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.

1916 (with spoilers)

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1916Llywelyn, Morgan. 1916: A Novel of the Irish Rebellion. New York:Tom Doherty Assoc., Inc., 1998.

It should tell you something that I read this book in less than two weeks. What it should tell you I’m not exactly sure. I did enjoy myself, though. I think, for starters, it’s about a country I long to visit, a country I have heard much about. I also think this was a clever tale. The truth wrapped in fiction or is it fiction wrapped in the truth?

Right off the bat the story is intriguing. Our hero, Edward “Ned” Halloran survives the sinking of the Titanic. His survival is “lucky” because as a citizen of Clare County, Ireland he should have been in steerage with the other third-class Irish. The only reason why he and his family were in second class is because their passage was arranged by Ned’s sister’s fiancee, a White Star employee. The family was going to her wedding in New York City. After the tragedy, once back in Ireland, a series of events allows Ned to get involved with a group of men calling themselves the Irish Republic. It’s history from here on out. The struggle for Irish independence is painful and poetic.

I liked the characters well enough. Ned seemed to be a bit too good to be true, though. Easily liked, good looking, ambitious, intelligent, poetic, noble, a true gentleman, yadayadayada. I got sick of his self-righteousness off and on throughout the entire story. What was a pleasurable constant, however, was Llywelyn’s writing. Here’s a sampling of my favorite phrases:
“Life had scraped him to the bone.” (p 138)
“It’s the only place my skin fits me.” (p 201) My husband will tell you that sounds like Monhegan….
“An Irish solution for an Irish problem: pretend it does not exist.” (p 268)

Llywelyn also fits in other stories, but not as completely as I would have liked. The reader gets a glimpse into Ned’s sister, Kathleen’s life as a married woman living in America. You get sucked into enough to care about her when her husband gets abusive or when she begins an illicit affair with a priest. Sadly, Kathleen’s chapter is never closed. You get an indication that her true love will return to her but you don’t know if the reunion is successful. Alexander Campbell had a strong hold on his wife…

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust and the chapter called, “Digging up the past through literature.” (p 79)

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.

Don’t Tell Mama!

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Dont Tell MamaBarreca, Regina. Ed. Don’t Tell Mama! The Penguin Book of Italian American Writing. New York: Penguin. 2002.

I like reading anthologies in between the longer stuff. It makes both books read faster, if that makes sense. Don’t Tell Mama! is a mix of stuff it takes me forever to read and the stuff I could read all day. True to days of our lives, some stories are better than others. One of my favorite stories was from Louise DeSalvo, from Vertigo. It’s a simple story about bringing a man home for dinner and having reason to be angry at mom. Looking back on the scene, Louise says “If I could do that night over, I would remember these things and I would look across the table at my mother and say, Thank you. Thank you very, very much” (p 140). It touched me because there have been many times in my life when I’ve tried to please someone and thought my mother was playing the fool, going overboard to the point of embarrassing. Now, I realize she was nervous for me; wanted the best for me; anxiousness led to exaggeration. Another quote that hit home for me was, “self-loathing became my second skin” from Mary Saracino’s Ravioli & Rage story (p 488). Been there, done that. Or. “So whenever I was being chased, I’d head straight for the library. The library became my asylum, a place where I could go crazy and be myself without my family finding out” from Fred Gardaphe’s The Italian-American Writer: An Essay and an Annotated Checklist (p 222).
But, it’s not all doom and gloom. There are stories of humor, too. Chris Mellie Sherman’s story, “How to Marry an Italian-American Man” (p 496) is better described as what to do with him once you’ve landed an Italian-American husband. It’s damn funny and worth reading outloud to your spouse, Italian descent or not.

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust chapter simply called “Italian American Writers” (p132).

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.

Miss You Finally Revealed

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I love it when the answering machine blinks good news. Kisa & I came home last night to the message “Miss You is done and I wanted you to have a copy as soon as possible. I’m in town…” A little while later I had five copies of the long awaited album in my hands. I can’t even begin to explain how excited I am about Miss You. We were given demos no – teases back in 2004 and it’s been nothing but anticipation since. I don’t think I can explain how excited I was to not only get a signed copy of Miss You, but another copy of Live at Turks. But, more on Turks another time. This is all about Rebecca Correia’s newest album, Miss you!
Set list (with comments and favorite lines):

  • Miami (I love that the first word on the entire album is ‘Kyle’) “It felt damn good to be hit on.” Kisa likes the part about taking off her top…typical.
  • Miss You – (I’m used to this one because of the demo but I miss Kyle singing backup from the live shows.) “Tracing circles again looking for a good time and a good friend.”
  • Under – (is there a little laugh at the end? I love the references to the ocean. It reminds me of home.) “Morning comes and I’m further away from myself it seems.”
  • Yours – (sounds like a choir of backup singers. Love the seduction of the bass.) “I keep running over all the reasons why I miss you.”
  • Screaming One – (one of my favorite songs – sultry guitar solo – wicked lyrics) “It’s like the things you forget when you forget to be yourself for a while.”
  • Better Day – (The song I want to call ‘Rain’. Love the mandolin!) “No sleep for the weary, no dreams for the restless.”
  • Walking Backwards – (with Matt Cusson. Funky keyboards) The song is too short for a favorite line. I would have to quote the entire thing!
  • Quiet Hands – (what can I say? Rebecca’s voice is really rich and all I can think about is September 18th. This version is just Rebecca and her guitar. It’s perfect.) “Colors fade but I am not afraid this time when love is made between your heart and mine.”
  • Elizabeth – (My heart breaks whenever I hear this song. Love, love, love the bass but the lyrics get me more.) “In the dark I cry pondering the reasons why. Mother it’s your ghost I live with all the time.”
  • Nothing Left to Take – (Mozus’s guitar is haunting in this.”Behind these eyes of complacency, decency I give up this skin.”
  • No Apologies – (Drums! This is my favorite drum song. I couldn’t tell you why. I just hear the drums in perfection.) “You are my legs when I’m running faster towards the edge and I’m falling out.” “Heaven is aware and looks away.”
  • Wanting – (I love the conversation between cello and piano.) “Haunted by your ghost, your touch so cold…” and “I’ll be the quickest road to love you’ve ever known.”

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