running

it occurred to me while running last night, that not all the trash on the side of the road was thrown there intentionally. forgiveness marches forward.

happy birthday theresa!

happy birthday Theresa!
my dear, dear friend, without whom i would not be the person i am today, i am so grateful for you in my life! not having been a girl with many girlfriends growing up, to meet and connect with another strong woman has found its place of balance in my life. you are a person i feel proportionate with, and you’ve shown me i’m not a train wreck barreling through people’s lives. your poise and strength have shown me that i can be a woman and not have to pull diva, but when i want to, dammit, it better be good. that i also have a soft side, not a weak side, but a femininity that is my birthright. and you have taught me so much about the nature of friendship and how important it is in life, the give and take and support that comes with it, not just a breezy hey how’s it going before jetting off somewhere distant.
thank you, Theresa, for all of this, and happy birthday!
kh

everything has value

everything has value. those words have a soothing to them that i can’t explain. i have been fostering an inner dialogue lately concerning the nature of my recovery and the steps necessary for me to continue to grow in a positive direction. to keep it up when everything is good as opposed to waiting for some pain to motivate my actions. and really, i’m doing it anyway. it’s only when i’m bored do the wheels start to turn that there is something i ought to be doing, some way i’m not fulfilling my obligation as an American to do do do.
i was privy to an interesting conversation last night at macniven’s concerning the nature of americans’ obsession to be the best. why must we strive to be the best in everything we do? why can’t it be enough to do a good job and the rest will sort itself out?

i do not know the answer to this question.

i suffer this curse as well, the plague to the best. have the best, do the best, live the best, live BIG! do big things! make it all as wonderful as it possibly can! there’s nothing wrong with that mentality, i believe. that mentality, and the insanity that usually accompanies it, has given the world some fantastic results. conversely, it has driven many to madness, but everything has its price. i am willing to suffer the pain of uncertainty in exchange for a noteworthy, adventurous life. after all, it has its value, too.

personal terrorism

my own form of terrorism has been judgment on my peers.
i judge those who have what i don’t, those to whom i feel superior, those to whom i feel inferior, those who i don’t understand, those who terrify me. i scoff at men and women, at couples, at the elderly and the weak; and exposed flesh is my in for devious and hateful thoughts.
defects are assets taken to extremes. there are several reasons behind my lambastings; it’s a reflection of my fears and insecurities, it’s a protective waxy coating over the sensitive spots.
an asset of mine is the desire to grow and continue in personal enrichment. alternately, my fear is that i’ll stop growing and wake up at 40, fat, wearing a muu-muu and feeding my 18 cats out of china and crystal. the fear then spurs a psychotic compulsion to dosearchlookanalyze, which leaks out of my own perimeter and spills onto anyone next to me.
a painful spot for me has been the choice/non-choice of remaining solo. the push/pull that has occurred for years in me has resulted in gnawing disapproval of phrases that include “..my boyfriend..” or “..my girlfriend..,” simply because a) i didn’t have that and b) it often rings as insincere and c) i can’t fathom how some people could begin to scratch the surface of the feelings i deem necessary for a true love. or i’m just jealous.
having entered a place where i’m not compulsively doing (or it’s not as apparent) and i  am developing a relationship with a man, i am listening to the same horrible voice i projected at others, only now it’s pointed inward. not cool how it takes my own experience to show me how ugly i’ve been towards others, but such is the human experience.
the reversal of this doesn’t have to take ages. i may always feel a twinge of something when i see clichés walking around, or i may always have subtle doubts of others’ sincerities, but that may also be my subtle acknowledgement of someone’s insincerity. regardless, the journey toward compassion has advanced a step or two, and i feel softer.
living amends.

sunday morning

i woke up this morning, made a pot of coffee, and sat at the computer to read the news and check myspace. i am desperate to go back to florida; it’s the first thought in my mind when i wake up.
this particular sunday morning, however, has left me feeling desperate and limp; the front page of the Times website is a bullet-riddled minibus that was carrying Lebanese refugees. the Lebanon Daily Star blares “LEBANON UNDER ATTACK” on the main page. The Ha’aretz Daily out of Israel screams the same thing, different slant.
An NPR radio story described the Lebanese divers who pull bodies from the river, daily. They are given no gloves, they have no life jackets, and they are not paid. It is their “religious duty” to do this for their slain brothers and sisters. Families of those missing post photographs on boards near where the bodies are brought; that image struck most with me. To know the chances that my father or brother or lover ending up in a river are greater than ending up by my side again brings such a penetrating sadness, I find it hard to breathe.
And at the same time, this fight is not the only thing going on in the world today. People are falling in love; the Tour de France is completing its run, led by an American; new masterpieces are being composed; a Prairie Home Companion on the radio. It confuses me.  My own sadnesses and longings seem to pale in comparison, but in owning these feelings it’s difficult to dismiss them that easily. Are we all competing for the right to feel?

hrm

there are experiences that are so precious, talking about them deflates the magic. or it’s my terror that this little bit of cloud i’ve collected in a bell jar would evaporate when i start to share it with the world.
a thousand things swimming through my head, a million answers to a million previously unanswerable questions. in meeting him, in that first evening over thai, then over billiards and Sinatra and led zeppelin, capped with a wool fedora, a warm breeze began to blow in my world. sealed with a delightfully tender bunch of kisses, there was nothing left to be done, save breathe.
i’ve been waiting for this for a long time, and the plague of self-doubting locusts in my head decry it as inorganic for having been wanted. is food less nourishing if we ask to be fed? is a jewel less brilliant if we choose it ourselves? is a man less perfect if i asked for someone kind and caring, smart and stylish, and a thousand other adjectives i didn’t know could fit into one human being alone. and yet.
never having done this in this capacity before, i understand the value of being much more forgiving of myself should i make a mistake. hell, what do i know? i want to show up and do the best i can, just like anyone else. it occurs to me that no one else knows what to do, either, we all just make the best decisions we can with the evidence at hand. i suppose the only wrong thing to do would be assume there is nothing special in this one, no reason to treat him like the rosetta stone he is, toss it away like yesterday’s times. in fact, the exact opposite is true. the feeling sits in my gut and swirls around in my head and makes me smile and keeps me focused on the decisions at hand.
i haven’t lost faith that love is what it’s all about. i think that is what fleshes out group a from group b. having once been a card-carrying member of group b, scaling the fence and looking back makes me sad for those who still look at it as an unnecessary exercise in being vulnerable and scared, less attractive by way of being human. having hurt once, or a thousand times, they give up. god save me, i don’t want to ever return to that.

and a thousand other things i can’t begin to tell you about.

not a babysitter

a knock on the door, room number 208. “yes?” no answer. the sound of children running up and down the breezeway. kids messing around, still on hold with tech support, coffee still pleasantly warm and rich.
another knock on the door. “yes, hello?” in that voice i hate from other people, coming from my own mouth. muffled, flustered woman’s voice on the other side of the door. “this is your neighbor, um..” “yes? what can i do for you?” a little sharper than i intended, but my point was made. more running footsteps. “i was wondering if you could play ball with this little boy?” pull the curtains tighter together in response.

why partner

for a long time i’ve wondered why we, as human beings, are made to mate, why we need a partner. it’s undeniable, just look at nature. but why me? why do i have to sink to an animal level and *gasp* date. then marry. and have kids. the thought was enough to put me off my tofu for a fortnight.

things have begun to change, lately. i was flipping through a magazine at kunda’s house this afternoon, and there was a photograph of two red-faced, shaggy monkeys. one was  huddled behind the other, eyes closed, while its protector had a look of human-like kindness and vulnerability etched into its brow. the symbiosis displayed in that photo sent chills down my spine, and it occurred to me that we find a mate for our own humility. to partner with another in the same rickety boat as we are in proves our need for help and assistance. it proves that we are not god, which is an inherently singular noun, and that our comfort lies outside ourselves. to deny our instinct to match with another is to deny humble and declare to the universe: Bugger off, I can do this on my own!

at 23, i am perfectly capable of doing just about anything that needs to be done in my life, save step on big creepy bugs. and when i can’t do it, i find a way to git ‘er done. i have spent years declaring to the universe and everyone that i am strong, independent, and capable of opening my own doors, thank you very much. i have concurrently been denying the most obvious of god’s presentations in our lives: love. partners, lovers, friends, they all give us love in addition to the protection and safety in numbers we need for survival. to forego one is to forego the other. this time last year began a journey into the intimacy of friendship, a realignment of values and priorities. not lover, career, freedom, friends, family; rather, the other way around.

from five years ago to this point today, every bit of advancement has been made in my acceptance of my humanity and my animalism. being a human being is less scary than it once was, and it’s not so terrifying to see monkeys hugging in trees or watch friends buy a house or get engaged.

who does this?

i was waiting in the parking lot for my cousin to leave work this afternoon, parked in the first spot next to the handicapped spot, when a white sebring pulled up next to me. he had parked all wonky, and leaned over to roll down the passenger side window. nervous that he was going to try to talk to me, i leaned the opposite way to mess with my ipod and ignore him. when i glanced back, he had leaned his seat back a little back, i could see the top of his rasta cap reclining. i relaxed, figuring he was waiting for a girlfriend or someone to leave the store as well, even thinking he was a little bit cute with his cap. so i glanced over one more time.

he was masturbating.

i drove away.

independence day

what moves so within us when we see fireworks? what is inherently American and draws us, speechless, into their harsh sulfuric glare?
the girl at the coffeshop vehemently defended her disgust of Independence Day pyrotechnics, citing their damage to the ozone layer, among other things.
the street in front of the house was smeared with sinister-looking lines of black burns and white ash, remnants of the wiz-bang display of the night before.
huge explosions, debris raining from the sky, ash and soot, billowing smoke, why does it enchant us? our fireballs would stop traffic, literally, as there was no way to circumnavigate the fiery street, and one man stopped to remark on that particular display as the best he’d seen all night. after another, there was rapt silence, before a few of our audience issued low whistles, or approving claps, and utterances of great pleasure.
is it because the fireworks out-alpha us, the dominant humans? do we see the divine in the capture and manipulation of fire, a promethean urge to look skyward and laugh at our cunning?

catch

there are some things i long for so desperately i can’t bear the thought of missing them.

when their names circle through the recesses of my mind, a drought forms in my chest, a tiny pinprick in the fabric that holds my heart in place. quickly, under the deluge of memory and lost love, the dunes encase my soul, and the beats drop out of my chest to a bloody pulp on the floor. a scream catches in my throat, and my head drops instinctively to my chest, elbows touching ears, a protection from the emotional onslaught.

the price of scaling a wall into a secret garden, an oasis of friendship and falling in love, exotic smells and tastes and Bengal tigers, serenity and peace, is watching the bricks shrink in the rearview mirror.

the price of wanderlust is love.

this has nothing to do with pornography

pornography clouds the mind like a cataract.
vulgarity creeps into consciousness at the most innocuous of moments, turning inner peace into turmoil. the instant gratification of observing another’s orgasm is not overtly spiritual, but is it non-spiritual? is it aspiritual, anti-spiritual? does it offend god? or it is ok?

all things are spiritual. even the question i pose myself every moment of every day: does god think this is ok? is a spiritual venture. prayer is directly spiritual. meditation. quiet. writing, for me. music, for others. there are verbs we associate most closely with closeness to the divine (is god divine? what if god is homely? plain?), and there are verbs we associate with being kicked out of the Garden: murder, brutalize, harm, take. but what of the ones in the middle? the humble and human verbs? squint, defecate, yawn, make a pot of coffee, rub lotion on a dry elbow? myspace? download pirated music, chat on the phone, honk at a slow driver? are these, by merit of not being “spiritual,” then “non-spiritual?”

what is more spiritual, to remain steadfast or to uproot, define the ephemeral? who is closer to god: the hedonist or the ascetic? and what of the guy who just wants to play harmonica and have a grilled cheese sandwich; is the divine muddled in the mundane? beauty in the boring?

i have a nasty habit of judging people who are not, in my esteem, “extraordinary.” this has pigeon-holed me into overlooking the very beauty in a woman whom i may judge for her lack of fashionable clothing, for instance. or the simple treasures families hold in their homes that they feel no need to pack into their cars and drive off toward a horizon, forever 2.5 nautical miles away. more precisely, i do not look at what i don’t relate to. my push for the extraordinary, read spiritual, in my life, has blinded me to much of the spiritual in the common-place.

i suppose the answer to all of this is a repetition of the previous statement: all things are spiritual. if god is a part of, if god is deliberately left out, if god is cursed and crucified and napalmed and george bushed and chopped into tiny bits and used for chum, it is spiritual. i don’t know why, and i don’t know how, but i feel that mine is an intensely close commune with god, all of our conversations, all of my pleadings and wailings and all of god’s rainbows and tsunamis and just plain boring moments.

these are all good times.

venice rain

it’s raining Venice right now. great, steady drops that accumulate in the middle of roads and turn into oceans with their own swells, wake pushed off cars crawling slowly through. the rain finds its way through a hole in the ceiling, just above the toilet, now a pedestal for a small plastic refuse container. the sky is a uniform grey, not the boiling rage of this week’s fleeting storms; this one has settled in, hung (or is it hanged? scott?) its hat, and made itself welcome.

i remember this rain from my childhood, and it has been a long time since i’ve heard those tiny percussionists drumming my roof. back then, though, the lanai was bathed in faint green light and the din came from the corrugated plastic roof. i used to tiptoe from one rough, stucco tile across the inch-wide canyon to the next, traversing the path from house to pool and back again. watching dark brown lizards cling to the undulating screens, surfing the wind. if we had it in time, we would pull the yellow shades that neatly compacted themselves into a tropical cylinder atop the screens when retracted, that blowed wildly when unfurled. i can still see the galaxies of rain-dimples on the surface of the canal just beyond the swell of citrus trees in our backyard, and the cities of anthills that made a barefoot trek harrowing. and dandy, our sweet tempered, fluffy sheltie, sitting in the middle of this interloping universe by my side.

today is a different world; it brings me a mix of peace and sadness to think of rainy florida evenings 10 years ago. that there is reconciliation between who i was sitting there, a decade ago, with who i am sitting here, presently, is the source of the peace. that i never understood how ephemeral that beauty was while i was in it, and took it for granted, brings me the sadness borne of childhood folly.

evening recap 050606

i ended my day today at a coffeshop, sitting on the patio with a cappuccino and finishing life of pi. this is the same coffeshop kiki and i sat at about 4 years ago, waiting to hear from Breton, or whatever his name was, who never pulled through. regardless, the climate, emotionally, was very different tonight. tonight was pure relaxation, bliss, really. the air was perfectly warm, no chill to speak of, soft and dark. my coffee tasted perfectly salty under the foam, and my book was perfectly engrossing. gorgeous.
the day began well enough, with a bizarre dream collin was tattooing my feet. then morning prayers, dad made coffee and French toast and the golden girls was on. a dramatic shift in my mood after i wrestled with Kaplan for the afternoon, still no results, and i stormed around until i had to be somewhere, namely the 1:00 oil change i moved up from 2:30 to accommodate FRA-POR semi-finals. i watched the game at The Sportspage on Main in SRQ, right off the marina, and made nice with the bartender and her boyfriend.
i don’t assume that I am what you would call an “approachable” person, and i say this because i’m not often approached. the bartender, however, was very quick to introduce herself and shake my hand and we had good soccer conversation. i met her boyfriend, a frog, and she gave me her card when i left. i am stunned at how easy it’s been for me to make new friends here. it’s a marked departure from what life was like years ago.
i left the bar, celebrating FRANCE BEATING PORTUGAL *ahem * and met Lauren at siesta beach, where we talked and made fun of people and dug in the sand and tried to make plans for roller derby. an 8:00 mtg off Bahia Vista, at a church that looks like a skate ramp, just as Kat described, then to the coffeshop.
I detail the bits of my day for one very important reason: the sheer simplicity that fills me here. i always talk about how i’d live here or i’d live there, but Venice is always the place where i grew up, as far removed as i may be. inland, i feel suffocated, like there’s no room to move, breathe. waterside, something about the infinite space beyond calms me and gives me permission to settle down.

the rainbow starts at the bottom right corner, behind the lamp-post, and continues up and over into oblivion. 03 july 2006.
  

 
the sight of this man reading tom wolfe's newest rag amused the hell out of me. 

a dirty, poorly-lighted place

the cock and bull is a pub built into an old barn, the last building before a gas station past the last streetlight at the end of cattleman road in Sarasota. the door isn’t marked as an entrance, and walking in, one gets the feeling of having entered a set on a david lynch film. the bar is immediately to the front, and the line crawls slowly with people waiting for their beers. a lean black Doberman, missing one ear, stands behind the bar, watching. stairs leading to an upstairs balcony are roped off, a foosball table placed nearby. round, low tables are crowded as close to the walls as possible, filled with young people talking and drinking. disjointed music selections play from an unseen jukebox, but the place has the feeling of being hit with a “mute” button. there is an emptiness to the sounds of music, talking, laughter. and it’s dark. a light swings over a pool table where a woman dressed in ugly 80’s throwbacks mashes the balls around with her custom cue. walking outside is no better. a green light floods the rain-soaked porch, and the group of men stop talking and look up, staring, when we step out. beyond the porch is a yard filled with tables and a large fire pit, presumably for the winter months. the light bathes everything in the feeling of dirty anonymity. a couple of nihilists sit under an awning, cordoned off from the rest by mosquito netting.
the walls up to the vaulted ceiling are covered in old memorabilia. a French horn rests in a beam, a pair of ice skates looped over the pool lamp, a washboard, two guitars, faded and torn world maps; two large trees guard the front entrance and the break into the pool room.
the whole place had the vibe of the last party on the stop, the one where everyone there is too high to move toward the door so they sit at a corner table playing dominoes, and you’re too stoned to make sense of what is going on, all you can do is stumble through the party, the interloper, before settling down into a corner table of your own.
waits, cohen, hemingway would all have found solice in this dirty, poorly lighted place.

the moon and sea

the half moon was hanging low and orange tonight, suspended in glowing gauze just three fingers above the horizon. the sand glowed a faint white, and the dark warm water met the inky sky with a barely perceptible strip of dark infinity.
standing in the wet sand, toes lapped by gentle waves, the moon’s sienna reflection down the sea stopped at my feet. a few yards out, the straight line wavered and flowed this way and that with the swells. lights to the south mark the pier, and lights to the north mark the jetties. dunes behind me pregnant with shadows, and my sandals sat at the bottom of the boardwalk’s steps. walking back, we turned one last time to see the clouds moving in over the moon, blanketing it for slumber.