It is of notable importance that I mention a few acquisitions, of the last few days:
1) An internet connection within the confines of my own home, rendering the need to stand outside Starbucks at late hours inconsequential. Maybe just for kicks, in future (meaning not soul-shatteringly cold) days.
2) A complete and utter surrender to the world of technology in the form of an iphone 5. It still hurts. But I kind of like it.
It should be said that due to the former -- and within the last few hours, the latter -- that I have spent much time and deliberation doing copious amounts of market-based research. Meaning, I've wasted most of the last few days wading through a bunch of shit on the Internets.
This leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Or maybe a too-sweet one, like after you eat an entire bag of M&M's. Not to mention a dull throb behind my left eyeball. Though I have thus far successfully resisted the growing urge to abandon all attempts at productivity in lieu of watching countless hours of Breaking Bad on Netflix. I should probably get this done as soon as possibly before the desire becomes greater than what they say about fat kids and cake.
(Speaking of cake...how long do you suppose a flourless chocolate cake lasts, when refrigerated? Also, what do you think that smell in my fridge is? The cake tasted ok today, anyway.)
Disregarding the numbed-out affliction my brain takes on when too much time is spent in front of a screen, it's more about the content upon which I fixate when immersed in a techno-binge that causes the problem. Because it's always there. There's always more to look at, more to obsess over, more to get lost in. And right on the edge of that more is the soft song seeping through its pixels that, when passed through the central lobe, screams I TOLD YOU THEY WERE BETTER THAN YOU.
I had told myself before I began this post that I was not going to rhapsodize, yet again, on that which I agonize in myself is not good enough or comparison-worthy. So I won't. I'll simply note that it is my greatest disparity in living in a culture so saturated with information that it seems as though our clothes may never dry. I have my faults. And self-deprication is obviously top of the food chain over here. Moving on.
The upside to diving into the sea of information more accessible than flouride-free water is that it's gotten me thinking about what I'm made of. More specifically, what I'm good at and where I'm hopelessly flawed. I'm really good at mixing the same color paint, on repeat. I'm really bad at remembering (or maybe it's caring) to clean my toilet before mold grows on its edges. In both cases, it would appear that the definitions are getting both clearer and more muddled down the line. And by "line," I mean IN MY OLD AGE.
What I'm trying to discern, though, through all of this "understanding" and "defining" is not what I'm inherently good or bad at, but what I'm PASSIONATE at. For someone who has defined themselves as a painter for so long to experience a dip in desire, it feels shaky to find myself without a perch to stand on. I could say maybe "I'm a writer" but even I don't believe that any more than you do. I like to write. I like to paint. Sometimes I really like to write and sometimes I more than really like to paint. Sometimes I really like to listen to couples fight on the train. But this lack of consistency is where I find myself right now, and where the columns of "good at" and "not good at" are alternatively becoming both helpful and a huge disservice.
Because there are a lot of things I'd like to be good at. And there are a lot of things I'd like to never try again, ever (like discus). What I want is to be completely consumed by whatever that thing is I'm doing at that particular moment. Like, every moment. And Netflix does not count.
I started reading this blog today and at first, though I couldn't look away, it made me feel completely sub-par at, well, everything. But I think I need that. I get comfortable in feeling "good enough" too often. I rest in the place that I'm standing without looking further ahead. I'm trying not to get ahead of myself. But I'm trying to let that which I'm good at be enough to get better, and what I'm not rest in peace. I'm on a journey for my passion again. Let's hope this is the only melodramatic stop on the way.
Showing posts with label perspective. Show all posts
Showing posts with label perspective. Show all posts
Monday, January 7, 2013
Posted with Blogsy
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Circuitry
Don't worry.
I'm not dead.
I don't have Zombie virus.
I haven't run off to join a Mormon cult. And I wouldn't drink the kool-aid.
I've just been moving.
To be honest, I've been having the hardest time beginning this post because I feel like I've been away for so long. But when I think about it, it's been less than a week since we spoke last. In that week (reality: 5 days) I found the apartment of my dreams back in my favorite midwestern town, received the keys a mere day later, packed up every last bobby pin I own in one Sunday morning, painted a shitload of closet space and had it all moved in by Monday evening. I also drank a lot of celebratory beer.
(AHEM. Before I get in trouble, let me take a moment to thank those that actually painted the closet space, assisted me in packing, and donated their time to at a dime's notice moving all my crap on a Sunday afternoon: thank you Buddy Holly (painter extraordinaire), The Mother (moving dictator and master coordinator), brosef (stop drawing on my furniture and just put it together already) and the entire Kotecki family (no, Emma, you cannot hang your Big Time Rush posters in my room). You're the Rotel to my Velveeta.)
Tell me you're still with me.
Most of you -- most of my favorite people in existence -- don't even know that I've moved. Here's my announcement:
COME OVER RIGHT NOW. And bring me a couch, because there's nothing to sit on right now.
I've had a hard time believing I would get back to this point. When my apartment was foreclosed in August due to lackluster landlord performance (read: asshole hadn't paid his mortgage in 4 years), I thought my time as a Real Adult was coming to a soul-shattering end. I thought I was being squeezed back into the hole of my adolescence by some force of God or whatever brand you want to slap on it; stripped of the only space I'd ever let be truly "mine" and "solitary" and "quiet;" regressing back into some state of what-the-fuck-edness that only losing everything you've accumulated as your own can bring. You've been reading. You know that it messed with my head.
But I remember how I found the previous place. I had envisioned myself as never having the capacity to leave home, lest some Career Breakthrough stumbled my way or I sold my soul to the corporate takeover (I still don't think they'd take a college-dropout CEO-wannabe). But then when The Mother told me "get out of my house. You're miserable and you know it. It's annoying," and I actually listened, it took me a total of 7 days to make the decision and move out. I did my budget on a Tuesday and had gotten the keys on a Friday. That's how fast it goes, sometimes.
I'm a firm believer that when you admit to yourself what you want (and sometimes even when you don't), it will come to you. When I moved into my first place, it was very small but entirely mine. The moment I let myself believe I could have it, I did. And it was the first home I built all on my own (not literally. How awesome do you think I am?). But when I was forcibly moved, I still had not admitted to myself how unhappy I had become with it. It was too small. I'd outgrown it. My energy and my life were becoming stifled because I had moved on without admitting it to myself. And though I was devastated when I left, a tiny part of me was relieved.
A few things wouldn't have happened if I had not left that place:
1) I doubt I would have started writing. My creativity was so stifled by the discomfort I felt with my surroundings that I couldn't get myself to look outside of any kind of box. And though I didn't know why or how, I could feel it.
2) I would not have gotten that money I used to pay off my car and buy too many clothes in the interim, which made it possible for me to;
3) Find the apartment I had long known was waiting for me but took some stumbling to walk across.
So it goes.
From all of this I find myself back at one of my favorite conclusions; the one that I keep as true as anything but as hard to hold as a snake swimming in jello. The one that says that everything happens for a reason, simply because it happens. You have no choice but to go with it and hope for the light around the corner.
Our lives are not linear. They do not follow a cookie cutter or a play-doh mold. They are circular. And sometimes it takes working your way all the way around that circle to find where you begin again.
I'm not dead.
I don't have Zombie virus.
I haven't run off to join a Mormon cult. And I wouldn't drink the kool-aid.
I've just been moving.
To be honest, I've been having the hardest time beginning this post because I feel like I've been away for so long. But when I think about it, it's been less than a week since we spoke last. In that week (reality: 5 days) I found the apartment of my dreams back in my favorite midwestern town, received the keys a mere day later, packed up every last bobby pin I own in one Sunday morning, painted a shitload of closet space and had it all moved in by Monday evening. I also drank a lot of celebratory beer.
(AHEM. Before I get in trouble, let me take a moment to thank those that actually painted the closet space, assisted me in packing, and donated their time to at a dime's notice moving all my crap on a Sunday afternoon: thank you Buddy Holly (painter extraordinaire), The Mother (moving dictator and master coordinator), brosef (stop drawing on my furniture and just put it together already) and the entire Kotecki family (no, Emma, you cannot hang your Big Time Rush posters in my room). You're the Rotel to my Velveeta.)
Tell me you're still with me.
Most of you -- most of my favorite people in existence -- don't even know that I've moved. Here's my announcement:
COME OVER RIGHT NOW. And bring me a couch, because there's nothing to sit on right now.
I've had a hard time believing I would get back to this point. When my apartment was foreclosed in August due to lackluster landlord performance (read: asshole hadn't paid his mortgage in 4 years), I thought my time as a Real Adult was coming to a soul-shattering end. I thought I was being squeezed back into the hole of my adolescence by some force of God or whatever brand you want to slap on it; stripped of the only space I'd ever let be truly "mine" and "solitary" and "quiet;" regressing back into some state of what-the-fuck-edness that only losing everything you've accumulated as your own can bring. You've been reading. You know that it messed with my head.
But I remember how I found the previous place. I had envisioned myself as never having the capacity to leave home, lest some Career Breakthrough stumbled my way or I sold my soul to the corporate takeover (I still don't think they'd take a college-dropout CEO-wannabe). But then when The Mother told me "get out of my house. You're miserable and you know it. It's annoying," and I actually listened, it took me a total of 7 days to make the decision and move out. I did my budget on a Tuesday and had gotten the keys on a Friday. That's how fast it goes, sometimes.
I'm a firm believer that when you admit to yourself what you want (and sometimes even when you don't), it will come to you. When I moved into my first place, it was very small but entirely mine. The moment I let myself believe I could have it, I did. And it was the first home I built all on my own (not literally. How awesome do you think I am?). But when I was forcibly moved, I still had not admitted to myself how unhappy I had become with it. It was too small. I'd outgrown it. My energy and my life were becoming stifled because I had moved on without admitting it to myself. And though I was devastated when I left, a tiny part of me was relieved.
A few things wouldn't have happened if I had not left that place:
1) I doubt I would have started writing. My creativity was so stifled by the discomfort I felt with my surroundings that I couldn't get myself to look outside of any kind of box. And though I didn't know why or how, I could feel it.
2) I would not have gotten that money I used to pay off my car and buy too many clothes in the interim, which made it possible for me to;
3) Find the apartment I had long known was waiting for me but took some stumbling to walk across.
So it goes.
From all of this I find myself back at one of my favorite conclusions; the one that I keep as true as anything but as hard to hold as a snake swimming in jello. The one that says that everything happens for a reason, simply because it happens. You have no choice but to go with it and hope for the light around the corner.
Our lives are not linear. They do not follow a cookie cutter or a play-doh mold. They are circular. And sometimes it takes working your way all the way around that circle to find where you begin again.
 |
| First meal in the new digs, circa last night. Jealous of my table setting? |
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Failure Is For Winners.
Look, Here's The Thing:
I've had a lot of people coming forward to tell me what they think of this little word-vomit collect-orium lately. Fortunately they are kind words and more than I ever would have expected going into this. I had the great pleasure of spending a night with a few of them yesterday.
Today, in attempts to take a rare Saturday off work to put some thoughts on paper (er, keyboard) amidst continuing life dramas, I find myself stuck replaying words of encouragement from people I wasn't even expecting were paying attention. Seriously, you are all amazing.
But now, as I sit in the cold and dark, chain smoking on my parent's deck, all I'm thinking is; "jesus christ, don't fuck up."
It's like I'm balancing on the hind legs of a chair, marveling in my own poise but terrified that if I add some juggling balls to the act I'll end up toppling backwards and laughed at in history class (true side story: I was the recipient of an unfortunate classmate's very same balancing act in high school, whereupon the toppling ended up right on my foot. That bruise took a long time to heal and at a stretch could be contributed to my fear of "pushing the limits").
Isn't that far too often what keeps us from moving forward, though? When we hit that place where we know we've done something right, how often do we settle in the contentment instead of pushing beyond it; because the possibility of throwing it all away when the going gets good feels like throwing yourself off a cliff? Better hope Coyote's got some Acme tricks up his sleeve to catch you when you fall.
My favorite sarcastic letter-keeper likes to cryptically comment on what I'm doing here (yeah you, I know what you're talking about). The other day he snidely said to me: "it was ok, but not as good as the last one." My first thought: "fuck you, motherfucker! You don't know me!" And then, "oh fuck yeah I know, you're right."
So after those two drastically different instances and further internal expletives -- both positive, in their own ways -- I've had a hard time getting back to it. It's like one side of me is saying, "you can do better" while the other kicks back and pops a beer to watch the accolades pile up. Ta-da! That's all, folks!
Truth is we're all going to fuck up sometimes. And we're all going to be praised for our efforts. The trick is finding the right balance of both -- the right combination of people that are going to give you all the good along with all the bad and ugly. The right amount of internal strength matched with honest criticism. It's the only way we grow.
And I know by now that the only way I grow is to get outside of this bat-shit-crazy head of mine to listen in on the other bat-shit-crazies around me. The bounce-back of what you are allows you to see it from the outside in, in all of its wonder and disappointment. We're all in it together, right? Here's to the potential to fail!
I've had a lot of people coming forward to tell me what they think of this little word-vomit collect-orium lately. Fortunately they are kind words and more than I ever would have expected going into this. I had the great pleasure of spending a night with a few of them yesterday.
Today, in attempts to take a rare Saturday off work to put some thoughts on paper (er, keyboard) amidst continuing life dramas, I find myself stuck replaying words of encouragement from people I wasn't even expecting were paying attention. Seriously, you are all amazing.
But now, as I sit in the cold and dark, chain smoking on my parent's deck, all I'm thinking is; "jesus christ, don't fuck up."
It's like I'm balancing on the hind legs of a chair, marveling in my own poise but terrified that if I add some juggling balls to the act I'll end up toppling backwards and laughed at in history class (true side story: I was the recipient of an unfortunate classmate's very same balancing act in high school, whereupon the toppling ended up right on my foot. That bruise took a long time to heal and at a stretch could be contributed to my fear of "pushing the limits").
Isn't that far too often what keeps us from moving forward, though? When we hit that place where we know we've done something right, how often do we settle in the contentment instead of pushing beyond it; because the possibility of throwing it all away when the going gets good feels like throwing yourself off a cliff? Better hope Coyote's got some Acme tricks up his sleeve to catch you when you fall.
My favorite sarcastic letter-keeper likes to cryptically comment on what I'm doing here (yeah you, I know what you're talking about). The other day he snidely said to me: "it was ok, but not as good as the last one." My first thought: "fuck you, motherfucker! You don't know me!" And then, "oh fuck yeah I know, you're right."
So after those two drastically different instances and further internal expletives -- both positive, in their own ways -- I've had a hard time getting back to it. It's like one side of me is saying, "you can do better" while the other kicks back and pops a beer to watch the accolades pile up. Ta-da! That's all, folks!
Truth is we're all going to fuck up sometimes. And we're all going to be praised for our efforts. The trick is finding the right balance of both -- the right combination of people that are going to give you all the good along with all the bad and ugly. The right amount of internal strength matched with honest criticism. It's the only way we grow.
And I know by now that the only way I grow is to get outside of this bat-shit-crazy head of mine to listen in on the other bat-shit-crazies around me. The bounce-back of what you are allows you to see it from the outside in, in all of its wonder and disappointment. We're all in it together, right? Here's to the potential to fail!
 |
| The King Of Dogs or: What I was doing while procrastinating. |
Monday, October 22, 2012
Zombie Promcalypse?
This incredibly flattering photo of a friend and I was taken this past weekend at was has been dubbed "First Possibly-Annual Zombie Prom 2012." Catchy title, no? Although I haven't done it much in the last few years, I actually do love dressing up for Halloween. Until I get to wherever I'm going and I'm like, somebody-take-my-face-for-a-second-so-I-don't-pick-it-off-trying-to-itch-my-nose-without-ruining-my-two-hour-makeup-job-thanks.
The last time I dressed up for Halloween, I thought it would be really cheeky to go as the cover character from Invisible Monsters. Too bad it just looked more like I got into some dirty business with Kirby. That same night, one of my friends arrived with eight tails pinned to her outfit and wearing cat ears. It took me about ten minutes to guess "octo-pus," and then another 30 seconds to internally shame myself for my lack of ingenuity with wordplay.
When I think back on the Halloweens of my childhood, I am reminded of my father. Dad hand-sewed Pocahontas for me when I was wee, as well as Belle the following year. What can I say, the dude is good with a pattern. Let's not even talk about the fact that he used to cross stitch, too. Who else can say they are that in touch with their feminine side (excluding you, Trent -- we all know you make a better woman than me any day. Can you teach me how to walk in heels without looking drunk yet?)?
Years after I stopped hunting for the perfect Jasmine costume (I spent an entire season hounding The Mother to find me the "red" Jasmine costume. Remember that? When Jaffar has her imprisoned and she must wear the clothes he chooses? Yeah, I wanted SLUTTY Jasmine. Psychoanalyze that, Freud.) and I began trick-or-treating without my parents, I remember my father's graduation to True Teen Embarrass-er. That year -- way before the Zombie Apocalypse became not just cool but totally plausible -- he painted his own face in the walking dead fashion, donned a ratty old sweatshirt with the hood drawn and ripped jeans, pulled a metal garden shovel out of the shed and proceeded to follow me and other young people around; dragging both one foot and the shovel behind him. I can still remember hearing the noise of the grinding metal from blocks away and his stories of scaring the shit out of teenage girls all night long.
Seriously, who does that? Until I remember that one time my friend and I got kicked out of the mall for walking around with a "free hugs" sign and accompanying, informative flyers. Yes, we were even followed by security. Leading me to question, what kind of world allows a grown man to follow young people around on Halloween while a pair of sweet, innocent teenagers get unceremoniously thrown out of the food court for wanting to spread some joy? I guess you could call it the difference between and pre- and post- 911 one. Let's not even go there.
But what I can really conclude through these musings is just how much clings to us that shapes who we are. I know that The Mother and I are like two branches on the same tree. I've come to terms with that (just kidding, mom). It's taken me a while to grip what I've gotten from the other half, just because I haven't been paying as much attention. I thought that was my brother's job. And at the same time, it takes that recognition to distinguish ourselves, too. To take and to give back. To see ourselves as the same but also vastly different.
So I guess I should just say, thanks for the lack of shame, Dad. I owe you.
The last time I dressed up for Halloween, I thought it would be really cheeky to go as the cover character from Invisible Monsters. Too bad it just looked more like I got into some dirty business with Kirby. That same night, one of my friends arrived with eight tails pinned to her outfit and wearing cat ears. It took me about ten minutes to guess "octo-pus," and then another 30 seconds to internally shame myself for my lack of ingenuity with wordplay.
When I think back on the Halloweens of my childhood, I am reminded of my father. Dad hand-sewed Pocahontas for me when I was wee, as well as Belle the following year. What can I say, the dude is good with a pattern. Let's not even talk about the fact that he used to cross stitch, too. Who else can say they are that in touch with their feminine side (excluding you, Trent -- we all know you make a better woman than me any day. Can you teach me how to walk in heels without looking drunk yet?)?
Years after I stopped hunting for the perfect Jasmine costume (I spent an entire season hounding The Mother to find me the "red" Jasmine costume. Remember that? When Jaffar has her imprisoned and she must wear the clothes he chooses? Yeah, I wanted SLUTTY Jasmine. Psychoanalyze that, Freud.) and I began trick-or-treating without my parents, I remember my father's graduation to True Teen Embarrass-er. That year -- way before the Zombie Apocalypse became not just cool but totally plausible -- he painted his own face in the walking dead fashion, donned a ratty old sweatshirt with the hood drawn and ripped jeans, pulled a metal garden shovel out of the shed and proceeded to follow me and other young people around; dragging both one foot and the shovel behind him. I can still remember hearing the noise of the grinding metal from blocks away and his stories of scaring the shit out of teenage girls all night long.
Seriously, who does that? Until I remember that one time my friend and I got kicked out of the mall for walking around with a "free hugs" sign and accompanying, informative flyers. Yes, we were even followed by security. Leading me to question, what kind of world allows a grown man to follow young people around on Halloween while a pair of sweet, innocent teenagers get unceremoniously thrown out of the food court for wanting to spread some joy? I guess you could call it the difference between and pre- and post- 911 one. Let's not even go there.
But what I can really conclude through these musings is just how much clings to us that shapes who we are. I know that The Mother and I are like two branches on the same tree. I've come to terms with that (just kidding, mom). It's taken me a while to grip what I've gotten from the other half, just because I haven't been paying as much attention. I thought that was my brother's job. And at the same time, it takes that recognition to distinguish ourselves, too. To take and to give back. To see ourselves as the same but also vastly different.
So I guess I should just say, thanks for the lack of shame, Dad. I owe you.
Friday, October 12, 2012
My Shit-Throwing Monkey
Look, Here's The Thing:
It's a rare moment that another person's words get so far up my craw that they're literally stuck there for hours. Mostly because I'm usually more adept with the english language than the common neanderthal, and not afraid of the 'ol back-sass. But when the occasion arrises that the individual choosing to poke the shit-throwing monkey in my brain is a customer, all I can do is watch as the excrement gets splattered all over the inside of my skull. And it's pretty gross.
Today was one of those days. I was about to leave. I had 10 minutes left on the clock. And then this chick walks in, all UP IN ARMS about a minor traffic incident she just encountered. This is what she said:
"Yeah well I almost just got hit by a car. I live in the city, and it's not even that crazy there. People know how to drive in the city. Out here in the suburbs, everybody's all pissed off at how lame their lives are that they take it out on everyone else. All they do is go get coffee."
Oh yes, THAT'S why that person almost hit you! Because they could smell your superiority and they hated you for it! It is true, we all secretly dream of weeding your species out in order to claim our rightful place in this world. Suburbanite power! You fantastic being from foreign lands; you who knows the ways of the world and is far beyond going to get coffee. You, who I must rid from the face of the planet because I fear your vast intellect. I am not worthy, thou cultured, multi-tone haired, Urban Outfitters goddess! Please leave me and my Pabst Blue Ribbon in peace!
SERIOUSLY. I about shit my pants. Seething on the drive home, all I could do was wonder at what gives some people the cajones to say something with such flippant disregard to their surroundings. Not to mention the fact that the receiving party of her bile was a bunch of hillbilly midwesterner's ourselves.
So then later as I'm thinking about how the universe works in such mysterious ways that nothing shouldn't be counted for something, my own monkey landed a big one right square in my face.
I have worked really hard to get where I am today. It's true that it's taken a lot of triumphs and equally as many falls to come to the place of understanding I have now. I've spent many hours in therapy, let go of several friendships and gained twice as many in the process; smacked my own head in revelation and beaten myself up the whole way through. I'm pretty proud of who I am and the understanding I've gained through lots of paying attention. But sometimes, I get a little self-righteous, too.
It's easy to think that once you've figured a few things out about yourself that you have the right to let everyone else know how it's done. I have always been the type to lend a word in advice, and most of the time it's taken in graciously. But I have also shoved those words right down people's throats when it's really not wanted.
Too much has happened in the last few weeks for me to ignore this small bit of wisdom staring me in the face. That for as much as I know, I don't know what it takes for someone else to understand the same of themselves. I can point out things that make me uncomfortable or share what I think with those who are open, but it is not my job nor anyone else's to tell someone how their lives should be lived. And to be honest, no matter how much you uncover there will always be another rock waiting to be unturned. And sometimes there's nasty pile of worms under there.
So I'm following that circle back to my own beginnings. I am learning again to respect the process: that everyone's is different. I can choose to be a part of someone else's or not, but it's not my prerogative to dictate how it should go. Yeah, it's fucking hard -- patience has never been my strong suit. But then that's my own lesson, and a circuit I have only just begun.
How does that saying go? Live and let live?
It's a rare moment that another person's words get so far up my craw that they're literally stuck there for hours. Mostly because I'm usually more adept with the english language than the common neanderthal, and not afraid of the 'ol back-sass. But when the occasion arrises that the individual choosing to poke the shit-throwing monkey in my brain is a customer, all I can do is watch as the excrement gets splattered all over the inside of my skull. And it's pretty gross.
Today was one of those days. I was about to leave. I had 10 minutes left on the clock. And then this chick walks in, all UP IN ARMS about a minor traffic incident she just encountered. This is what she said:
"Yeah well I almost just got hit by a car. I live in the city, and it's not even that crazy there. People know how to drive in the city. Out here in the suburbs, everybody's all pissed off at how lame their lives are that they take it out on everyone else. All they do is go get coffee."
Oh yes, THAT'S why that person almost hit you! Because they could smell your superiority and they hated you for it! It is true, we all secretly dream of weeding your species out in order to claim our rightful place in this world. Suburbanite power! You fantastic being from foreign lands; you who knows the ways of the world and is far beyond going to get coffee. You, who I must rid from the face of the planet because I fear your vast intellect. I am not worthy, thou cultured, multi-tone haired, Urban Outfitters goddess! Please leave me and my Pabst Blue Ribbon in peace!
SERIOUSLY. I about shit my pants. Seething on the drive home, all I could do was wonder at what gives some people the cajones to say something with such flippant disregard to their surroundings. Not to mention the fact that the receiving party of her bile was a bunch of hillbilly midwesterner's ourselves.
So then later as I'm thinking about how the universe works in such mysterious ways that nothing shouldn't be counted for something, my own monkey landed a big one right square in my face.
I have worked really hard to get where I am today. It's true that it's taken a lot of triumphs and equally as many falls to come to the place of understanding I have now. I've spent many hours in therapy, let go of several friendships and gained twice as many in the process; smacked my own head in revelation and beaten myself up the whole way through. I'm pretty proud of who I am and the understanding I've gained through lots of paying attention. But sometimes, I get a little self-righteous, too.
It's easy to think that once you've figured a few things out about yourself that you have the right to let everyone else know how it's done. I have always been the type to lend a word in advice, and most of the time it's taken in graciously. But I have also shoved those words right down people's throats when it's really not wanted.
Too much has happened in the last few weeks for me to ignore this small bit of wisdom staring me in the face. That for as much as I know, I don't know what it takes for someone else to understand the same of themselves. I can point out things that make me uncomfortable or share what I think with those who are open, but it is not my job nor anyone else's to tell someone how their lives should be lived. And to be honest, no matter how much you uncover there will always be another rock waiting to be unturned. And sometimes there's nasty pile of worms under there.
So I'm following that circle back to my own beginnings. I am learning again to respect the process: that everyone's is different. I can choose to be a part of someone else's or not, but it's not my prerogative to dictate how it should go. Yeah, it's fucking hard -- patience has never been my strong suit. But then that's my own lesson, and a circuit I have only just begun.
How does that saying go? Live and let live?
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
I'm Out Of The Shower, Let's Get Crackin'
Look, Here's The Thing:
As the days get progressively shorter and thus more frigid in temperature (yes -- FRIGID) I have a tendency to take an average of 2-3 hot showers throughout the day (not because I'm a germophobe -- say hello to the girl that rarely washes her hands after peeing. Have I mentioned that antibacterials may be the end of our race and that vaccines are the antichrist? No? WELL JUST BE PATIENT) simply to maintain my mean internal temperature.
So when I reach the point of being cold due to Midwestern living and unmanagable anxiety, you may as well throw a microwave and some ramen in the bathroom because I'm not coming out any time soon. It's like as soon as I step out I'm woozy from the heat so I need a nap, but all that laying down brings me straight back down to freezing, so off to the shower I go. Vicious cycles be damned.
Right now I'm beginning a marathon bathroom tour for several reasons. Unfinished business with Buddy Holly (I guess it ain't over 'til the fat lady sings -- and if I have to play the fat lady I haven't done much singing, just a lot of crying in the shower), where my life is headed, how to block out The Mother vacuuming over my head as I attempt to sleep the day through. I'm also doing everything in my power to avoid working on this commission painting I've had on my plate for oh, a little over a year.
This painting I'm working on is for someone that I love dearly. She recently had her first child, a daughter that is the tiniest, cutest little thing I've ever seen. I like to remind her that someday, this tiny bundle of bodily fluids will have a mind of her own and blame all her problems on her mother. That she will go to prom with a pimply boy that's all hands and no manners. That she will talk back and probably put posters of effeminate boy-men up on her bedroom wall. But I digress.
No matter how much I love this person that I'm doing the work for and want to make her happy with it, it's always been a struggle for me to get myself motivated to actually finish. Painting is the way I get what's inside of me to the surface, so to attempt it in reverse is difficult.
But the fact remains that until I get this painting done I will never move forward. Each day I will be eyeing the new works while struggling with the old, or feeling guilty for not tying up lose ends while working ahead.
So here's the Eureka! moment. Just like this process I'm struggling with, no two people will ever be able to move forward with each other until their own lose ends have been dealt with. I will never be able to change the way I behave until I acknowledge how those behaviors came about. And moving forward is tough when you're forever looking back for the answer. Similarly, I will never be able to deal wholly with what happened in my past while the relationship moves forward without me. It's a balancing act, and a fucking tough one at that.
All I can hope for is that the two really do work hand in hand. That the love we have for each other brings all of us to the table. That the push and pull of self within relationship really does create the best of both.
I can't make myself want to work on this painting. I can't flip it on its head and make it come from the inside out. But I can remember how I feel about her, and hope that that takes me that much closer to the next step within me.
As the days get progressively shorter and thus more frigid in temperature (yes -- FRIGID) I have a tendency to take an average of 2-3 hot showers throughout the day (not because I'm a germophobe -- say hello to the girl that rarely washes her hands after peeing. Have I mentioned that antibacterials may be the end of our race and that vaccines are the antichrist? No? WELL JUST BE PATIENT) simply to maintain my mean internal temperature.
So when I reach the point of being cold due to Midwestern living and unmanagable anxiety, you may as well throw a microwave and some ramen in the bathroom because I'm not coming out any time soon. It's like as soon as I step out I'm woozy from the heat so I need a nap, but all that laying down brings me straight back down to freezing, so off to the shower I go. Vicious cycles be damned.
Right now I'm beginning a marathon bathroom tour for several reasons. Unfinished business with Buddy Holly (I guess it ain't over 'til the fat lady sings -- and if I have to play the fat lady I haven't done much singing, just a lot of crying in the shower), where my life is headed, how to block out The Mother vacuuming over my head as I attempt to sleep the day through. I'm also doing everything in my power to avoid working on this commission painting I've had on my plate for oh, a little over a year.
This painting I'm working on is for someone that I love dearly. She recently had her first child, a daughter that is the tiniest, cutest little thing I've ever seen. I like to remind her that someday, this tiny bundle of bodily fluids will have a mind of her own and blame all her problems on her mother. That she will go to prom with a pimply boy that's all hands and no manners. That she will talk back and probably put posters of effeminate boy-men up on her bedroom wall. But I digress.
No matter how much I love this person that I'm doing the work for and want to make her happy with it, it's always been a struggle for me to get myself motivated to actually finish. Painting is the way I get what's inside of me to the surface, so to attempt it in reverse is difficult.
But the fact remains that until I get this painting done I will never move forward. Each day I will be eyeing the new works while struggling with the old, or feeling guilty for not tying up lose ends while working ahead.
So here's the Eureka! moment. Just like this process I'm struggling with, no two people will ever be able to move forward with each other until their own lose ends have been dealt with. I will never be able to change the way I behave until I acknowledge how those behaviors came about. And moving forward is tough when you're forever looking back for the answer. Similarly, I will never be able to deal wholly with what happened in my past while the relationship moves forward without me. It's a balancing act, and a fucking tough one at that.
All I can hope for is that the two really do work hand in hand. That the love we have for each other brings all of us to the table. That the push and pull of self within relationship really does create the best of both.
I can't make myself want to work on this painting. I can't flip it on its head and make it come from the inside out. But I can remember how I feel about her, and hope that that takes me that much closer to the next step within me.
Monday, October 1, 2012
On Poop And Perspective
A few years ago, the business at which I am employed had somewhat of an "encounter" with one of our delivery personnel.
On this particular day, said individual arrived smelling a little less fragrant than roses. And not the good kind, but more like the Outkast song. If you know what I mean.
Not only did he decide to stay and chat with us far longer than on any normal day -- I think we were talking about fish, appropriately enough -- but also requested a visit to the little boy's room. Being people of copious liquid consumption whose bladders are also top priority on long car rides we conceded amicably. After he left we could do nothing but wonder at the presence of this person and his odd odor. So strong was it that when he left I had to light a candle to clear the room.
And then I had to pee.
Boys and girls let me tell you, such horror I have not experienced in all my life. Being a person unreasonably afraid of bodily functions I could not contain myself and immediately fled to tell my coworkers. Let's just say there was more than pee on the seat. And the floor. And the wall.
The mess did get cleaned up, in the appropriate new-age way with essential oils and Ecover cleaners and all the like. And I did face my fear to participate. We did gossip and say mean things. We did judge and act catty. We did feel totally grossed out.
Flash forward a week or so, to my coworker deciding to exercise her powers of Authority in calling the offending party's employer to file an official complaint. As it turns out, this man's wife was the one she spoke to and responded in the most agreeable of ways, with assurance that it would never happen again and much apologizing.
Flash forward a few more weeks. The incident is all but forgotten, and the complaining party (my coworkers and I) still reminiscent upon the wrong that was done to us and our great strength in confronting it. All is well.
Until the day we receive a call from the company in question informing us that our previous driver had recently died of a bowel obstruction and would not be delivering to us any longer. He had also been dealing with severe joint issues and copious other health problems, but needed to work to keep the company moving. And so he did, until the very end.
Now I'm not saying it's possible to ignore when you feel wronged. Nor do I think you should. But I do think that with every coin there is two sides, as with any interaction involving more than one person. To forget yourself and your beliefs does not work. But to displace blame doesn't either. The only way to move forward is to move outside of yourself sometimes, to work with one another by really hearing one another. To seek to listen as much as to talk. Because no one is an island.
On this particular day, said individual arrived smelling a little less fragrant than roses. And not the good kind, but more like the Outkast song. If you know what I mean.
Not only did he decide to stay and chat with us far longer than on any normal day -- I think we were talking about fish, appropriately enough -- but also requested a visit to the little boy's room. Being people of copious liquid consumption whose bladders are also top priority on long car rides we conceded amicably. After he left we could do nothing but wonder at the presence of this person and his odd odor. So strong was it that when he left I had to light a candle to clear the room.
And then I had to pee.
Boys and girls let me tell you, such horror I have not experienced in all my life. Being a person unreasonably afraid of bodily functions I could not contain myself and immediately fled to tell my coworkers. Let's just say there was more than pee on the seat. And the floor. And the wall.
The mess did get cleaned up, in the appropriate new-age way with essential oils and Ecover cleaners and all the like. And I did face my fear to participate. We did gossip and say mean things. We did judge and act catty. We did feel totally grossed out.
Flash forward a week or so, to my coworker deciding to exercise her powers of Authority in calling the offending party's employer to file an official complaint. As it turns out, this man's wife was the one she spoke to and responded in the most agreeable of ways, with assurance that it would never happen again and much apologizing.
Flash forward a few more weeks. The incident is all but forgotten, and the complaining party (my coworkers and I) still reminiscent upon the wrong that was done to us and our great strength in confronting it. All is well.
Until the day we receive a call from the company in question informing us that our previous driver had recently died of a bowel obstruction and would not be delivering to us any longer. He had also been dealing with severe joint issues and copious other health problems, but needed to work to keep the company moving. And so he did, until the very end.
Now I'm not saying it's possible to ignore when you feel wronged. Nor do I think you should. But I do think that with every coin there is two sides, as with any interaction involving more than one person. To forget yourself and your beliefs does not work. But to displace blame doesn't either. The only way to move forward is to move outside of yourself sometimes, to work with one another by really hearing one another. To seek to listen as much as to talk. Because no one is an island.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)