Category: Confessional

Happy Birthday

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I have been thinking of you all day. You are 70 today, or you would have been if 9/21/92 didn’t mark another kind of day. Happy Birth Day. But sadday, too. Can I tell you I miss our breakfast table morning talks? There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think of something to tell you, something to ask you. Am I living this life right? Where’s the Chilton manual for that? While I question this life, I speak of you often – telling stories of navigation lessons gone awry and near disaster driving lessons. Remember when I almost put the land rover in the ditch? You live on in my fondest, most cherished memories. Just today I told the Clean Your Room Story. My audience laughed and said you were right to throw the bed through the ceiling. As usual, you were proving a point. I was a rebellious, bratty child.
You ran with me today. You were in my head as I tackled five miles. I think that’s the thing that would shock you the most, dad. I’m a runner. Me. The child with her nose in a book, inside on a beautiful sunny summer day. I still can hear you telling me to get my butt outside. I can still remember how “put out” I felt by your insistence of “get some fresh air.” You probably knew that while I begrudgingly obeyed…I brought my book with me. Anything athletic was out of the question for this book worm – slug. But, now I run.
Dad, I need your help with so many things lately. I’m in denial about a friend’s cancer. I’ve just spent three days with like-minded professionals and somehow I can’t put myself in their league. I feel like I’m in the kiddie pool when I know I can swim. I really can’t but that’s neither here nor there. I worry about so many different things to the point of heat blisters and bald spots. I get lost staring at kisa playing Guitar Hero II. It’s distracting. You would not believe this world we live in. Kids have wheels in their shoes. You would want to trip them. There’s a guy on the Internet, his name is Justin and his whole life is on the web…Dad, his whole life. Then there’s Twitter and something called Second Life. So many things I wouldn’t even know how to begin to explain to you.

But, forget all that. If you were here we’d make meatloaf and have angel food cake for dessert. Happy birthday.

I Spy Too Shy

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I wanted to take pictures straight up, head on, face forward, but lost my nerve. When I finally faced face I focused off center. I’m still shy because I still feel groupie. Period. So, I took pictures like a lesson in prepositions – around, behind, along, beside. Never really in front though. Next time will be better. When I breathe.
This is one of my favorite pictures from the night. It’s how I felt the entire time – there but not completely believing it. There but in a surreal state of pleasant surprise. Lurking on the fringe. Who knew it would be that cool? Who knew it would be that elaborate? Five cameras, five professionals. Audio. Director. Cameramen. Groupies. But, that’s not why it’s been almost a week and I’m still talking about it. It was a night filled with a room full of friends.

When I deleted MyThatSpace I went through all the motions of saying yes, I really want this account gone. Yes, I really, really do. Then I realized I left a letter behind. Luckily, they gave me 48 hours to clean out my locker. If I could have gathered all the special notes, the Frankie pics, the sweet things people have said, I would have. Instead, like a crazy lady I ran back into the burning building just to save one thing. Words of sincere friendship. Not the BS you read in lyrics, or the kind of empty gratitude you get in an email because you’ve written a check. Not the double-standard, two-faced, fake-smiling you get because you are constantly trying to bring someone else up. No love for who you are, simply because of you.

I was taught a lesson in kindness last week. It has taken me six days to think it through. Just because you think something isn’t a big deal, no skin off your nose, that doesn’t mean it isn’t to someone else. Does that make sense? Acts of kindness you shrug off could make all the different to someone else.

Needing This

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Such a long day. MLA & running in the same day. Yahoo tells me I have 167 new emails. I don’t have the heart to even look. I have to wonder what Gmail says. Can’t bear to look there either. Not today.

The day started out innocently enough. Fill the tank with gas, fill the wallet with toll money. Directions in hand. Good to go. MLA was a mix of What Am I Doing Here and Here I Am. The Massachusetts Library Association annual conference is geared more towards public libraries and at times I felt sorely out of place, but…But, with things headed the way they are, I’ve needed to tell myself I’m one of them. This conference is called “Branching Out” after all! The coolest part? I got to see The Nancy Pearl! In the flesh! Rock Star Nancy! She’s exactly like I thought she would be. Did I introduce myself? No. Did I even talk to her? No. Too star struck. I won’t be tomorrow, though – Tomorrow I’m bringing both Book Lusts for the geek of all geeks request for autographs. Today, today I didn’t even have a pen. I sat in each presentation knitting. Yes, knitting. More accurately, knit, pearl, knit, pearl, knitting. I drew attention and eventually enjoyed showing off my blossoming scarf (pics coming soon). It’s coming out better than I expected. I really, really like it.
Note to self: Greatest Salesman and Jill Stover.
The best quote of the day: “I enjoy the scenery more when I know where I’m going. Or, the scenery looks better when I don’t know I’m lost.”

Driving is the best way to get psyched for a run. After being cramped in the car I really long to stretch the legs and move them out from under me. Despite a killer headache and a detour to work I surprised myself by still wanting to hit the streets when I got home. I further shocked myself with where I went. For those of you who know the route: Look Park, Get Head Jesus, Jackson Street, Child Park, Killer Hill (by the Porch People), Home. Fun run. I just wish I had someone to run it with me.

It would have been a four mile run, but I inadvertently flirted with a truck driver (thanks to the nonexistent SPB), but that’s a letter for another day. Thanks to uncontrollable giggling and an urge to race away from my embarrassment it turned out to be a 5.2 miler. I felt like I could run forever. I really like running right before the sun sets. I love how my long shadow leads the way. I love how the colors of dusk give off a glow. I want to carry a camera. I want to bottle the smells – someone doing laundry, someone turning soil for a garden, someone mowing a lawn, something on the stove or in the oven – either way, something for dinner. I passed the heady smell of spring, some unidentified bloom that smelled amazing. I almost stopped in my tracks. I have no idea what it was.

Now I need a hot tub. I need a glass of wine. When the red is off my face I’ll remember the man in the truck. For now I need to keep that to myself.

O Bailey

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A friend sent me a letter. This one was to me ( and not about me) and there was no mistaking the message. Angry. I read and reread her words but didn’t respond right away. I couldn’t because her anger had a domino effect and suddenly I was just as spit-nails-mad. I didn’t want to lash out at her, the bearer of bad news. Don’t kill the messenger. Not her fault. Not her fault at all.

Thank you for bringing this to my attention. No, thank you for making it clear to me what I had been missing/avoiding all along. I made excuses for the lies. I spun in frantic circles on my own stage of denial. I didn’t think it could be true even when the evidence was mounting. How many times did I have to be lied to before I finally caught on that I was not worthy of the truth? I have a friend who walked away cold and I confessed I admired her for her cutthroat deleting. Do you really want to delete this “friend”? Yes. How hard is that? Unsubscribe. Delete. Done. Damn.

I can understand the lashing out. The hurt has nowhere to go but directly to the Last In Line. But, why include you or the other her? Just because you are who you are to him? It’s so stupid and I’m So Sorry. But, I’m not sorry you told me. Not sorry I stopped spinning. Not sorry I opened my eyes. Delete. Done. Damn.

Pardon Me

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Someone told me I had been written about – or they guessed it was about me, or To me, or something. I don’t usually go there so I wouldn’t know, or didn’t know. I’ll admit I started to read it then decided I couldn’t decide if I should know. I finally stopped. I didn’t finish because I couldn’t read on. But, like a girl I still waivered. What if it really was about me or to me, or something? Indecisive nature can be the death of me, myself & moi  so I decided it wasn’t about me… but I would respond…just to be safe. In true passive aggressive form I am not sending this TO you and it’s even less about you. In all things ego, it’s really all about me. Just in case. In all actuality this is something I need to say, just to get it out there.

I never meant to stand in your face and say, “you are no longer my friend.” To my knowledge I’ve only done that once before in my life. Even then I did it in typical moi fashion and wrote the words down. No face to face there either. A coward through and through. But, that is neither here nor there. Back to you…errr…me..or…something.

The bottom line is this: you said some things that angered me. I retaliated the only way I knew how – by writing. You were angry that I embarrassed you – (volley on the anger quota) – only you failed to notice I took the utmost care in removing your responsibility to the words. You reclaimed ownership by your outburst. You wanted people to know what you said by repeating those words. It was proof that you don’t know me – I write to move on. It’s the only way I can move on. Once I get it out (for the most part), it’s gone. You reviving it and giving it ugly life was an indication that you didn’t understand ME. I had no choice but to disown your words and, by default, you. In my heart of hearts I really think it was a mutual agreement. I’m okay with that.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I see the world as a dangerous place to be. The clouds overhead are always a little grayer in My world, the glass in my hand more than little less half full all the time. My face rarely hurts from grinning (Friday night was a first in forever). It’s easier being sad Eeyore than bouncy Tigger. Don’t get me wrong. I love my life but I struggle to stay smiling seven days a week. I don’t sail through this world whistling a tune. That is precisely why I surround myself with people who either through logic, love or laughter guide me through life and lift me up. I need the people who will help me see straight when I’m stressing, sigh when I lose my wallet or my mind, show strength when I’m broken, but mostly, smile because they truly love messed up me. Bottom line – they understand me.

I have learned a valuable lesson about friendships. Like rocky shores need the tide’s coming and going to survive, certain people stay in your life while other people drift out for a reason. I wouldn’t be here today if those coming or goings didn’t happened. I need the tide and all that it brings…or…takes away.

The Letter or It Was Something You Said

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I took a day off from writing to collect my thoughts. I didn’t want to tell my friend my mind was blown just as much as his. For different reasons. For the same reasons. But, I’ll get to that – eventually.

I was going to blog about the whole experience. From top to bottom I wanted to relive the whole night. It’s this urge I have. I always want to be the life reporter that I profess to be. There is no denying this one night’s experience was one of the coolest things I’ve ever been a part of and my head is still reeling. But. Big but. I find myself thinking along other lines. About other things. Writing has always been a big part of who I am. From gawd-awful love letters in the 5th grade to confessional blogs at 2am some 27 years later. I have always expressed myself with words. Usually it’s the writing, not the reading, that sets me free. Not this time. I read three things this weekend. Three very different things all with the same theme: friendship. This time it was the reading that unburdened me.

In the 8th grade I had a penpal who shared my same writing philosophy. Our motto was, “No letter left unanswered!” So, no matter when or how I wrote she would write back. Always. Our second motto was, “give what you get.” So, if I wrote a “letter” on the back of a gum wrapper I’d get juicyfruit mail in return. “IGOO57C” was a common sentiment (think Eric Clapton circa 1982).

So, like I said I read things this weekend. You said something to me. You deserve something back. Stay tuned.

Cheating from 2006

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2006
2007
“It’s amazing how many therapists I have in my life. From the person telling me what the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society means to me to the person telling my what my sirsy coping mechanism is (was). From the person telling me how to run to the person telling me where my heart is and (of all things) who my friends are. I have to ask myself, “Self, where are these people coming from and why do they feel the need to tell me these things? Since when did they become the experts on all things me?” I ask the questions but really all I want to say is this, “don’t read me!” I am placing too much importance on the expectations of others. What I hear is this: You am becoming too involved. You need to stop this. You need to let this go. You need to stop being a crutch for this person. So you say. And Say. Well, you have it all wrong. So, please, don’t read me. Should I be offended that people are telling me how to feel? Should I feel sorry for them because my serving of emotion is an overwhelming banquet too much for them digest? No. My trouble is this: I have a wealth of passion and it comes across as too involved, too this, too that. Worse, I open my mouth and let it all out. Let it all be known. Do I bother you? Apparently so because you need to tell me what to think, what to feel, how to be. I let people into the reality of my heart and they think “overload.” They don’t know me well enough to let me rant and settle my own self down. It’s not enough to say don’t read me. I need to close the book. End of Story. The End.”

It’s a year later. I’m a tree fallen. Cathedral solemn. Silenced and silent. Secrets in my pocket. It’s a better way to be.

Kid You Yes

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I have coloring books. I have markers. I have paint, brushes and paper. I have stickers and stamps. I have crayons – the Deluxe set complete with limited edition multiculturals and dayglos. Kid at heart? No. I keep these things for stress relief. Look at the ceiling and you will find brown twisty tree branches painted out of stress. Green leaves fecked out of frustration. I paint and color and create like a child to control the uncalm. Standing on my bed, reaching up to settle down.
I haven’t done that in awhile. I know I need to get back to it. A few years ago I was so wacked out that I developed a stress blister. “Spontaneous combustion” my doctor suggested. Weird. It’s happening again. Blisters appearing, bubbling up like heat rashes, harsh and itchy.
Maybe it’s time to get back to coloring. Back to painting. Pass the burnt sienna and indigo blue.

Entitled to Tell You So

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How could I not exclaim I Told You So when it was all over? I said it would happen and so it did. Now what? The barbarians have stormed the gates and now we are knee deep in repairs. [I realize that people read these blogs and for most, this particular one is in the shadows. I’ve left the lights off. Sorry you are in the dark, but you wouldn’t understand. It would take forever for me to explain it and the sad thing is I’m not even sure I know. I do know I can say Told You So.]

THEY came on campus today. For less than a week I have known about their arrival. Not enough time to really do anything about it. More than enough time to worry, though. Maybe that was their plan all along because worry I did. For four days I worried in the form of ranting. I felt brick walled, stone walled and walled in. Friends offered advice and while that calmed me it was only a temporary fix. When alone anxiety circled and fear soon followed. My fault is that I don’t have faith. I do not believe.

They came on campus today and asked the questions I anticipated. I opened my mouth before gobbledegook could come from somewhere else. I speculated, I suspected, I assumed, I answered and in the end I promised. Promised I would remedy the situation – the very situation I was made aware of four days ago. I was not as silent as some would have hoped.

They left campus. Gates stormed and now I’m left feeling revealed and vulnerable. As I pick up the pieces of my castle I know this is what I asked for. There is a hint of a smile on my face. I’m in pieces but it’s a chance to rebuild. I didn’t know this would happen. I wish I told you this, too.

Difference between Pranayama and Gasping

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PranayamaI got a chance to experience different breathing techniques over the weekend. Some by choice, some by force. The first was an IntroEducation to Pranayama. This was the by-choice inhale/exhale portion of the weekend. Sponsored and led by Ruth of Now & Zen Yoga I was introduced to the four different breathing techniques of Pranayama. The thing that stuck in my head (after it hit my heart) was the thought process behind Pranayama. I will paraphrase what was said to me – breathing is life and Pranayama is the control of this life force. Your first action after birth is a deep inhale. Your last action of life is a slow exhale. Life breathing from beginning to end. Ruth said it much more gracefully but you get the point. I learned that breath can be controlled after years of taking it for granted. Different from the box breathing (something I learned about in a different class), we were introduced to four different techniques of inhale/exhale but Ujjayi had to be my favorite – noisy and satisfying, it made me come alive.
Later, I felt like I was dying. By choice. Sunday beautiful sunny afternoon I decided to take Miss You for a run. I’m not used to running in sunshine, running in shorts. By mere mile one I was gasping for air. I had forgotten to pace myself, forgotten to find the steady breath. Funny thing about breathing – you don’t think about it until you are short of it. I remembered the imaginary eggs I should be cradling in my palms. I remembered the angels on my shoulders to keep my back straight. I remembered the pacing of footfalls…but not the pacing of breath. 1.8 miles later I ran across kisa (almost literally) and I called it quits. I wanted my inhale and exhale to quiet to talking and walking. The run was not what I wanted it to be, but the company was. I’ll do it again tomorrow.

Pandora’s Box

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There are times in your life when you should leave well enough alone. Don’t open Pandora’s Box because it will only have you questioning the unanswerable, lamenting the unchangeable.
I read your diary today. The 1990 version to be exact. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry over your apparent insanity. Afraid to be alone, petrified to be yourself, terrified to speak your mind, pitiful to witness, even now. Even still. You actually wrote, and I quote, ” –‘s birthday. Please tell me we’re still together!” Couldn’t you try for a relationship where there would be no doubt, or was that too much to ask? Everyday was another fight, another break-up, another make-up bitch session. Hate, love, hate. No wonder you couldn’t keep your head on straight.
The subsequent years (1993-1998) weren’t that much better. Different “loves”, same old debate. Love. Hate. You still couldn’t open your mouth to save your life. You should have died.

I’m staring into Pandora’s Box remember too much of what I shouldn’t and thinking sleeping dogs don’t bite. Why wake, why remember? You should be dead to me, like all the rest. You should be just another number, another failed attempt of something called love. I shouldn’t call your name let alone remember it. I dream of your face and hope it’s nothing like memory. Fresh starts are made of this. Closing of the box.

box

Dare Do I?

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What if I want to go onto Knitting Level II? What if I want to take a class called “My First Sweater”? Am I older than my years? Is it enough that I want to do more? I’ve always been suspicious of those people who take on too much. I call them the Promisers. They talk about all the things they have planned. Months later I’m asking what happened? What’s going on with…? Did you say you were going to…? I don’t want to be that person. I’ve been there before. So, when I say I want to pick something up I’m saying I WANT to. No promises.

Going Away Staying Here

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I name my plants. Bella was given to me when I left the tri-state area in 1995. A going away present while I was running away from unending love affairs and unseen, unsolved problems. Getting away and going away seemed to be the answers for what ailed me. Didn’t matter what that ailment was. Let me pack and bag and run. At that very moment. I have always been good at packing it up, bagging the current state of affairs and running away, but Bella hated the flight. She would rather I stay and fight and fight some more. She didn’t travel well. She dropped leaves and wilted with every mile. She barely survived my indecision when I made the decision to move seven times in the subsequent three years. With each packing she protested by dropping leaves and refusing to grow. Like bribing a child I promised her sunlight and plant food, a bigger pot – her own space to grow. Anything to make the new window in the new room better.
Finally, after the eighth move we have stayed in one place long enough to find happiness. After five years in one place Bella is finally thriving. I think she has forgiven me with flowers – for the first time ever.

Ophelia Revisited

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NatalieI go through phases. Musically obsessed, I will listen to one artist over and over again until something takes me off course. I am not exactly sure what dictates this audio gorging, but I’ve always been this way. Ask my mother and she’ll tell you about an ABBA cassette I wore out in the 7th grade. Get me hooked on something and I don’t give it up. Won’t give it up. Ever since kisa was able to get bootlegs of BubbleGum I have been in his audience for months now. Sometimes I’m the back, absently humming along. Other times I’m right up in the front row, screaming my heart out. Daily doses of BubbleGum. Two nights ago I watched Any Given Thursday back to back with a New York show from earlier this year, trying to reconcile 2002 with 2007. I still can’t believe it’s the same guy! Just last night kisa found a secret show, something recorded at 1am. Intriguing.
Recently though, thanks again to kisa, I’m back to my Natalie obsession. Almost like coming full circle. It started in 1998 and most recently came around again when my knight put a gigantic, humungous pair of headphones on my head and said something about Noise Blocking Technology. The latest. I couldn’t hear him. Not one word. “Your lips move but I can’t hear what you’re saying.” His mistake was pushing play and letting the cd spin. I couldn’t hear him, didn’t want to hear him… for Natalie had begun to sing.
I admit it. I have missed this voice. I have missed the anger, the passion that always bubbles up from somewhere secret when her lyrics hit me. Tonight I relived Live in Concert (1999). Natalie has always conquered the tough subjects in her songs. I could sense the rage simmering as Natalie sang, “there’s a world outside this room and when you meet it promise me you won’t meet it with your gun taking aim” (Gun Shy, 1987). She was talking to her baby brother about joining the military but all I could think about was Cho Seung-Hui. What made him meet his world with a gun taking aim – just days before the anniversary of Columbine? Would this tragedy get to Natalie as much as 4/20/1999 did? Would she write about Seung-Hui as she had about Harris and Klebold? Tell me. What makes someone’s hatred so untouchable, his alienation so absolute? When does taking aim become the only answer to desperation? I’m hoping Natalie explores the unexplicable because it’s time to hear her voice again, to hear her ask the tough questions.

American Diabetes Association…again

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The American Diabetes Association sent me yet another mailing. The third since January 1, 2007. That means three nickels, three “dear friend” letters, three sheets of address labels. Speaking of the address labels, my real friends could take one look at them and know they aren’t my style. These labels don’t prompt me to donate. Colorful pumps and mules, flowery hats, pink and plump purses. Bright colors and cartoonish, I don’t feel compelled to donate based on getting them.
Yet, I feel bad. My mother was just warning my sister and me about limiting our sugar intake because of our family history. Diabetes is in the jeans and not just the back pocket. Still, I feel pressured because of the multiple mailings. Maybe that was their plan all along. Tricky.
They say every nickel counts yet they keep sending them to me.