, before I get back to the highway.
Regardless, I press on. I take careful steps in the dark night -- hoping not to disturb any of his landmines. And, knowing, that even though the road ahead seems insurmountable -- it is the only way out. So I walk. Bloodied and broken. Because only I am able take me away from here.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
I'm bringing Sexy back
I half roll out of bed before flopping on the floor. Too many cheap beers with a bunch of classmates the night before has made me half comatose this morning -- actually, technically, this afternoon.
The bass reverberates throughout the walls and my bedroom has now become a gay nightclub at high noon. If only there were bald shirtless men dancing all around me...
I crawl to the door like a martyr caught in the desert: my throat is parched, my eyes are glossy, and I have very little coordination. I slowly reach for the doorknob...
As the door cracks open; Justin Timberlake fills the air -- decibel 14. I have to momentarily plug my ears until I get used to the intensity. I crawl through the door: hands and knees slowly creeping towards the end of the hallway. I peek my head around the corner to see just what the hell is actually going on.
As if there is any real surprise at this point...
"Daaaahteee thaaaang" Consuela sings at the top of her lungs. I slug my way towards the top of the landing; and look over. There she is, having single handedly turned my front entrance way into a bastardized opera house -- or better yet; a karaoke container. Her fat ass swings back and forth defying the laws of gravity as she mops the floor.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" I scream at her with all my might -- but I'm no match for the music that is blaring all around me. She can't hear me. Why the hell did I ever get surround sound in my friggen walls?
I slink slowly down the stairs like a wounded animal on it's last leg looking for a bush to die under. One hand. One knee. I try to keep the nausea at bay...
She begins to scream even louder; "AYY Let YOU WHIP me if I Mis beeehave!"
I start to plan just how I'm going to murder her if I ever do get down these damn stairs. I keep slinking. The bass has now matched the intensity of my pounding headache. I am fully aware that if I do not put an end to it; I may just suffer from a terrible aneurysm. Two more steps...
"CON-SU-EYYYY-LA!" I scream while Justin takes them to the chorus. I can't be heard over the music. And she still hasn't turned around. I pause to catch my breath. I'm completely immersed in some audio version of hell -- and for the moment there is no escape. I try to go to my happy place -- but it has been replaced by nausea. I fear this might be the end for poor Consuela.
When I get to the bottom of the stairs, I try to stand. My knees are weak -- but I can do it. I step closer to her, all the while holding one temple in hopes that some sort of tactile pressure will alleviate the searing pain.
I walk past a mirror and take a moment to reflect. I look like a two dollar whore; eye makeup running all down the front of my face. My hair more tasseled than Bananarama. All I need is a butterfly clip and ripped stockings to complete the look. If I hadn't bathed yesterday, I'd probably smell like a dirty whore too. Must remember to wash face before passing out...
"CONSUELLLLLLLLA!" I scream again. This time she turns around -- and smiles. She continues to swing her ass back and forth while dancing to JT. I gather all my might and take a step towards her, arms flexed and ready to choke her -- when I slip. And land flat on my back. And crack my head.
"Ahhhhhh!" I wail, trying to hold in the nausea. Tears begin to form out of frustration. Consuela stands over me and says the obvious, "MIa, yer should be careful! Da floor iz whet!"
I close my eyes for a second and take a deep breath. I've been awake for exactly 3 minutes. I give her the 'I'm not fucking around' look and signal with one hand for her to turn off the music. She looks astonished -- but complies. She looms over me again.
"Good morning?" she asks me. I don't think she knows how to play the situation at this point. I try to be cordial and bury any hatred that I may have felt due to intense torture.
"Good morning, Consuela" I say. She offers her hand to help me up; but I wave her away. I have to approach changing altitude with delicate precision. One wrong move and my head could very well explode.
"Consuela," I whisper from my parched mouth. "I need you to keep the music down this morning."
"OK" she says. There's no argument. "You go back to da bed? Yer want me to bring da water or da empanada?"
I tell her yes. Water good. Greasy food, good. I turn my back and begin to slip my way across the freshly mopped landing towards the stairs. The smell of pine scented cleaner begins to burn my eyes and my nausea has seeped into my bones. I place one hand on the bottom step like a wounded dog; and slowly slink my way back to my cave -- to rest for just a little while longer.
The bass reverberates throughout the walls and my bedroom has now become a gay nightclub at high noon. If only there were bald shirtless men dancing all around me...
I crawl to the door like a martyr caught in the desert: my throat is parched, my eyes are glossy, and I have very little coordination. I slowly reach for the doorknob...
As the door cracks open; Justin Timberlake fills the air -- decibel 14. I have to momentarily plug my ears until I get used to the intensity. I crawl through the door: hands and knees slowly creeping towards the end of the hallway. I peek my head around the corner to see just what the hell is actually going on.
As if there is any real surprise at this point...
"Daaaahteee thaaaang" Consuela sings at the top of her lungs. I slug my way towards the top of the landing; and look over. There she is, having single handedly turned my front entrance way into a bastardized opera house -- or better yet; a karaoke container. Her fat ass swings back and forth defying the laws of gravity as she mops the floor.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" I scream at her with all my might -- but I'm no match for the music that is blaring all around me. She can't hear me. Why the hell did I ever get surround sound in my friggen walls?
I slink slowly down the stairs like a wounded animal on it's last leg looking for a bush to die under. One hand. One knee. I try to keep the nausea at bay...
She begins to scream even louder; "AYY Let YOU WHIP me if I Mis beeehave!"
I start to plan just how I'm going to murder her if I ever do get down these damn stairs. I keep slinking. The bass has now matched the intensity of my pounding headache. I am fully aware that if I do not put an end to it; I may just suffer from a terrible aneurysm. Two more steps...
"CON-SU-EYYYY-LA!" I scream while Justin takes them to the chorus. I can't be heard over the music. And she still hasn't turned around. I pause to catch my breath. I'm completely immersed in some audio version of hell -- and for the moment there is no escape. I try to go to my happy place -- but it has been replaced by nausea. I fear this might be the end for poor Consuela.
When I get to the bottom of the stairs, I try to stand. My knees are weak -- but I can do it. I step closer to her, all the while holding one temple in hopes that some sort of tactile pressure will alleviate the searing pain.
I walk past a mirror and take a moment to reflect. I look like a two dollar whore; eye makeup running all down the front of my face. My hair more tasseled than Bananarama. All I need is a butterfly clip and ripped stockings to complete the look. If I hadn't bathed yesterday, I'd probably smell like a dirty whore too. Must remember to wash face before passing out...
"CONSUELLLLLLLLA!" I scream again. This time she turns around -- and smiles. She continues to swing her ass back and forth while dancing to JT. I gather all my might and take a step towards her, arms flexed and ready to choke her -- when I slip. And land flat on my back. And crack my head.
"Ahhhhhh!" I wail, trying to hold in the nausea. Tears begin to form out of frustration. Consuela stands over me and says the obvious, "MIa, yer should be careful! Da floor iz whet!"
I close my eyes for a second and take a deep breath. I've been awake for exactly 3 minutes. I give her the 'I'm not fucking around' look and signal with one hand for her to turn off the music. She looks astonished -- but complies. She looms over me again.
"Good morning?" she asks me. I don't think she knows how to play the situation at this point. I try to be cordial and bury any hatred that I may have felt due to intense torture.
"Good morning, Consuela" I say. She offers her hand to help me up; but I wave her away. I have to approach changing altitude with delicate precision. One wrong move and my head could very well explode.
"Consuela," I whisper from my parched mouth. "I need you to keep the music down this morning."
"OK" she says. There's no argument. "You go back to da bed? Yer want me to bring da water or da empanada?"
I tell her yes. Water good. Greasy food, good. I turn my back and begin to slip my way across the freshly mopped landing towards the stairs. The smell of pine scented cleaner begins to burn my eyes and my nausea has seeped into my bones. I place one hand on the bottom step like a wounded dog; and slowly slink my way back to my cave -- to rest for just a little while longer.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Cat Fight
"Consuela get the hose!" I scream as I run outside, determined to wash these little bastards off my lawn once and for all. They woke me up at 3am with their shenanigans; and so now...now, I'm playing tough.
How many times have I told Gwen to keep her slutty cat off my friggen lawn? Does she listen? I know she has her hands busy with a couple of young kids -- and in all fairness to her, I think she might actually be on tour; but her stupid cat is officially driving me crazy.
"Relaaaaax, Mia" Consuela says non chalantly, as she swaggers towards me from beside the house. She's a little too calm for the current level of excitement -- which can only mean that Jose the Gardiner and her have been smoking the ganga again.
"Give me that!" I snap at her and yank the hose away from her chubby little hands. She smiles at me; completely relaxed. I hate it when she's stoned.
I march over towards the cats that are jack rabbiting back and forth across my lawn. Cats in heat are the worst: the screaming and shrieking is intolerable, not to mention they've managed to knock over everything in their path. These little shitheads have already ruined some of my zen garden; which by the way I had blessed by a Taoist Monk just last week.
"Turn on the friggen water, NOW!" I scream at Consuela who is too stoned to figure out just exactly why I'm standing there helpless with a hose in my hands.
She smiles at me and saunters over to the tap on the side of the house. A minute later....the water finally trickles out. By now the cats have completely ruined one of my Japanese maple tree saplings that I had Jose put in a few days ago. Where the hell is Jose? He should be doing this...
"MORE!" I scream at Consuela. How the hell am I suppose to wash these little bastards off my lawn with a slight drizzle?
Eons pass while Consuela takes her sweet ass time increasing the water pressure. The female cat makes eye contact with me. She's helpless. I feel sorry for her. I read somewhere that the reason the females resist is that the males basically perform the equivalence of a rape on them -- and if that wasn't bad enough; the males have some sort of thorns that jet out of their penis in order to keep it in place.
I shudder at the thought. On some quasi-metaphoric level, I suppose we've all been jabbed with thorn while we were reaching for a rose; but, regardless of how I might feel for her -- she's ruining my lawn in the process. A lawn that I've dreamt about for years. And, I'm not about to let some spoiled snotty cat that lives next door ruin my zen. I've worked hard for zen! Zen doesn't come easy!!!
"Turn the bloody nozzle!!!" I scream at Consuela. My throat vibrates and I can feel my tonsils hitting the back of my throat. I am LIVID.
The cats begin to gain more momentum. They become a blur of fur as they bounce back and forth across my lawn. Saplings snap. Flower beds become ruined. Just as they switch direction and start to tumble towards me; the water gushes out.
"Take that!" I scream maniacally -- still angry from being woken up at 3am from their horny escapades. They scream like Vampires being exposed to daylight; but I don't care. They need to romp on their own damn lawn.
I continue to focus my spray on them until the male cat releases his grip and the female sprints away. She has a 4 second lead before he starts to chase her again.
I stand there out of breath, the water gushing from my hose and my front lawn in complete turmoil. There is nothing zen about my garden at the moment. I signal to Consuela to turn off the hose; which she does rather promptly -- and walk around to survey the mess. So much for the bed of calla lilies. Most of their stems are broken. I think they might be beyond repair. Rocks from the zen garden are scattered everywhere. My Japanese maple will need some serious TLC to bring it back to life.
"Morning!"
Oh no! I hear that ever definable voice from just beyond the front gate. I can already feel the sarcastic smile burning into my back. Go away...Go away...I say quietly to myself. I pretend I don't hear him -- maybe he'll keep walking. I'm just not really in the mood for -
"Change your mind about your garden?" he snipes, sure -- it's funny when you watch it on HBO. In real life; not so friggen amusing.
"Ha ha. You should write comedy." I say half-assed, and turn around. There he is, bald head glistening in the sun. White teeth grinning from ear to ear. I decide to be cordial and walk down the driveway towards the gate -- after all, we're neighbors. I should be neighborly, right?
"Morning Larry," I say as I near the gate.
"Seems to me you need to hire a new Gardiner -- I can recommend one if you like!" he says. He's way too perky for this time in the morning. But then again, he's Larry David. Who says money can't buy you happiness?
"Actually, what I really need is a neighbor who's cat isn't the street slut. She seems to think my front lawn is a kitty brothel," I stammer. I'm still rushing with adrenaline from the whole incident.
"Ah..." he says, all the while smiling. "A kitty brothel. Welcome to the Pussy Palace. I like that!" he laughs.
He would.
"I need to find my Gardiner," I say and turn away. Consuela is nowhere in sight, so I can only imagine that her and Jose are hot-boxing the pool house this very moment.
"Ok, then. Have a good one!" he says and continues his morning walk down the street.
"See ya, Larry!" I say as I head to the back of the house to find Cheech & Chong -- wherever they are at. I can already tell what kind of morning this is going to be...
How many times have I told Gwen to keep her slutty cat off my friggen lawn? Does she listen? I know she has her hands busy with a couple of young kids -- and in all fairness to her, I think she might actually be on tour; but her stupid cat is officially driving me crazy.
"Relaaaaax, Mia" Consuela says non chalantly, as she swaggers towards me from beside the house. She's a little too calm for the current level of excitement -- which can only mean that Jose the Gardiner and her have been smoking the ganga again.
"Give me that!" I snap at her and yank the hose away from her chubby little hands. She smiles at me; completely relaxed. I hate it when she's stoned.
I march over towards the cats that are jack rabbiting back and forth across my lawn. Cats in heat are the worst: the screaming and shrieking is intolerable, not to mention they've managed to knock over everything in their path. These little shitheads have already ruined some of my zen garden; which by the way I had blessed by a Taoist Monk just last week.
"Turn on the friggen water, NOW!" I scream at Consuela who is too stoned to figure out just exactly why I'm standing there helpless with a hose in my hands.
She smiles at me and saunters over to the tap on the side of the house. A minute later....the water finally trickles out. By now the cats have completely ruined one of my Japanese maple tree saplings that I had Jose put in a few days ago. Where the hell is Jose? He should be doing this...
"MORE!" I scream at Consuela. How the hell am I suppose to wash these little bastards off my lawn with a slight drizzle?
Eons pass while Consuela takes her sweet ass time increasing the water pressure. The female cat makes eye contact with me. She's helpless. I feel sorry for her. I read somewhere that the reason the females resist is that the males basically perform the equivalence of a rape on them -- and if that wasn't bad enough; the males have some sort of thorns that jet out of their penis in order to keep it in place.
I shudder at the thought. On some quasi-metaphoric level, I suppose we've all been jabbed with thorn while we were reaching for a rose; but, regardless of how I might feel for her -- she's ruining my lawn in the process. A lawn that I've dreamt about for years. And, I'm not about to let some spoiled snotty cat that lives next door ruin my zen. I've worked hard for zen! Zen doesn't come easy!!!
"Turn the bloody nozzle!!!" I scream at Consuela. My throat vibrates and I can feel my tonsils hitting the back of my throat. I am LIVID.
The cats begin to gain more momentum. They become a blur of fur as they bounce back and forth across my lawn. Saplings snap. Flower beds become ruined. Just as they switch direction and start to tumble towards me; the water gushes out.
"Take that!" I scream maniacally -- still angry from being woken up at 3am from their horny escapades. They scream like Vampires being exposed to daylight; but I don't care. They need to romp on their own damn lawn.
I continue to focus my spray on them until the male cat releases his grip and the female sprints away. She has a 4 second lead before he starts to chase her again.
I stand there out of breath, the water gushing from my hose and my front lawn in complete turmoil. There is nothing zen about my garden at the moment. I signal to Consuela to turn off the hose; which she does rather promptly -- and walk around to survey the mess. So much for the bed of calla lilies. Most of their stems are broken. I think they might be beyond repair. Rocks from the zen garden are scattered everywhere. My Japanese maple will need some serious TLC to bring it back to life.
"Morning!"
Oh no! I hear that ever definable voice from just beyond the front gate. I can already feel the sarcastic smile burning into my back. Go away...Go away...I say quietly to myself. I pretend I don't hear him -- maybe he'll keep walking. I'm just not really in the mood for -
"Change your mind about your garden?" he snipes, sure -- it's funny when you watch it on HBO. In real life; not so friggen amusing.
"Ha ha. You should write comedy." I say half-assed, and turn around. There he is, bald head glistening in the sun. White teeth grinning from ear to ear. I decide to be cordial and walk down the driveway towards the gate -- after all, we're neighbors. I should be neighborly, right?
"Morning Larry," I say as I near the gate.
"Seems to me you need to hire a new Gardiner -- I can recommend one if you like!" he says. He's way too perky for this time in the morning. But then again, he's Larry David. Who says money can't buy you happiness?
"Actually, what I really need is a neighbor who's cat isn't the street slut. She seems to think my front lawn is a kitty brothel," I stammer. I'm still rushing with adrenaline from the whole incident.
"Ah..." he says, all the while smiling. "A kitty brothel. Welcome to the Pussy Palace. I like that!" he laughs.
He would.
"I need to find my Gardiner," I say and turn away. Consuela is nowhere in sight, so I can only imagine that her and Jose are hot-boxing the pool house this very moment.
"Ok, then. Have a good one!" he says and continues his morning walk down the street.
"See ya, Larry!" I say as I head to the back of the house to find Cheech & Chong -- wherever they are at. I can already tell what kind of morning this is going to be...
Monday, June 22, 2009
Impervious Me
I can't think of anything to write today... or maybe it's just because the weather is too nice for me to want to sit inside. Or maybe I'm lonely...
My mind starts to flip through various encounters and dinner conversations; but none of them really spark an interest. I'm unmotivated.
La di da...
I strum my fingers for a few minutes and hope that divine inspiration will hit.
Dum dee dum...
I stand up and start to inspect the dust in and around my place...maybe I should dust? Or maybe I should sit my lazy ass back in this chair and pound out a few more pages...
Sigh.
I didn't want to be a writer when I was younger -- I think I tried just about everything else: painter, dancer, singer, ultimate princess -- but the words just came to me really easily. Everyone loved my stories. It became an organic extension of who I was -- or who I was suppose to be; at some point -- should I ever make the time for it.
Dum dee dum...
I start to look around for a distraction. Consuela has the day off; so I can't bug her.
I think about all the movie ideas and episodes that float around in my head -- that I have yet to put to paper. They're held back -- ready to gush out any second; should the dam ever break...or crack.
The hardest part about being a writer is the forced internment you have to go through. The creative process can be very isolating. In order to write about one world -- you essentially have to tune out your own. Hours slip into days. Days into weeks. Weeks into months. The seasons flash by in an instant. All the while you remain static. At your laptop. In your pyjamas. Writing.
I think about all the people I've ever met; and how they somehow end up in one aspect or another being in my stories. It's funny how it happens. A simple conversation that you just happen to overhear one day becomes the opening scene in a movie -- or a cliffhanger right before commercial. It's amazing how I actually have room to store all this information in my head -- but I do.
I guess, each of us is more or less made, or more accurately created, to be or do something. And maybe part of the journey is recognizing that yearning in your heart to reconnect with who, or what you really are -- whatever that may be.
I'm starting to believe that my life will start to accurately reflect the dreams in my heart -- once my heart is effectively working the way it was designed to. Instead of looking to external forces to fill the gap; relationships, possessions, experiences -- I can fill the gap myself (by writing) and thus, be less needy to have the outside world validate the emptiness that was once inside me.
I'm embracing the truth of who I really am -- and believing that the universe will begin to comply, now that I've unlocked part of my own personal mystery.
So I write. Everyday. No matter what. Because it makes my heart happy. Because it is truth.
A funny thing has started to happen in doing so. As the fallacy of who I thought I was begins to fade away; I see the world more clearly. Mundane encounters become points of inspiration. Stagnant friendships have begun to breathe a new vibrancy. Relationships, and those around me, become richer.
Because, I am richer. Every day, investing in the truth of who I am -- solidifying a yearning in my heart to be, and essentially, becoming a more active participant in my own life. Ready, willing, and able to engage -- whatever the circumstance may be.
Because I'm me. Unique. Valuable. Important. Loved.
And as I take my next few steps exposed, raw, ready to relay to the world the authentic product of just who and what I am -- the insecurities disappear. I'm confident in the moments -- when they come; and when they don't. Because, regardless of where others are at on their own personal journey -- or how they chose to integrate me into their life; I will always be me. I will always have me. Steadfast. Assured of who I really am. Unfaltering.
I'm impervious.
My mind starts to flip through various encounters and dinner conversations; but none of them really spark an interest. I'm unmotivated.
La di da...
I strum my fingers for a few minutes and hope that divine inspiration will hit.
Dum dee dum...
I stand up and start to inspect the dust in and around my place...maybe I should dust? Or maybe I should sit my lazy ass back in this chair and pound out a few more pages...
Sigh.
I didn't want to be a writer when I was younger -- I think I tried just about everything else: painter, dancer, singer, ultimate princess -- but the words just came to me really easily. Everyone loved my stories. It became an organic extension of who I was -- or who I was suppose to be; at some point -- should I ever make the time for it.
Dum dee dum...
I start to look around for a distraction. Consuela has the day off; so I can't bug her.
I think about all the movie ideas and episodes that float around in my head -- that I have yet to put to paper. They're held back -- ready to gush out any second; should the dam ever break...or crack.
The hardest part about being a writer is the forced internment you have to go through. The creative process can be very isolating. In order to write about one world -- you essentially have to tune out your own. Hours slip into days. Days into weeks. Weeks into months. The seasons flash by in an instant. All the while you remain static. At your laptop. In your pyjamas. Writing.
I think about all the people I've ever met; and how they somehow end up in one aspect or another being in my stories. It's funny how it happens. A simple conversation that you just happen to overhear one day becomes the opening scene in a movie -- or a cliffhanger right before commercial. It's amazing how I actually have room to store all this information in my head -- but I do.
I guess, each of us is more or less made, or more accurately created, to be or do something. And maybe part of the journey is recognizing that yearning in your heart to reconnect with who, or what you really are -- whatever that may be.
I'm starting to believe that my life will start to accurately reflect the dreams in my heart -- once my heart is effectively working the way it was designed to. Instead of looking to external forces to fill the gap; relationships, possessions, experiences -- I can fill the gap myself (by writing) and thus, be less needy to have the outside world validate the emptiness that was once inside me.
I'm embracing the truth of who I really am -- and believing that the universe will begin to comply, now that I've unlocked part of my own personal mystery.
So I write. Everyday. No matter what. Because it makes my heart happy. Because it is truth.
A funny thing has started to happen in doing so. As the fallacy of who I thought I was begins to fade away; I see the world more clearly. Mundane encounters become points of inspiration. Stagnant friendships have begun to breathe a new vibrancy. Relationships, and those around me, become richer.
Because, I am richer. Every day, investing in the truth of who I am -- solidifying a yearning in my heart to be, and essentially, becoming a more active participant in my own life. Ready, willing, and able to engage -- whatever the circumstance may be.
Because I'm me. Unique. Valuable. Important. Loved.
And as I take my next few steps exposed, raw, ready to relay to the world the authentic product of just who and what I am -- the insecurities disappear. I'm confident in the moments -- when they come; and when they don't. Because, regardless of where others are at on their own personal journey -- or how they chose to integrate me into their life; I will always be me. I will always have me. Steadfast. Assured of who I really am. Unfaltering.
I'm impervious.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Breakfast in America
Take a look at my girlfriend...
Supertramp is blasting from the record player. My dad sits there looking at the album cover and taps his foot to the music.
Take a jumbo cross the water...
The sun blazes through the living room windows onto the floor and warms my feet. So I dance. I twirl around and grab my dad's hand; so he can spin me faster.
I'm hoping it's going to come true...
The sound of corn beef frying from the kitchen becomes louder. The salty smell wafts through the air. My mom peeks her head around the corner to check on us.
Supertramp is blasting from the record player. My dad sits there looking at the album cover and taps his foot to the music.
Take a jumbo cross the water...
The sun blazes through the living room windows onto the floor and warms my feet. So I dance. I twirl around and grab my dad's hand; so he can spin me faster.
I'm hoping it's going to come true...
The sound of corn beef frying from the kitchen becomes louder. The salty smell wafts through the air. My mom peeks her head around the corner to check on us.
Mummy dear, Mummy dear...
She's wearing my favourite brown clogs. She smiles at us and waves before popping back into the kitchen.
I'm a winner, I'm a sinner...
My dad starts to make a noise with the fingers in his free hand; I've never seen this before! I stop my twirling to try and copy him -- but I don't have the coordination. He continues to make the noise with his fingers while he shakes his head and taps his feet to the music; *Snap!*
I'm playing my jokes upon you.... *Snap!*
While there's nothing better to do.... *Snap!*
Ooooh! It's my favourite part! I start to laugh and dance even faster.
La da la la. La da la. La da la. Dah la da la. HEY!
La da la la. La da la. La da la. Da dum da dum...
My dad stands, bops my head lightly with the album cover and I continue to squeal and twirl while both my parents put the plates on the table and get ready to eat. My dad hoists me into my highchair and my mom places my bib around me -- Cookie Monster! I love this bib!
I'm hoping it's going to come true...
My mom scoops out the corn beef and scrambled eggs; and we all sit down to eat while Supertramp continues to serenade us in the background.
La da la dah.....
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Saturday morning pedicures
"GGGAhhhhhh", Consuela sighs as her little fat arms flop on either side of her massaging pedicure chair. The Korean woman diligently scrapes away at her horrendous callouses.
I've dragged her here as a treat. My own feet needed some sprucing up after a hard night of dancing -- and I wanted to stay true to my promise to be nicer to Consuela. My hangover is setting in pretty bad; I have a full bottle of Advil beside me, and am nursing my headache with a cold compress. It's harder to party in your thirties.
"Miiiiaaa," Consuela purrs. I lift one corner of my compress to look at her. Her copper bracelets carve into the folds of flesh around her chubby wrists. "Dis izzzzzzzz sooooooo gooooooooood," she utters while entering into a state of bliss; "dis.....izzzzz.....gooooood...." she whispers. I put the compress back over my eyes and lean back into my own massaging chair.
This is good I think to myself. I'm glad she is liking it. I've always taken Consuela for granted so, while I have the time and the energy, I want to invest in her happiness a little.
I think about Consuela and the hard life she's had -- lugging buckets of water up and down the foothills of Bolivia. Living in a hut. Subsisting off larva. I'm so glad she didn't fall off the boat on her way here...
So what if she can't make the beds before noon if her life depended on it? There are a lot of amazing things about Consuela -- like her love of music, her good heart, her crazy dance moves. I'm glad I'm able to celebrate a little bit of Consuela today.
"I'm glad you like it," I say. I have to utter my words slowly and carefully. The wrong movement of my head could cause a wave of nausea to take over.
"Itz soooo gooooood," she coos back.
We've been here over 20 minutes and the Korean lady is still scraping away at Conseula's callouses. My own feet are three or four stages ahead -- I'm at the exfoliating rub. I factor in that I might have to sit around and wait for her a bit longer. It's no matter. I'm not in a rush. The world can wait today. It's Saturday and I have a hangover.
I think about last night...dancing with my friends. Just like the good old days when we were in our 20s and had the energy to go out every night of the week. No wonder I was so skinny back then -- I was dancing off all the calories.
The good ol' days...when you could suck back 10 to 15 vodka cranberries and still have a spring in your step the next morning.
The good ol' days...when life wasn't so complicated. When our worst problems were not being able to bypass a line at a certain club. When loneliness ceased to be able to enter into our pride.
I never used to be susceptible to loneliness -- probably because I was never alone. Even when I was single I was always surrounded by swarms of friends; ready, willing and able to go out and have fun at a moment's notice. It was a time when staying in was not an option.
But, like all things -- the tide eventually changes. And, one by one they got preoccupied with the business of their own lives: jobs that turned into careers; romances that turned into marriage -- then children.
Sigh.
One by one, they all faded away. The phone would ring less and less; and eventually -- entire months would go by before we would be able to get together. I'd see their children at day one, then week three, then four months, then 3 years -- and I would have an inevitable marker as to just how much time has passed since we last saw each other.
The pride disbanded. Not in spirit -- but in practicality. Their lives became more secular. And I became alone.
But not last night, last night was a rare occurrence -- like blue moons; sales at Tiffany's; and men with a conscience. Last night the pride used all the fury of a lioness' roar to band together for a night of drinks, dancing, and fun. Too much fun.
Children were left at home with their fathers or grandparents. Milk was pumped. And, come hell, high water, or sudden ear infection -- we were together, the way we used to be. The way I wish it could be all the time.
But the wave of time never stops moving -- the sands always shift and change sucks you in like a dangerous undertow; you tumble and roll under water -- not knowing which way is up. When you finally kick your way to the surface there is no horizon in sight. You are much farther than you ever intended to be.
I think I'm still caught in the undertow -- I'm not really sure. But last night was fun. And as I pop another Advil; I listen to Consuela coo and enjoy the moment for what it is. Because, like everything else, I know that this too will change at some point.
I've dragged her here as a treat. My own feet needed some sprucing up after a hard night of dancing -- and I wanted to stay true to my promise to be nicer to Consuela. My hangover is setting in pretty bad; I have a full bottle of Advil beside me, and am nursing my headache with a cold compress. It's harder to party in your thirties.
"Miiiiaaa," Consuela purrs. I lift one corner of my compress to look at her. Her copper bracelets carve into the folds of flesh around her chubby wrists. "Dis izzzzzzzz sooooooo gooooooooood," she utters while entering into a state of bliss; "dis.....izzzzz.....gooooood...." she whispers. I put the compress back over my eyes and lean back into my own massaging chair.
This is good I think to myself. I'm glad she is liking it. I've always taken Consuela for granted so, while I have the time and the energy, I want to invest in her happiness a little.
I think about Consuela and the hard life she's had -- lugging buckets of water up and down the foothills of Bolivia. Living in a hut. Subsisting off larva. I'm so glad she didn't fall off the boat on her way here...
So what if she can't make the beds before noon if her life depended on it? There are a lot of amazing things about Consuela -- like her love of music, her good heart, her crazy dance moves. I'm glad I'm able to celebrate a little bit of Consuela today.
"I'm glad you like it," I say. I have to utter my words slowly and carefully. The wrong movement of my head could cause a wave of nausea to take over.
"Itz soooo gooooood," she coos back.
We've been here over 20 minutes and the Korean lady is still scraping away at Conseula's callouses. My own feet are three or four stages ahead -- I'm at the exfoliating rub. I factor in that I might have to sit around and wait for her a bit longer. It's no matter. I'm not in a rush. The world can wait today. It's Saturday and I have a hangover.
I think about last night...dancing with my friends. Just like the good old days when we were in our 20s and had the energy to go out every night of the week. No wonder I was so skinny back then -- I was dancing off all the calories.
The good ol' days...when you could suck back 10 to 15 vodka cranberries and still have a spring in your step the next morning.
The good ol' days...when life wasn't so complicated. When our worst problems were not being able to bypass a line at a certain club. When loneliness ceased to be able to enter into our pride.
I never used to be susceptible to loneliness -- probably because I was never alone. Even when I was single I was always surrounded by swarms of friends; ready, willing and able to go out and have fun at a moment's notice. It was a time when staying in was not an option.
But, like all things -- the tide eventually changes. And, one by one they got preoccupied with the business of their own lives: jobs that turned into careers; romances that turned into marriage -- then children.
Sigh.
One by one, they all faded away. The phone would ring less and less; and eventually -- entire months would go by before we would be able to get together. I'd see their children at day one, then week three, then four months, then 3 years -- and I would have an inevitable marker as to just how much time has passed since we last saw each other.
The pride disbanded. Not in spirit -- but in practicality. Their lives became more secular. And I became alone.
But not last night, last night was a rare occurrence -- like blue moons; sales at Tiffany's; and men with a conscience. Last night the pride used all the fury of a lioness' roar to band together for a night of drinks, dancing, and fun. Too much fun.
Children were left at home with their fathers or grandparents. Milk was pumped. And, come hell, high water, or sudden ear infection -- we were together, the way we used to be. The way I wish it could be all the time.
But the wave of time never stops moving -- the sands always shift and change sucks you in like a dangerous undertow; you tumble and roll under water -- not knowing which way is up. When you finally kick your way to the surface there is no horizon in sight. You are much farther than you ever intended to be.
I think I'm still caught in the undertow -- I'm not really sure. But last night was fun. And as I pop another Advil; I listen to Consuela coo and enjoy the moment for what it is. Because, like everything else, I know that this too will change at some point.
Friday, June 19, 2009
The Divine Exchange
I have a certain bounce in my step this morning as I walk through the park en route to my gym. I feel light and free. My heart is pumping in its most efficient capacity. I have started to reconnect with who I really am.
As I turn the corner I see him: he is part of my existence but not part of my world. There he is sleeping on a bench; knees brought to his chest in the fetal position. As I approach I notice that both his eyes are swollen from a night of crying -- and his nose is broken. Caked blood sticks to his dirty face, but that is the least of his problems.
I see this homeless man almost every day. Usually he sits quite drunk either in the park, or in front of McDonalds. He's always happy. Always singing. He smiles at me every time I pass him. He always gives to me whatever he has to offer; and I always give him nothing.
But this morning is different. This morning, a part of me has healed, and without the nooses of anxiety, depression, or despair around my heart -- I am able to dig within myself and give something back.
He breaks my heart, lying there -- defeated and swallowed up by a lifetime of lies and disappointment. Upon closer inspection I see that there are many black cords around his neck and arms. I want to grab his hand and run -- but I know that it will only yank the cords tighter; and, because he is caught in a web of deception, he may suffocate and die.
So, I approach with caution.
As I tip toe nearer to him, I start to think how wonderful this man's heart must really be. His heart must be full of unlimited power and potential -- for look how many cords the demons use to keep him down. They are near a dozen nooses around his neck used to block off the message from his heart to his head; that he is good, and worthy. The nooses inhibit the truth of who he really is and allows the devil to make a playground of his thoughts -- all negative and self-deprecating of course.
And the world, up until now, has validated every lie this man has ever been whispered.
But I see the truth of who he is. I look past the material and into the supernatural to know that he, like myself, are equals in this world. We both come from the same place -- and we both are on a journey to discover our true potential. By virtue of the fact that he was born and that he breathes, his human heart can prevail. No matter how tight the nooses become around his neck, his heart continues to pump -- always hoping that the message of who he really is, can and will reach him.
I reach into my pocket and look in the little change purse that I have. There are some pennies, and a folded up $10 bill that I was going to use for some groceries. Even though money is tight, I hand the bill to him because I want him to understand that he isn't going unnoticed. Not today. And not by me.
One of his demons tries to yell impetuous thoughts my way; but they whiz by me.
He'll only use the money for drugs...
He's a drunk...
Just give him the pennies...
I have no nooses around me today -- and so, even though I hear those nasty thoughts, they don't resonate inside of me or stop me from what I am about to do. I hand him the money because, regardless of how he chooses to use it, a greater good is occurring. Someone reached out to him today. Someone reminded him with a simple transaction, that he did matter. And, as the bill passed from my hand to his, I watched the tears form in his eyes -- and his nooses loosened a little. Some good thoughts were now being pumped from his heart to his head. The demons would have a tougher time with him today.
"Thank you," he whispers -- and even though he is in immense pain, he manages to form a half (but genuine) smile.
"My pleasure," I tell him; and turn to walk away.
A simple transaction. On the surface it may have seemed like a lonely girl giving money to a bum; but underneath there were more powerful forces involved. Underneath the simple act of giving became a divine exchange. The good from me poured into him and reminded him (for an instant) of the truth of who he really is: a box of hidden potentials, should he choose to fight his demons and embrace his destiny. In the natural world it was a transaction of money; but in the supernatural world it was a contagious exchange of compassion and kindness. It opened up a small road of goodness to flow into and through him; and thus began to weave us all together as we were originally created to be.
And so, I hopped away from my good deed -- because to help him helps myself; helps all of us. It strengthens an inner truth in all things good, and makes us stronger for the world at large.
As I turn the corner I see him: he is part of my existence but not part of my world. There he is sleeping on a bench; knees brought to his chest in the fetal position. As I approach I notice that both his eyes are swollen from a night of crying -- and his nose is broken. Caked blood sticks to his dirty face, but that is the least of his problems.
I see this homeless man almost every day. Usually he sits quite drunk either in the park, or in front of McDonalds. He's always happy. Always singing. He smiles at me every time I pass him. He always gives to me whatever he has to offer; and I always give him nothing.
But this morning is different. This morning, a part of me has healed, and without the nooses of anxiety, depression, or despair around my heart -- I am able to dig within myself and give something back.
He breaks my heart, lying there -- defeated and swallowed up by a lifetime of lies and disappointment. Upon closer inspection I see that there are many black cords around his neck and arms. I want to grab his hand and run -- but I know that it will only yank the cords tighter; and, because he is caught in a web of deception, he may suffocate and die.
So, I approach with caution.
As I tip toe nearer to him, I start to think how wonderful this man's heart must really be. His heart must be full of unlimited power and potential -- for look how many cords the demons use to keep him down. They are near a dozen nooses around his neck used to block off the message from his heart to his head; that he is good, and worthy. The nooses inhibit the truth of who he really is and allows the devil to make a playground of his thoughts -- all negative and self-deprecating of course.
And the world, up until now, has validated every lie this man has ever been whispered.
But I see the truth of who he is. I look past the material and into the supernatural to know that he, like myself, are equals in this world. We both come from the same place -- and we both are on a journey to discover our true potential. By virtue of the fact that he was born and that he breathes, his human heart can prevail. No matter how tight the nooses become around his neck, his heart continues to pump -- always hoping that the message of who he really is, can and will reach him.
I reach into my pocket and look in the little change purse that I have. There are some pennies, and a folded up $10 bill that I was going to use for some groceries. Even though money is tight, I hand the bill to him because I want him to understand that he isn't going unnoticed. Not today. And not by me.
One of his demons tries to yell impetuous thoughts my way; but they whiz by me.
He'll only use the money for drugs...
He's a drunk...
Just give him the pennies...
I have no nooses around me today -- and so, even though I hear those nasty thoughts, they don't resonate inside of me or stop me from what I am about to do. I hand him the money because, regardless of how he chooses to use it, a greater good is occurring. Someone reached out to him today. Someone reminded him with a simple transaction, that he did matter. And, as the bill passed from my hand to his, I watched the tears form in his eyes -- and his nooses loosened a little. Some good thoughts were now being pumped from his heart to his head. The demons would have a tougher time with him today.
"Thank you," he whispers -- and even though he is in immense pain, he manages to form a half (but genuine) smile.
"My pleasure," I tell him; and turn to walk away.
A simple transaction. On the surface it may have seemed like a lonely girl giving money to a bum; but underneath there were more powerful forces involved. Underneath the simple act of giving became a divine exchange. The good from me poured into him and reminded him (for an instant) of the truth of who he really is: a box of hidden potentials, should he choose to fight his demons and embrace his destiny. In the natural world it was a transaction of money; but in the supernatural world it was a contagious exchange of compassion and kindness. It opened up a small road of goodness to flow into and through him; and thus began to weave us all together as we were originally created to be.
And so, I hopped away from my good deed -- because to help him helps myself; helps all of us. It strengthens an inner truth in all things good, and makes us stronger for the world at large.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
The Gates of Hell
I'm standing at the Gates of Hell. I knew this would happen...
"Nice Blog," the Devil hisses at me. He floats around me; and like a two-sided hologram he changes back and forth between serpent and hominoid. "Just what did you think you would accomplish with it?" he snarls.
"Everything," I say as brave as I can. I'm trying to remain focused because he feeds on fear.
"Oh, really!" he laughs, "What makes you so certain?"
I pause, and then say "Well, I must be doing something right. After all, you showed your ugly face, didn't you?"
He doesn't like my snarkiness, but I don't care.
"You," he continues as he whirls around me slowly, "You are beginning to annoy me."
"Good," I say, "the feeling is mutual". I'm trying not to take in the landscape. It's dark; and desolate. I think there are black mountains in the distance. The ground is a tar-like muck, and that is why I can not move from the spot that I'm in.
He hisses in my face, but I don't look away. "I'm not scared of you" I say, "in fact, I think you're pathetic."
He tilts his head back and roars with the fury of a dinosaur. The ground shakes. He is obviously sensitive to insult.
Thwwomp.
I'm now pinned against the gates and my back is beginning to melt from the heat coming from the iron rods. I wince from the pain.
"Not so mouthy now, are we?" he snarls.
"I'll never stoop to your level," I say to him. He brings his face close to mine. I can smell death on his breath. The despair of millions creates an inferno in the centre of his eyes.
"You're nothing," he hisses, "a pathetic loser that nobody loves; and nobody will ever love. You're worthless. You are going no where in life. You are ugly."
I can feel the anxiety start to build up inside me as it has so many times before when those words have gone through my head. I take a deep breath; and let my sense of humour kick in as an act of deflection from the immense pain he has put me under.
"Don't you ever get tired of it?" I say, with full confidence. I don't break my glare. I am not going to let him get to me this time. "You know, having only one card to play all the time: lying to people. Making them doubt what they are capable of for your own selfish pleasure? You've been doing this since the beginning of time -- I just thought that you would maybe come up with something better than that by now. After all, you and I both know - the truth always defeats a lie. And the truth is, you are no match for me; because I am a better person than you will ever be. I am better because I care about other people -- I'm not selfish and self-absorbed like you; festering in misery and hatred and enticing people to join you to validate your pathetic existence" I take a breath, "I feel sorry for you because your days are numbered".
"Enough!" he screams in full agitation.
The heat on the gates increases and I can smell my flesh starting to burn. He brings his face closer to mine and opens his mouth to speak, when I interrupt and say "there are some breath mints in my pocket".
Fire shoots out of his mouth and singes off some of my hair. He reminds me of a bull. Angry and ready to attack. He raises his arm; claws glistening from the reflection of the fires around us, like raw obsidian in a lava pit. I brace myself for impact when --
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!" Consuela screams and lunges at him full force knocking him down with her swiffer.
She begins to kick him to the ground. Her chubby legs working faster than Bruce Lee. "AAHHAHAHHAHHAH!!!" she screams like a madwomen released from some asylum. "AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH! YOU STEY AWAY FROM MIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAA!" she begins to beat him to a pulp with her swiffer. My 4'8" Guatamalan housekeeper is single-handedly beating up The Prince of Darkness -- and well.
I stand there amazed, my jaw drops lower than it ever has in my life. I watch with full dismay and awe as she begins to break his arms and legs, all the while screaming "I KILL YOU! I KILL YOU!" When he finally passes out, she walks over to me. The heat on my back disappears, my flesh instantly heals. My anxiety fades away. I fall to my knees.
"Consuela!" I say almost breathless, "How did you find me here?"
"You no mind, Mia. Consuela iz here to take you home!" she helps me to my feet. I give her a big kiss on the forehead, and use her as leverage to help me walk away. I'm still weak from the mental battle. It's hard to kick the Devil out of your head sometimes.
We're not 3 or 4 meters away when we begin to hear him laugh his evil cackle. My heart sinks from the sound. I try to shake off any fear before it nestles in my heart; but before I have a chance to process what is about to happen he speaks:
"Go on, walk away. It doesn't matter what you do. I'll make sure they all think you are crazy." he says and continues to laugh.
Without missing a beat, Consuela kicks off her dollar store slippers and; using the velocity of her speed to form traction with the mud, her fat little legs race back towards him. She uses her swiffer as a pole vault and with expert precision she lands in his crotch using all 200lbs of herself to create a sharp and deadly angle with the balls of her heels.
Satan screams in agony, and as he opens his mouth Consuela does a one-two high chop kick with both her feet and knocks out all his teeth. Blood pours from his mouth and puddles around his broken fangs that now lay on the ground. She pins his neck with her swiffer and says in her scariest voice, "Yer shut yer mouth asshole!"
He cowers under her. He is no match for the unconditional love that she has for me. When it is clear that he is not going to bother us again, she returns to my side. Together we hobble away. I'm just about to commend her on her bravery when --
A demon jumps in front of us. He glares at us, steam coming from his bull-like nostrils. He tilts his head back and screams with all the fury of hell. Just when I think that we might be done for, he bends on one knee... and bows to Consuela. A white light starts to glow from within his chest and before my eyes I watch as his sinewy bat-like wings begin to grow white feathers. Tears pour out of his eyes as they turn from black to blue. His lizard-like skin begins to take a translucent form. A white light breaks from the black clouds and he begins to ascend to Heaven. The two cords he was previously holding snap as he rises. Each cord was a bondage that he held over two people on earth: a 7 year old boy that no longer will grow up to be a pedophile; and a 38 year old woman that will not kill herself tonight. The black cords disintegrate before they hit the ground and I realize in awe the powerful affect that the love for ourselves and the love for others can actually have in this world.
"Consuela," I say almost breathless, "You just did the most amazing thing!"
She wraps her arms around me and nestles her head just below my chest, "I love you Mia," she says, "An nobody iz gonna stop me from lovin you - even dat asshole, ok?"
"OK," I say. I have the hugest smile on my face -- because I know without a shadow of a doubt, that everything really is going to be better than I could have possibly imagined.
"Nice Blog," the Devil hisses at me. He floats around me; and like a two-sided hologram he changes back and forth between serpent and hominoid. "Just what did you think you would accomplish with it?" he snarls.
"Everything," I say as brave as I can. I'm trying to remain focused because he feeds on fear.
"Oh, really!" he laughs, "What makes you so certain?"
I pause, and then say "Well, I must be doing something right. After all, you showed your ugly face, didn't you?"
He doesn't like my snarkiness, but I don't care.
"You," he continues as he whirls around me slowly, "You are beginning to annoy me."
"Good," I say, "the feeling is mutual". I'm trying not to take in the landscape. It's dark; and desolate. I think there are black mountains in the distance. The ground is a tar-like muck, and that is why I can not move from the spot that I'm in.
He hisses in my face, but I don't look away. "I'm not scared of you" I say, "in fact, I think you're pathetic."
He tilts his head back and roars with the fury of a dinosaur. The ground shakes. He is obviously sensitive to insult.
Thwwomp.
I'm now pinned against the gates and my back is beginning to melt from the heat coming from the iron rods. I wince from the pain.
"Not so mouthy now, are we?" he snarls.
"I'll never stoop to your level," I say to him. He brings his face close to mine. I can smell death on his breath. The despair of millions creates an inferno in the centre of his eyes.
"You're nothing," he hisses, "a pathetic loser that nobody loves; and nobody will ever love. You're worthless. You are going no where in life. You are ugly."
I can feel the anxiety start to build up inside me as it has so many times before when those words have gone through my head. I take a deep breath; and let my sense of humour kick in as an act of deflection from the immense pain he has put me under.
"Don't you ever get tired of it?" I say, with full confidence. I don't break my glare. I am not going to let him get to me this time. "You know, having only one card to play all the time: lying to people. Making them doubt what they are capable of for your own selfish pleasure? You've been doing this since the beginning of time -- I just thought that you would maybe come up with something better than that by now. After all, you and I both know - the truth always defeats a lie. And the truth is, you are no match for me; because I am a better person than you will ever be. I am better because I care about other people -- I'm not selfish and self-absorbed like you; festering in misery and hatred and enticing people to join you to validate your pathetic existence" I take a breath, "I feel sorry for you because your days are numbered".
"Enough!" he screams in full agitation.
The heat on the gates increases and I can smell my flesh starting to burn. He brings his face closer to mine and opens his mouth to speak, when I interrupt and say "there are some breath mints in my pocket".
Fire shoots out of his mouth and singes off some of my hair. He reminds me of a bull. Angry and ready to attack. He raises his arm; claws glistening from the reflection of the fires around us, like raw obsidian in a lava pit. I brace myself for impact when --
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!" Consuela screams and lunges at him full force knocking him down with her swiffer.
She begins to kick him to the ground. Her chubby legs working faster than Bruce Lee. "AAHHAHAHHAHHAH!!!" she screams like a madwomen released from some asylum. "AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH! YOU STEY AWAY FROM MIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAA!" she begins to beat him to a pulp with her swiffer. My 4'8" Guatamalan housekeeper is single-handedly beating up The Prince of Darkness -- and well.
I stand there amazed, my jaw drops lower than it ever has in my life. I watch with full dismay and awe as she begins to break his arms and legs, all the while screaming "I KILL YOU! I KILL YOU!" When he finally passes out, she walks over to me. The heat on my back disappears, my flesh instantly heals. My anxiety fades away. I fall to my knees.
"Consuela!" I say almost breathless, "How did you find me here?"
"You no mind, Mia. Consuela iz here to take you home!" she helps me to my feet. I give her a big kiss on the forehead, and use her as leverage to help me walk away. I'm still weak from the mental battle. It's hard to kick the Devil out of your head sometimes.
We're not 3 or 4 meters away when we begin to hear him laugh his evil cackle. My heart sinks from the sound. I try to shake off any fear before it nestles in my heart; but before I have a chance to process what is about to happen he speaks:
"Go on, walk away. It doesn't matter what you do. I'll make sure they all think you are crazy." he says and continues to laugh.
Without missing a beat, Consuela kicks off her dollar store slippers and; using the velocity of her speed to form traction with the mud, her fat little legs race back towards him. She uses her swiffer as a pole vault and with expert precision she lands in his crotch using all 200lbs of herself to create a sharp and deadly angle with the balls of her heels.
Satan screams in agony, and as he opens his mouth Consuela does a one-two high chop kick with both her feet and knocks out all his teeth. Blood pours from his mouth and puddles around his broken fangs that now lay on the ground. She pins his neck with her swiffer and says in her scariest voice, "Yer shut yer mouth asshole!"
He cowers under her. He is no match for the unconditional love that she has for me. When it is clear that he is not going to bother us again, she returns to my side. Together we hobble away. I'm just about to commend her on her bravery when --
A demon jumps in front of us. He glares at us, steam coming from his bull-like nostrils. He tilts his head back and screams with all the fury of hell. Just when I think that we might be done for, he bends on one knee... and bows to Consuela. A white light starts to glow from within his chest and before my eyes I watch as his sinewy bat-like wings begin to grow white feathers. Tears pour out of his eyes as they turn from black to blue. His lizard-like skin begins to take a translucent form. A white light breaks from the black clouds and he begins to ascend to Heaven. The two cords he was previously holding snap as he rises. Each cord was a bondage that he held over two people on earth: a 7 year old boy that no longer will grow up to be a pedophile; and a 38 year old woman that will not kill herself tonight. The black cords disintegrate before they hit the ground and I realize in awe the powerful affect that the love for ourselves and the love for others can actually have in this world.
"Consuela," I say almost breathless, "You just did the most amazing thing!"
She wraps her arms around me and nestles her head just below my chest, "I love you Mia," she says, "An nobody iz gonna stop me from lovin you - even dat asshole, ok?"
"OK," I say. I have the hugest smile on my face -- because I know without a shadow of a doubt, that everything really is going to be better than I could have possibly imagined.
The Love Autistic
I have a theory about autism which I'd like to share. I believe that each of us has a soul; and that all our souls choose at some point to come down to Earth -- for whatever reason. To gain personal insight, to do good for others, or just to visit. The motivation for coming down can range from trite and mundane to prolific -- but there is purpose behind everyone coming here and everyone being here.
We all matter.
Or, more correctly; we all have the potential to matter. A god-given right of passage bestowed to us by the simple fact that we exist -- that we survived birth, took our first breath, and thus gained entry into this world. A bundle of unlimited potential - where all hopes and dreams emanate from and subside.
Ideas reside in us, are fabricated by us, and eventually become tangible representations of the world we live in. Thoughts are extremely powerful -- and at this point in our evolutionary continuum; we only have words and emotions to express them.
So, we must try our best to be conscientious of the power within us.
But many are not. Many are in the dark when it comes to being in touch with the truth of who they are -- the truth of what they are capable of. Many do not rise to the occasion and live up to their potential. Most of us are unaware of what we are truly capable of, because we live in a painted world made up of false experiences. A painted fallacy of hurt, anger, lies, and betrayal -- a fallacy that creates a scab around the inner core of our being. A scab that inhibits us from being the best of who we are meant to be at all times in all circumstances.
I think Austistics know this. I think they choose to come down to Earth, bestowed with their talent, to remind us of who we are -- what we are all capable of. That celestial talent that resides in all of us should we choose to discover it. I think Austics are little warriors -- brave enough to come down; but -- not wanting to fall victim to the brutality of the world and become a scab themselves, they hide within themselves. Safe. Unobtainable. Simple.
Their mission is to share their talent -- too afraid to come out from the barrier they hide themselves behind for fear of getting swallowed up by the pain, hurt, and betrayal that mortality often brings. They're happy because they have one foot nestled in the heavens as their talent pipelines down to them.
Maybe they hope to awaken us all to the truth of our situation? It's unfortunate that their inability to communicate with us the way we understand -- on some level; prohibits us from really getting it. We think there is something wrong with them; when in actuality there is something very wrong with us. WE are the catalyst for withdrawal -- and if every person could operate at their full potential; I don't think we'd see Autism. I don't think they'd be afraid to bear their soul to the world -- because there would be no danger of losing it to darker circumstances.
So they shower us with their talents; their love, and they hope that their simple gestures would in fact wake us up from our Dharmic coma. Maybe their hope is that in waking us up, their walls could be let down too -- and we could enjoy the world as it was meant to be; without fear, pain, hurt, or betrayal.
But for now, society's pendulum swings the wrong way -- garnered by the weight of negativity. Injustices and cruelties are gaining victories where they shouldn't. Scabs are being formed around human hearts where hope and optimism should reside.
So, I use the only talent that I've been given: words -- to express my thoughts. To break out of my own Austism and bravely say to the world: wake up. Wake up like I did. Use the pain to break through the walls of your own scab. Bleed until the wound is clean. And rise once again, whole and pure and ready to fight the good fight -- the way your soul and the universe originally intended it to be.
We all matter.
Or, more correctly; we all have the potential to matter. A god-given right of passage bestowed to us by the simple fact that we exist -- that we survived birth, took our first breath, and thus gained entry into this world. A bundle of unlimited potential - where all hopes and dreams emanate from and subside.
Ideas reside in us, are fabricated by us, and eventually become tangible representations of the world we live in. Thoughts are extremely powerful -- and at this point in our evolutionary continuum; we only have words and emotions to express them.
So, we must try our best to be conscientious of the power within us.
But many are not. Many are in the dark when it comes to being in touch with the truth of who they are -- the truth of what they are capable of. Many do not rise to the occasion and live up to their potential. Most of us are unaware of what we are truly capable of, because we live in a painted world made up of false experiences. A painted fallacy of hurt, anger, lies, and betrayal -- a fallacy that creates a scab around the inner core of our being. A scab that inhibits us from being the best of who we are meant to be at all times in all circumstances.
I think Austistics know this. I think they choose to come down to Earth, bestowed with their talent, to remind us of who we are -- what we are all capable of. That celestial talent that resides in all of us should we choose to discover it. I think Austics are little warriors -- brave enough to come down; but -- not wanting to fall victim to the brutality of the world and become a scab themselves, they hide within themselves. Safe. Unobtainable. Simple.
Their mission is to share their talent -- too afraid to come out from the barrier they hide themselves behind for fear of getting swallowed up by the pain, hurt, and betrayal that mortality often brings. They're happy because they have one foot nestled in the heavens as their talent pipelines down to them.
Maybe they hope to awaken us all to the truth of our situation? It's unfortunate that their inability to communicate with us the way we understand -- on some level; prohibits us from really getting it. We think there is something wrong with them; when in actuality there is something very wrong with us. WE are the catalyst for withdrawal -- and if every person could operate at their full potential; I don't think we'd see Autism. I don't think they'd be afraid to bear their soul to the world -- because there would be no danger of losing it to darker circumstances.
So they shower us with their talents; their love, and they hope that their simple gestures would in fact wake us up from our Dharmic coma. Maybe their hope is that in waking us up, their walls could be let down too -- and we could enjoy the world as it was meant to be; without fear, pain, hurt, or betrayal.
But for now, society's pendulum swings the wrong way -- garnered by the weight of negativity. Injustices and cruelties are gaining victories where they shouldn't. Scabs are being formed around human hearts where hope and optimism should reside.
So, I use the only talent that I've been given: words -- to express my thoughts. To break out of my own Austism and bravely say to the world: wake up. Wake up like I did. Use the pain to break through the walls of your own scab. Bleed until the wound is clean. And rise once again, whole and pure and ready to fight the good fight -- the way your soul and the universe originally intended it to be.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
I'm fine. Really, I'm fine.
"Miiii-yaaah!" Consuela squeals from behind the bathroom door. I stop writing for a moment; on the off-chance that she has defied the laws of quantum physics and fallen into the toilet.
Silence. The toilet flushes. The Lysol sprays for a good minute. The toilet flushes again. The tap turns on to wash her hands (good!) and the door opens.
She shuffles out with an Us Weekly pressed against her chest.
"MIA!" she exclaims, giddy and with a flush of rose on her cheeks from the excitement (or the straining). "MIA! I just red in de magazeen dat de Julia Robertz, she no have a huzbind until she was a 35 years old. And now, she has de huzbind and de tree babies!!!"
Is this what a broken record sounds like? I say to myself quietly. It never ceases to amaze me how concerned Consuela is about my pending spinsterhood.
She brushes past me, gives me a big juicy kiss on my forehead and begins to hum; all the while shuffling around the room -- as if she's dancing with the good news that US Weekly has provided: that there is still hope for me.
"I know," I say rather calmly; trying to mitigate any false hopes she may be conjuring at this very moment in time. I don't have the heart to tell her about all of Julia's near-aisle misses, broken engagements, and one previous divorce.
"Iz good news, no?" Consuela prods. She's standing beside me now. I haven't moved from my desk so she's taken this rare opportunity of a height advantage to get me to agree with her.
"You know what I think good news is...", I start "good news is all the beds made before Jesus y Lilliana comes on in the morning. Good news is you filling up my coffee cup when you see it's empty. Good news is that the man across the street using the jackhammer would suddenly come down with a bout of nausea. That's good news!" I snipe. I'm not really in the mood for Consuela this morning. I haven't even had my second cup of coffee yet -- and the jackhammer right outside my window is slowly driving me insane.
"You are no happy Mia becuz nobody loves you", sulks Consuela as she grabs the swiffer and walks away. I feel bad. Maybe she's right. Maybe I'm just a bitter useless excuse for a human being because I am currently (and hopefully temporarily) lacking a vital component from the essence of our existence. I have no one to build up; and no one to build me up. It's palpable.
I take a break from what I'm writing and head to the kitchen to fill up my coffee cup. I look on the fridge at old photos from years past. I haven't replaced any since digital cameras came into existence. All my memories are locked in the hard drive on my computer. I see younger photos of myself with family and friends.
I am loved...but maybe Consuela has a point. Maybe there is something to her stupid telenovellas that have women and men ripping their hair out for the object of their desire. In the world of telenovellas love is everything -- and only validated by the extent of the betrayal. To love is to be betrayed. I guess it means you risked everything.
But what do I have to risk at this point? Every time I step out of the boat two things happen for certain; a) I sink, and b) I drown. Stepping out of the boat has given me a lot of experience but no real rewards. I can't pour myself into another person, so I pour myself into stories. The characters I create live through me and for me. I've mitigated the circumstances the best way I know how.
I take a sip from my coffee and decide that I should probably go and apologize to Consuela. I start looking for her. It's hard to find her when she isn't watching a telenovella -- and with the jackhammer blaring across the street my powers of perception are a little off-kilter.
"Consuela?" I call her name. "Consuela?"
I turn the corner and there she is; head down, silently sobbing on the corner of an unmade bed. I approach -- throw the cover over and sit down beside her. She won't look at me, so I lightly grab her chin and turn her to face me. Her cheeks are wet from the tears that she hasn't had a chance to sop up. I reach for a tissue and hand it to her. She dabs away at her cheeks, but her eyes are low. She can't face me.
"What's wrong?" I ask her.
"Why duz nobody wanna love you, Mia? It duzint make no sense...", she begins to sob heavily and the only way that I know how to stop the heaving is to wrap my arms around her and pat her hair.
"It's ok, I'm fine. Really, I'm fine" I tell her.
"NO!" she says with the full fever of her beloved telenovella heroines, "NO! Mia, you are NOT fine. You have de broken heart. You have de broken heart!"
There's nothing I can say. She sobs louder than before. I take a deep breath. I didn't realize that my situation was affecting her this much.
"Look at me," I say. She turns begrudgingly. When we're near to making eye contact I continue, "Look, Consuela, I don't know why I haven't met that person yet, but I do know that maybe it's better to have a broken heart and walk away from the wrong person, than to keep a broken heart and stay with them."
I'm not sure if I'm really making any sense to her, "does that make any sense?" I offer as a condolence.
"But Mia, I see you...every day yer broken heart - it makes you angry to me all de time. I don't hear you laugh like before. I worry dat yer broken heart - I worry dat it poison you!" she says and begins to sob even louder.
I grab both her hands, including the one with the tissue that is filled with snot and say, "You know Consuela, sometimes a good thing comes from a broken heart. Sometimes when it heals it becomes better, and stronger. And wouldn't that be nice? Wouldn't that be a wonderful thing? To love someone who really deserves my heart with a better and stronger heart? Don't you think?"
I see that I've offered her some condolence; at least for now. She'll never feel fully content until I'm whole again. But that takes time. So, in the meantime, I'm going to try and make more of a valiant effort to be a bit nicer to her -- because she does worry about me. And maybe, she has good reason to. But I don't have the luxury of getting caught in despair. I have no choice but to heal. To move on. And hope that eventually, when my heart is stronger -- that the right person will come along.
Silence. The toilet flushes. The Lysol sprays for a good minute. The toilet flushes again. The tap turns on to wash her hands (good!) and the door opens.
She shuffles out with an Us Weekly pressed against her chest.
"MIA!" she exclaims, giddy and with a flush of rose on her cheeks from the excitement (or the straining). "MIA! I just red in de magazeen dat de Julia Robertz, she no have a huzbind until she was a 35 years old. And now, she has de huzbind and de tree babies!!!"
Is this what a broken record sounds like? I say to myself quietly. It never ceases to amaze me how concerned Consuela is about my pending spinsterhood.
She brushes past me, gives me a big juicy kiss on my forehead and begins to hum; all the while shuffling around the room -- as if she's dancing with the good news that US Weekly has provided: that there is still hope for me.
"I know," I say rather calmly; trying to mitigate any false hopes she may be conjuring at this very moment in time. I don't have the heart to tell her about all of Julia's near-aisle misses, broken engagements, and one previous divorce.
"Iz good news, no?" Consuela prods. She's standing beside me now. I haven't moved from my desk so she's taken this rare opportunity of a height advantage to get me to agree with her.
"You know what I think good news is...", I start "good news is all the beds made before Jesus y Lilliana comes on in the morning. Good news is you filling up my coffee cup when you see it's empty. Good news is that the man across the street using the jackhammer would suddenly come down with a bout of nausea. That's good news!" I snipe. I'm not really in the mood for Consuela this morning. I haven't even had my second cup of coffee yet -- and the jackhammer right outside my window is slowly driving me insane.
"You are no happy Mia becuz nobody loves you", sulks Consuela as she grabs the swiffer and walks away. I feel bad. Maybe she's right. Maybe I'm just a bitter useless excuse for a human being because I am currently (and hopefully temporarily) lacking a vital component from the essence of our existence. I have no one to build up; and no one to build me up. It's palpable.
I take a break from what I'm writing and head to the kitchen to fill up my coffee cup. I look on the fridge at old photos from years past. I haven't replaced any since digital cameras came into existence. All my memories are locked in the hard drive on my computer. I see younger photos of myself with family and friends.
I am loved...but maybe Consuela has a point. Maybe there is something to her stupid telenovellas that have women and men ripping their hair out for the object of their desire. In the world of telenovellas love is everything -- and only validated by the extent of the betrayal. To love is to be betrayed. I guess it means you risked everything.
But what do I have to risk at this point? Every time I step out of the boat two things happen for certain; a) I sink, and b) I drown. Stepping out of the boat has given me a lot of experience but no real rewards. I can't pour myself into another person, so I pour myself into stories. The characters I create live through me and for me. I've mitigated the circumstances the best way I know how.
I take a sip from my coffee and decide that I should probably go and apologize to Consuela. I start looking for her. It's hard to find her when she isn't watching a telenovella -- and with the jackhammer blaring across the street my powers of perception are a little off-kilter.
"Consuela?" I call her name. "Consuela?"
I turn the corner and there she is; head down, silently sobbing on the corner of an unmade bed. I approach -- throw the cover over and sit down beside her. She won't look at me, so I lightly grab her chin and turn her to face me. Her cheeks are wet from the tears that she hasn't had a chance to sop up. I reach for a tissue and hand it to her. She dabs away at her cheeks, but her eyes are low. She can't face me.
"What's wrong?" I ask her.
"Why duz nobody wanna love you, Mia? It duzint make no sense...", she begins to sob heavily and the only way that I know how to stop the heaving is to wrap my arms around her and pat her hair.
"It's ok, I'm fine. Really, I'm fine" I tell her.
"NO!" she says with the full fever of her beloved telenovella heroines, "NO! Mia, you are NOT fine. You have de broken heart. You have de broken heart!"
There's nothing I can say. She sobs louder than before. I take a deep breath. I didn't realize that my situation was affecting her this much.
"Look at me," I say. She turns begrudgingly. When we're near to making eye contact I continue, "Look, Consuela, I don't know why I haven't met that person yet, but I do know that maybe it's better to have a broken heart and walk away from the wrong person, than to keep a broken heart and stay with them."
I'm not sure if I'm really making any sense to her, "does that make any sense?" I offer as a condolence.
"But Mia, I see you...every day yer broken heart - it makes you angry to me all de time. I don't hear you laugh like before. I worry dat yer broken heart - I worry dat it poison you!" she says and begins to sob even louder.
I grab both her hands, including the one with the tissue that is filled with snot and say, "You know Consuela, sometimes a good thing comes from a broken heart. Sometimes when it heals it becomes better, and stronger. And wouldn't that be nice? Wouldn't that be a wonderful thing? To love someone who really deserves my heart with a better and stronger heart? Don't you think?"
I see that I've offered her some condolence; at least for now. She'll never feel fully content until I'm whole again. But that takes time. So, in the meantime, I'm going to try and make more of a valiant effort to be a bit nicer to her -- because she does worry about me. And maybe, she has good reason to. But I don't have the luxury of getting caught in despair. I have no choice but to heal. To move on. And hope that eventually, when my heart is stronger -- that the right person will come along.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
The Promise
"What do you want your talent to be?" he asks me.
I look up, nonchalant and say, "Words." The sun beams brightly against my cheek and I close my eyes to embrace it.
"Words?" he says, slightly surprised, "Not music, or the gift of motion?"
"No," I say, "I want to warm their hearts with words. I'd like that to be my talisman."
He laughs, and stretches out his hand to help me up. "A poet!" he exclaims with delight, "How marvelous! An excellent choice."
"Or a story teller," I interrupt, "I could be a story teller."
"Indeed, you could." he smiles. I can feel his pride. We walk side by side for a while through the celestial gardens and take a seat at a fountain. A woman approaches.
"She's chosen words," he relays to her as she nears closer.
"Ah," she says and sits down beside me. She brushes away a stray strand of hair from my forehead. "Words are very powerful" she states. "You will see that when you are down there."
"I'm looking forward to it," I tell her defiantly. The begin to talk in an inaudible tone -- one reserved for more supreme beings; and so, I start to cartwheel in the garden until they are done. My hands are cushioned by the daisies that grow wild around us. I hope I remember to cartwheel when I am down there.
"Words it is!" he proclaims and motions me to return to their small gathering. I walk towards them, my white gown flowing just below my knees. The sun beats warmly on my skin. I take a seat between them on the fountain's edge and strum my finger along the water's surface so I can watch the sun's reflection split in kaleidoscopic fashion. I begin to become entranced with the water.
"Child!" he calls firmly, "Pay attention!".
I sit up and refocus on the two of them, now standing before me. "The gift of words is not something we give to spirits as young as yourself -- for many reasons. One, you do not have the benefit of experience to not be significantly affected by words; for whatever talent you have will conversely make you increasingly sensitive to its use, and misuse by others."
I nod so he knows that he has my full attention. I realize that I've chosen a gift above, perhaps, what I deserve -- but it spoke true to my heart. My hope was that if the Great Creator could see the authenticity of my calling; that he would grant me my talent.
"The second," he continues more sternly with a locked gaze directed to the centre of my heart, "is that it is very easy to get lost with this talent. Many before you have ceased to return. Words are a poweful talisman; and many have fallen victim their darker components."
He pauses. I don't know if he expects me to sit silently or respond. So I choose to respond, "I won't stray," I begin, "I'll use my talent to remind the people who they really are."
There's an awkward moment of silence. The Beings converse in an inaudible tone -- one I hope to be able to hear clearer when I return.
The woman looks at me and says, "We will grant you this talent because your heart is pure; but you must be aware of how powerful it is. You must never use it to control or manipulate -- you must be wary of the Ego at all times. All your persuassion must come from the centrality of your being -- from a pure place of love and happiness. Do you understand?"
"I understand," I say matter-of-fact.
"Very well, then" he says, and stands. They link arms and walk away. And so, I continue to do cartwheels near the fountain until it is time for my descent.
I look up, nonchalant and say, "Words." The sun beams brightly against my cheek and I close my eyes to embrace it.
"Words?" he says, slightly surprised, "Not music, or the gift of motion?"
"No," I say, "I want to warm their hearts with words. I'd like that to be my talisman."
He laughs, and stretches out his hand to help me up. "A poet!" he exclaims with delight, "How marvelous! An excellent choice."
"Or a story teller," I interrupt, "I could be a story teller."
"Indeed, you could." he smiles. I can feel his pride. We walk side by side for a while through the celestial gardens and take a seat at a fountain. A woman approaches.
"She's chosen words," he relays to her as she nears closer.
"Ah," she says and sits down beside me. She brushes away a stray strand of hair from my forehead. "Words are very powerful" she states. "You will see that when you are down there."
"I'm looking forward to it," I tell her defiantly. The begin to talk in an inaudible tone -- one reserved for more supreme beings; and so, I start to cartwheel in the garden until they are done. My hands are cushioned by the daisies that grow wild around us. I hope I remember to cartwheel when I am down there.
"Words it is!" he proclaims and motions me to return to their small gathering. I walk towards them, my white gown flowing just below my knees. The sun beats warmly on my skin. I take a seat between them on the fountain's edge and strum my finger along the water's surface so I can watch the sun's reflection split in kaleidoscopic fashion. I begin to become entranced with the water.
"Child!" he calls firmly, "Pay attention!".
I sit up and refocus on the two of them, now standing before me. "The gift of words is not something we give to spirits as young as yourself -- for many reasons. One, you do not have the benefit of experience to not be significantly affected by words; for whatever talent you have will conversely make you increasingly sensitive to its use, and misuse by others."
I nod so he knows that he has my full attention. I realize that I've chosen a gift above, perhaps, what I deserve -- but it spoke true to my heart. My hope was that if the Great Creator could see the authenticity of my calling; that he would grant me my talent.
"The second," he continues more sternly with a locked gaze directed to the centre of my heart, "is that it is very easy to get lost with this talent. Many before you have ceased to return. Words are a poweful talisman; and many have fallen victim their darker components."
He pauses. I don't know if he expects me to sit silently or respond. So I choose to respond, "I won't stray," I begin, "I'll use my talent to remind the people who they really are."
There's an awkward moment of silence. The Beings converse in an inaudible tone -- one I hope to be able to hear clearer when I return.
The woman looks at me and says, "We will grant you this talent because your heart is pure; but you must be aware of how powerful it is. You must never use it to control or manipulate -- you must be wary of the Ego at all times. All your persuassion must come from the centrality of your being -- from a pure place of love and happiness. Do you understand?"
"I understand," I say matter-of-fact.
"Very well, then" he says, and stands. They link arms and walk away. And so, I continue to do cartwheels near the fountain until it is time for my descent.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Full Sun. Moderate Water.
I'm standing in front of yet, another plant that needs pruning. Most of the leaves are good. The soil is strong; but its flowers are starting to shrivel.
So I inspect.
I re-read the little plastic tag that comes with the plant to make sure that I've followed the instructions:
Full Sun. Moderate Water. Not for consumption.
Check, check, and check. So why are the flowers starting to shrivel? I delicately start to prune. I'm not very good at this. I've lost many a plant before. So I take the easy route; I only pull away the very yellow leaves that come apart with little effort. If I need to tug -- then I leave it alone.
I have the fica tree watching me. It still hasn't recovered from when I tried to remove a few branches. It's in a state of perma-shock; a full-blown nervosa complete with crimpled leaves. Basically, it's a nervous wreck because of a hack prune job -- and I have no one else to blame but myself.
So, I'm being more careful with this plant. I don't want to add it to my ever-growing plant graveyard (otherwise known as my balcony).
I carefully turn it around. I start to see a pattern. The healthy flowers have stems that are green. The shrivelled flowers have stems that are yellow.
Maybe I've over watered it?
So... I step away for a few days and hope that the situation resolves itself.
When I come back -- the plant is not doing any better. The lack of water has started to wilt the otherwise healthy flowers; while not improving the shrivelled ones. They all seem to be dying. And I don't know what to do. It's obvious that I'm not the best gardiner for this particular plant. Not that I can't garden...I did what I was suppose to. Full sun. Moderate water. No consumption. But maybe this particular plant needed to be sung to? Or maybe it liked to be sprayed with a water bottle every few hours?
The reality is, I have no idea what this plant really needs because it won't tell me. It wants me to figure it out on my own. Or, more accurately, it would rather be with someone that is naturally suited to be its best gardiner. And, as long as it's with me -- it will continue to shrivel and die.
But, I'm not completely aware of this just yet. I think I still have it in my carriage. After all, it's with me right now...
So I start to investigate what flowers could be pruned in order to save this plant from certain death. I look it over...see the waterlodged stems and decide that perhaps if one of those were to go -- that the rest of the plant would bloom healthy again.
Now...it might get a bit messy. The water from the stem might bleed out and infect the rest of the plant -- but it's a price worth paying. I really like this plant; or rather, I really like it when it's healthy; and I want to get it back to that state. That's the state I bought it in. That's the state I want it to be.
So I nervously approach with the scissors. I feel bad. I know this will hurt a little; but I'm only doing what I think I should. I'm only trying to help. If the plant could have told me just exactly what it wanted; we might not be in this situation.
But here we are, at an impass. There's no turning back. It is about to die.
I take the scissors to the bottom of the ugly water-lodged stem, close my eyes and hope for the best.
"Ouch!" he groans, and looks at me angrily. "What the hell are you doing?"
Tears start to form in my eyes out of frustration. I was only trying to help the situation the best way I knew how -- being given very little information; and feeling completely abandoned to fix it on my own.
And now, I've only made it worse.
So, I'm going to stop trying to be something I'm not -- a pruner. A good gardiner. Because I'm starting to understand that some plants just can't survive with certain people; and sometimes its better to let them die and throw them out than to perform painstaking surgery to make it work. Sometimes it's just not meant to be no matter how hard you try.
So the next time I see a plant start to die -- I won't blame myself. I'll try a few things to help -- but if that doesn't work; I'll let it die. Because it is also quite possible that another possibility is just as relevant. It's quite possible that this isn't the best plant for me -- no matter how pretty the flowers bloom when I first meet it.
So I inspect.
I re-read the little plastic tag that comes with the plant to make sure that I've followed the instructions:
Full Sun. Moderate Water. Not for consumption.
Check, check, and check. So why are the flowers starting to shrivel? I delicately start to prune. I'm not very good at this. I've lost many a plant before. So I take the easy route; I only pull away the very yellow leaves that come apart with little effort. If I need to tug -- then I leave it alone.
I have the fica tree watching me. It still hasn't recovered from when I tried to remove a few branches. It's in a state of perma-shock; a full-blown nervosa complete with crimpled leaves. Basically, it's a nervous wreck because of a hack prune job -- and I have no one else to blame but myself.
So, I'm being more careful with this plant. I don't want to add it to my ever-growing plant graveyard (otherwise known as my balcony).
I carefully turn it around. I start to see a pattern. The healthy flowers have stems that are green. The shrivelled flowers have stems that are yellow.
Maybe I've over watered it?
So... I step away for a few days and hope that the situation resolves itself.
When I come back -- the plant is not doing any better. The lack of water has started to wilt the otherwise healthy flowers; while not improving the shrivelled ones. They all seem to be dying. And I don't know what to do. It's obvious that I'm not the best gardiner for this particular plant. Not that I can't garden...I did what I was suppose to. Full sun. Moderate water. No consumption. But maybe this particular plant needed to be sung to? Or maybe it liked to be sprayed with a water bottle every few hours?
The reality is, I have no idea what this plant really needs because it won't tell me. It wants me to figure it out on my own. Or, more accurately, it would rather be with someone that is naturally suited to be its best gardiner. And, as long as it's with me -- it will continue to shrivel and die.
But, I'm not completely aware of this just yet. I think I still have it in my carriage. After all, it's with me right now...
So I start to investigate what flowers could be pruned in order to save this plant from certain death. I look it over...see the waterlodged stems and decide that perhaps if one of those were to go -- that the rest of the plant would bloom healthy again.
Now...it might get a bit messy. The water from the stem might bleed out and infect the rest of the plant -- but it's a price worth paying. I really like this plant; or rather, I really like it when it's healthy; and I want to get it back to that state. That's the state I bought it in. That's the state I want it to be.
So I nervously approach with the scissors. I feel bad. I know this will hurt a little; but I'm only doing what I think I should. I'm only trying to help. If the plant could have told me just exactly what it wanted; we might not be in this situation.
But here we are, at an impass. There's no turning back. It is about to die.
I take the scissors to the bottom of the ugly water-lodged stem, close my eyes and hope for the best.
"Ouch!" he groans, and looks at me angrily. "What the hell are you doing?"
Tears start to form in my eyes out of frustration. I was only trying to help the situation the best way I knew how -- being given very little information; and feeling completely abandoned to fix it on my own.
And now, I've only made it worse.
So, I'm going to stop trying to be something I'm not -- a pruner. A good gardiner. Because I'm starting to understand that some plants just can't survive with certain people; and sometimes its better to let them die and throw them out than to perform painstaking surgery to make it work. Sometimes it's just not meant to be no matter how hard you try.
So the next time I see a plant start to die -- I won't blame myself. I'll try a few things to help -- but if that doesn't work; I'll let it die. Because it is also quite possible that another possibility is just as relevant. It's quite possible that this isn't the best plant for me -- no matter how pretty the flowers bloom when I first meet it.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
The Great Escape
"Mama!"
"Mama!"
"Maaaaa-mmmaaaaaaaaaaa!"
Silence. It's still the grey time in the morning. I've had a scary dream.
"Maaaaaaama!"
A few more moments pass. Nothing. It's still grey. I look to my right. The rabbit piggy bank on top of my dresser stares back at me. It's glassy eyes follow me. I want out.
I shake the bars to my crib. "Mama! Mama! Mama!"
Still nothing.
"Dada?"
I shake the bars to my crib again, this time harder. The red apple toy beside me begins to make the bell noises. The rabbit on my dresser keeps staring at me.
I don't like this grey light.
I flop down on my butt. I throw my blankets. I grab the mattress to try and throw it too...and see the floor. There's space between the metal wire things. I can see the floor.
I pull the mattress back and stick my head through the wires. My head gets stuck, but then I fall on the floor and land on my shoulder.
I roll over onto the carpet, and stand up. My head just barely passes the bottom of the crib. I grab a blanket from my rocking chair and walk towards the door.
My little fingers have a hard time grabbing the door and pulling it open. I try many times. The door always moves an inch; and then slips back. I look way up at the doorknob. That's what Mama and Dada use to open the door; but I can't reach it.
I stick my little foot in the crack of the door and use all my weight to slide it open. It's hard because I have my pyjamas on. My sleeper covers my feet so the door slips sometimes. Eventually I slide it wide enough to stick my hip in and wedge myself through.
I'm now in the hall. I sling my blanket over my left shoulder and start to suck my thumb.
I walk.
Nothing going on in the bathroom.
I walk past my parents' room and towards the room where the TV is. I flop in front of it. I wait for the pictures to come on -- but they don't. I suck my thumb a bit more. The light is still grey. It's very quiet.
I stand up and walk past my rocky horse and into the kitchen. I can't reach the counter so I try to open a bottom cupboard. It's stuck. I walk back to the room where the TV is to look at the fishes.
I listen to the noise the bubbles make. I like the fishes. I stick my nose against the glass because I want to kiss the fishes -- but the fishes swim to the other side. I step back. After a while the fishes swim closer to me. I stick my nose against the glass again; but the fishes run away.
I go back to sit in front of the TV and wait for the pictures to come on. The light is getting more yellow. I hear a bird.
I'm hungry.
"Dada!"
"Dada!"
I grab the knob on the TV and pull it out with all my might. The picture comes on but it is only black and white snow. I touch the other little buttons and one of them makes the snow noise louder. I turn it the other way and the snow noise become quieter.
"Dada!"
I want my cereal.
"Dada!"
I turn the little button and the snow noise is really loud. I sit and wait.
My dad shuffles out a few moments later; turns the big knob and Woody Woodpecker is on! I love Woody Woodpecker! And Commander Tom....and Davey....
I hear my cereal being poured into a bowl. The drawer with the knife opens and there is some clanging. I hear the fridge door open and the milk glops into the bowl. Glop. Glop. Glop.
The light is more yellow now. The birds are really loud.
My dad turns the corner and puts my cereal bowl beside me. I am watching Woody Woodpecker.
"Don't touch the volume." he says, and turns back to his bedroom.
I don't know what the volume is, but I do know that mama doesn't like it when I touch the little knob that makes Woody Woodpecker louder -- so I don't touch it.
I eat my Cheerios and only spill a little milk on my tummy. The yellow bowl is too big for me to hold properly, but I don't care. Woody Woodpecker is on.
The light is really yellow now. The birds are singing loudly, and I can now hear lots of cars driving up and down the street.
"Mama!"
"Maaaaa-mmmaaaaaaaaaaa!"
Silence. It's still the grey time in the morning. I've had a scary dream.
"Maaaaaaama!"
A few more moments pass. Nothing. It's still grey. I look to my right. The rabbit piggy bank on top of my dresser stares back at me. It's glassy eyes follow me. I want out.
I shake the bars to my crib. "Mama! Mama! Mama!"
Still nothing.
"Dada?"
I shake the bars to my crib again, this time harder. The red apple toy beside me begins to make the bell noises. The rabbit on my dresser keeps staring at me.
I don't like this grey light.
I flop down on my butt. I throw my blankets. I grab the mattress to try and throw it too...and see the floor. There's space between the metal wire things. I can see the floor.
I pull the mattress back and stick my head through the wires. My head gets stuck, but then I fall on the floor and land on my shoulder.
I roll over onto the carpet, and stand up. My head just barely passes the bottom of the crib. I grab a blanket from my rocking chair and walk towards the door.
My little fingers have a hard time grabbing the door and pulling it open. I try many times. The door always moves an inch; and then slips back. I look way up at the doorknob. That's what Mama and Dada use to open the door; but I can't reach it.
I stick my little foot in the crack of the door and use all my weight to slide it open. It's hard because I have my pyjamas on. My sleeper covers my feet so the door slips sometimes. Eventually I slide it wide enough to stick my hip in and wedge myself through.
I'm now in the hall. I sling my blanket over my left shoulder and start to suck my thumb.
I walk.
Nothing going on in the bathroom.
I walk past my parents' room and towards the room where the TV is. I flop in front of it. I wait for the pictures to come on -- but they don't. I suck my thumb a bit more. The light is still grey. It's very quiet.
I stand up and walk past my rocky horse and into the kitchen. I can't reach the counter so I try to open a bottom cupboard. It's stuck. I walk back to the room where the TV is to look at the fishes.
I listen to the noise the bubbles make. I like the fishes. I stick my nose against the glass because I want to kiss the fishes -- but the fishes swim to the other side. I step back. After a while the fishes swim closer to me. I stick my nose against the glass again; but the fishes run away.
I go back to sit in front of the TV and wait for the pictures to come on. The light is getting more yellow. I hear a bird.
I'm hungry.
"Dada!"
"Dada!"
I grab the knob on the TV and pull it out with all my might. The picture comes on but it is only black and white snow. I touch the other little buttons and one of them makes the snow noise louder. I turn it the other way and the snow noise become quieter.
"Dada!"
I want my cereal.
"Dada!"
I turn the little button and the snow noise is really loud. I sit and wait.
My dad shuffles out a few moments later; turns the big knob and Woody Woodpecker is on! I love Woody Woodpecker! And Commander Tom....and Davey....
I hear my cereal being poured into a bowl. The drawer with the knife opens and there is some clanging. I hear the fridge door open and the milk glops into the bowl. Glop. Glop. Glop.
The light is more yellow now. The birds are really loud.
My dad turns the corner and puts my cereal bowl beside me. I am watching Woody Woodpecker.
"Don't touch the volume." he says, and turns back to his bedroom.
I don't know what the volume is, but I do know that mama doesn't like it when I touch the little knob that makes Woody Woodpecker louder -- so I don't touch it.
I eat my Cheerios and only spill a little milk on my tummy. The yellow bowl is too big for me to hold properly, but I don't care. Woody Woodpecker is on.
The light is really yellow now. The birds are singing loudly, and I can now hear lots of cars driving up and down the street.
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