selfish – Page 5 – ~*LunaSea*~

Forgive Me

2008/04/17 gr4c513 Comments

I have been hiding behind book reviews and poetry for days on end. Two poems for every one book. Reading like a fiend seems to suit me. Sorry.
I’ve started to tell you about the weirdest things ~ Kisa murdering the ladybugs in the bathroom, the end of N&ZY, my heartbreak over a breakup, the amazing work I’ve done with MSR, the crap I’ve been handed at AIC, how homesick I am, how little I’ve run, the need to hear my music again (go where we haven’t I don’t dare), Natalie, Germany, Sin City, Taka Tak, being stood up, being letdown, sex in my city, Comic Book Tattoo, Darfur, Boston Celtics, wine, angry black man, gun to my heart, arthritis and friends too far away.

I’ve started to tell you about all these things. Yet, I can’t. Instead I tell you about what I’ve read and read and read.
Forgive me.

Kermit is My CoPilot

2008/04/13 gr4c58 Comments

Sometimes I think I appreciate my friends more than I tell them. I love them more I let on. That I know. Today I went shopping with such a friend. She’s the one who loads my arms up with the “try this on” stuff because, as she puts it, “it just might work.” She’s right about most everything. I never did tell her that the fur coat pinched my pits, but she’s right – it was funky. I could have spent all afternoon trying on the suggestions of a friend. I didn’t have one fat moment.
I tell you this because she convinced me I needed Kermit. Kermit, Aerosmith and a sexy dress with sunset colors. But, the bigger news is later that day I ran with Kermit. 5.34 miles in an hour. Yup. One freaking hour. I ran to random and found myself laughing at the more ridiculous moments of the week. One hour is a long time to think about sh!t on a treadmill, especially when you settle in and run at the same pace. With Kermit’s help I came to several conclusions. The best being this: My friend is right. No one, I repeat, no one tells me how to conduct my marriage. No one tells me what is or isn’t appropriate. I’ll let my husband be the judge of what he would or wouldn’t appreciate. I was stupid to be upset. I was stupid to care what someone else thought. Especially that kind of someone.

So, to my friend. Thank you for kicking my mental butt.

14 days until Darfur.

Run Not Done

2008/04/10 gr4c57 Comments

I could kiss my kisa for being so so so there. I was driving us home and without warning I blurted out how hurt my heart was. Broken, I said. He was patient, logical…comforting…as best as he could be. He offered advice I couldn’t take. “Call” he said simply. No. NoWayNoHow I countered. I can’t. I want to disappear. Really truly. Remove myself as if I never happened. Ever. I’m doing that slowly, carefully, despite Kisa’s “don’t do that.” I can’t help it. Can’t. Help. Despite being angry I am caught. Confused. Embarrassed.
So, I ran. For the first time this week. I know, I know. It’s Thursday. When you have two jobs and a need to catch up it’s hard to catch the run. It becomes less important. Sadly. So, tonight while dinner was cooking, I got on the tread…as an abbreviated 20 minute run – intervals. 12 minute mile (slow end) 6 minute mile (faster side). I found myself sobbing during the pounding parts. Everything hurt. Rob Thomas tells me there’s no getting back to good. Great. My “cool down” was 10 minute mile and it felt ridiculously slow despite not being able to breathe. This run is simply not done.

Dear You: I heard your music and could only think of swamps and being stuck. Damn him and his mind change! Hang in there.

17 days until Darfur.

Break Down

2008/04/082008/04/08 gr4c53 Comments

“post traumatic stress disorder”
“post traumatic stress syndrome”
“post trauma break”
“psychotic break”

My psych friend came back to visit me today, and after my latest rant, threw these words back at me. Dropped them in my lap and dared me to deal with them.
“Break down.” She added and smiled with sympathy (or was that empathy?).
“You need to clear the clutter.”
Is that anything like deleting friends?…Because that was my first impulse. I could just dump these words in the garbage and move on. It’s what I do.
She laughed. “Only if you want to. No, it just means stepping back from the psycho mess and surrounding yourself with something less superficial.”
Ahhh… like calling MI back. Scheduling that lunch date with AB. Meeting SB at the gym. Sharing a glass of wine with RB. Picking a good time to talktalktalk to Germany. Celebrating AS’s birthday. Finding time to go shopping (or something) with RT. Finally watching that 3 hour movie with my husband…
My psych friend leans forward eagerly and says “Do more!” like some overzealous cheerleader hopped up on too much coffee. She was looking way too thrilled with me. Way too happy. You mean like run five miles-bake some bread-sleep in child’s pose-finish five books-knit a sweater-feed the hungry-adopt a dog-world peace kind of thing? Was this a test on how well I could treat myself and moi? Inner peace and all that good stuff? Nope. Now my psych friend was looking smug. She could finally teach me something.
“Clear your calendar. Wave bye-bye to obligations and promises.” Of course. Of course! It’s spring and its arrival has made me think about the studio. How to get back in it. How to create a better masterpiece. Suddenly, I realized I didn’t have to. It wasn’t for me so why should I? All those conversations about when vanished and became Not now. Never. I could look at every promise like that and break them all.

When my psych friend got up to leave my office she paused at the door. “You know, breaking down isn’t a bad thing…just as long as you can build back up. Go call Germany.” And with a wink she was gone.

Lining It Up

2008/02/222008/08/08 gr4c54 Comments

(Now & Zen Yoga: photo by Chris Szarek)

Back when I was training for the LLS Alton Bay half I was striving for The Trinity: a good running plan, a good eating plan and a good yoga plan. I’m one of those nutty people that earnestly believes that all these things go together. Especially yoga and running – I’m convinced they go hand in hand. Think about it. Let’s take the run first. Some people say a good run is mind-clearing. Others say it’s a good chance to relax. Okay – so the “relax” factor might be stretching it in terms of physical, but think about it from the mental for just a sec. I don’t know about you, but when I run, there is a cadence to my breathing – one deep count in, two long counts out. Slow & steady with the mantra “must beat cancer” right behind it. There is a rhythm to my running that parallels my practice in yoga.

Now let’s move onto a good yoga session and how it relates to a good run. Tight hamstrings, tight hips, tight anything is bad, bad, bad for running so… what better way to stretch it all out than with a session of yoga? Go on any running site (take Runner’s World, for example). I bet there is an article or two (at the very least) about good stretching. The Y word might even be thrown around a little. I know for a fact Runner’s World has a video of three yoga moves designed to free the hips, loosen the quads and stretch the calves.

My point of all this preaching is not to get runners to become yogis or vise versa. My point is all about me, myself and moi, actually. I wanted to outwardly vent about lining it up – the yoga, the running & the eating well. Only now I’ve added a fourth component so I’ll have to rename the Trinity as the Fantastic Four: running, yoga, eating well and…Hello Mr. Bowflex – strength training!

Hell Has a Name

2008/01/302008/08/18 gr4c515 Comments

Fat Hell does have a name. Hell, hell has several names. Shopping…malls…Macy’s. Take your evil. Pick your poison. Five hours of scouring racks, trudging into fitting rooms, undressing and cringing, fighting static electricity all the while, not wanting to scrutinize lines too closely, yet knowing if I didn’t someone else would, deciding “no, this doesn’t work” only to start the process all over again. Back to the racks. Pushing aside hangers of too flashy, too shiny, too young, too short, too I’mNotThatGirl, too Holy-Cow-They-Want-$250-For-That?! Finding one or two things to haul back to the all-telling mirrors. Glancing over the shoulder, deciding something’s just not quite right (oh wait. It’s me that’s not quite right). Back and forth. Forth and back.
Halfway through the process I noticed a stain right in the middle of my turtleneck and my sweater was beyond brimming with snapping static. My feet were hurting and by dress #8 I broke a nail trying to negotiate the too-tight zipper. That should have told me something right there. With each try-on I felt fatter and fatter. Uglier and uglier. I started to curse my cousin and question why big, fat me had to attend his wedding. The dressing room felt too tiny and someone had turned up the heat. Too make matters worse, some lady tried to steal my dressing room while I was in my mother’s dressing room deep in consultation. How this woman had missed my inside-out jeans on the floor, my cat hair covered coat on the seat, my purse hanging on the door…not to mention the stained turtleneck lying crumpled in the doorway, is beyond me.
Finally, frustration found me and I started trying on black anythings. Black, black, black. Not a shred of color. I settled on something with rhinestones, something fit for a funeral. Shopping had been the death of me. I was so relieved to be finished, done with the search that when I dressed back into my clothes for the final time I put my turtleneck on backwards and forgot to zip my jeans.

ps~ while this makes a great end to the story, just wait until you hear about what happened at the wedding…Hell gets worse.

Sex Stories

2007/09/152008/09/11 gr4c58 Comments

She came home at five years old and said with a smile “I touched a penis.” This was like lighting a match and there were only two options. The flame dies out, the incident is forgotten on a whisp of smoke, or. Or. The match flares to a flame. Becomes an inferno of hell to come.
TruthDareConsequencesPromiseOrRepeat. I chose Dare. I just like taking dares with Yes. Sent her to her room without explanation. Where did I go wrong? My Fault for years to come. Come on baby, light my fire.

She had her first older man at eight. Fire on the Mountain. Couldn’t understand why he didn’t treat her differently. Wasn’t she special (so special, he would whisper) because of the things she let him do. Let him do to her? “IWLLBGNTLE” spelled out in Scrabble pieces. No wonder she won’t play the game. She wondered if anyone of importance would ever noticed. She was certainly teased enough about it by those who mattered less. Who would say anything? Definitely not her. Where did she go wrong. Her fault for years to come.

Virginity lost at 13. I pretended to be asleep. What’s the sense of interupting when she wants it that way? Expects it that way? A walking, talking, breathing, lying (down) slut. Talk is cheap but actions are rich – they rule the game played out. She walked away. I turned my face away from his pain. Where did he go wrong? His fault to fall in love. His fault for years to come.

They caught up to her in September. Payback’s a bitch and she felt she earned it, deserved it even. Larry, Curly & Moe. Where did you go? The taste of gin, sour on your lips. The lead of Led, heavy in your ears. She’s not here. But I am.

Her fault for years to come.

Anne Frank

2007/06/292008/09/16 gr4c519 Comments

Frank, Anne. Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl. New York: Doubleday, 1995.

I was prompted to reread Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl after reading the New York Times article about her cousin, Bernhard “Buddy” Elias, donating 25,000 letters, photos and other documents to the Anne Frank House. What an amazing thing to do. I’m sure Hans Westra, director of the Anne Frank House, is…well…psyched. Imagine the historical value of such a gift! It’s a gift for all humanity and truthfully, it’s worth is immeasurable. Anne Frank died when she was 16 years old. Her “dates” are 1929 – 1945 and that alone devastates me. My heart was caught in my throat when I opened my copy of Diary of a Young Girl and saw her handwriting staring back at me. Everyone knows Anne’s story so I won’t bother with a “review” per se, except to say I simply cannot believe there are people out there who feel her diary is a fraud!

Probably the hardest thing about reading Diary of a Young Girl was the fact I was painfully aware of dates. I knew she was arrested and taken from the Annex on August 4th, 1944. As soon as her diary entries had the “1944” date I started to despair. It was like counting down to death row. It was different when I read this as a child. Anne Frank was a character to me. I couldn’t put reality to her words, flesh and blood to her black and white photo. This time it was different, tragically so. I found myself wiping away tears whenever she mentioned “the end being near.”

What fascinates me about Anne Frank first and foremost is her dedication to telling her truth. She started her diary for herself but, after hearing first hand accounts of life under German occupation were needed, she decided to edit her diary for publication. After her death her father combined both versions and created what we all have read, The Diary of a Young Girl. I never knew there were versions A, B & C.

Two of my favorite quotes, about writing, appear on the same page, “I have an even greater need to get all kinds of things off my chest” and “paper has more patience than people” (p. 6). I couldn’t agree more.
“Memories mean more to me than dresses” (p 20) and “Will the reader please take into consideration that this story was written before the writer’s fury had cooled?” (p 120) indicate I would have gotten along with Miss Frank “swimmingly”. Seriously.

BookLust Twist: I would have thought Pearl would have a chapter on the Holocaust and this would be included in it. However, I’m relieved it’s in the chapter “100 Reads, Decade by Decade” (p. 177) from Book Lust.

Ophelia Revisited

2007/04/182008/04/14 gr4c52 Comments

Natalie I 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.

Particle Theory

2007/02/142008/09/22 gr4c54 Comments

Randy I spend a lot of time thinking about myself. I don’t think it’s a vanity thing. I think it’s an identity thing. Truthfully, I think it stems from an identity crisis of sorts. Some time ago I wanted to impress someone to the point of oppressing my personality. He liked pancakes at 2am. I was an 8am egg girl, but I learned to make flapjacks his way, and worse, love them. His likes and dislikes became my own through tons of time pretending. I faked so much I forgot who I really was. Was I a girl who loved golf or one who couldn’t stand the game? Was I sweats and tee-shirt, stand at the fridge chugging milk from the carton, or was I white slacks and silk blouse sipping a mimosa? I was in conflict with who I really was but at the time, true to form, oblivious. Blind. Friends tried to warn me as I lost my name, but I was too busy booking my next tee time. Helpless in a sea of Helpfuls.

I do believe that everyone “gets” something from the people they come into contact with. Especially the long-time, intimate contacts. I’m not talking mono or an STD. I’m talking about personality shaped by connection. Particles of personality clinging to the psyche that is undeniably “you.” I have an affinity for grape soda, hot dog and green olive pizza, Enigma, and apples with cheddar cheese because of someone introducing them to me. I’m sure I would have discovered these things on my own because in the grand scheme of things they were destined to be “favorites” (regardless of how I got to them), but I’m grateful the direction that led me there that much sooner. I practice yoga because one of the most important people in my life showed me the way. I dont’ do it for her but I can honestly say it’s because of her. I carry my father’s way of answering mail. I mimic my mother’s mannerisms when meeting strangers. I’ve adopted things and made them my own. I think I can name a particle I’ve acquired from every boyfriend I’ve ever had, even the golf fanatic…despite the fact I’ve definitely dropped the game.

Griffin & Sabine

2007/01/302008/09/03 gr4c51 Comment

Bantock, Nick. Griffin and Sabine: An Extraordinary Correspondence. San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 1991.

Nick Bantock’s trilogy evokes very romantic feelings for me. Way before Book Lust the first offering in the trilogy, Griffin & Sabine was given to me by a secret lover. 23 years old, I was in lust/love with the bearer, and I think initially as a direct result, the book won my instant favor as well. Later, I determined it was an aphrodisiac for the mind as I repeatedly poured over each gloriously illustrated page (also by Bantock). I was as careful and as loving as a caress. The delicious unfolding, opening, and reading of letters and postcards was as tantalizing and seemingly illicit as my affair. Never mind the storyline of ill-fated lovers, destined to never be together, however passionately in love. That wasn’t only what excited me. The artwork drew me in and captivated me to no end. If candles, soft music, and wine stir passion through sight, sound and palate then Griffin & Sabine is for the artistic intellect. Bantock

My affair has long since ended. The passion cooled to cold and I went on to marry someone warmer. I have kept every Bantock book ever given to me and will continue to collect them. For kids of all ages and passions on all levels.

Carpenter’s Boat Shop

2007/01/132008/09/16 gr4c5Leave a comment

Sometimes I think I walk through parts of my life with my eyes closed. I really didn’t consider all that the Carpenter’s Boat Shop does until the loss of Ruth. I guess it’s fair to say I take for granted that which has been in my life forever. Forever and a day. A constant presence is never questioned. Such is the case with the Carpenter’s Boat Shop in Pemaquid, Maine. I’ve known “the Boat Shop” every minute of my existence whether I was aware of it or not. Skiffs on the beach came from there. People from the island went there. An exchange as subtle as clouds in the sky. Taken as truth and never thought more about.

Imagine a life on the rocks, for whatever reason. Hopes dashed. Dreams in ruins. Desperate for a break. Hungry for a fresh start. Not knowing where to turn. The Carpenter’s Boat shop is that safe haven. No. Harbor. They use the metaphor of a harbor on their website. That’s a better way to describe what they do. The Boat Shop is a place where someone can go for guidance, security and redemption on many, many levels. Physically. Mentally. Spiritually. Especially the spiritual. In the process of healing, they teach a trade: woodworking. Boats, furniture. Repair on all levels.