I should be going to bed right now. I certainly shouldn't be blogging but I'm afraid tonight is a must. I knew the moment I left the movie I saw earlier that a blog would be in short order. What movie is this that has spurred me flaunt my bedtime and treat you all to a marvelous rant? I will tell you, Mona Lisa's Smile.
What was it about you ask? It was about many things, choices, restrictions, life. But more specifically, it was about women's lives. Yes I know, you have heard it all before, multiple times from me at least. But this was different. See this movie takes place in 1953. And yet, through many of the things that seemed so out of date and ancient, I realized I had lived those same situations. Let me explain.
These girls go to college more as a step on the road to marriage than for any real hope of education. They look forward to the time when they will keep house and home for dear old hubby, raise babies and be a housewife. At the conclusion of the movie the woman I was watching it with asked me why I was laughing. It wasn't particularly funny. I told her, if I don't laugh I'll cry. You see, growing up my plan was to be married by twenty-one and having babies by twenty-five. I am now twenty-two and have absolutely no intention of carrying out that plan, but the fact I ever considered that the way things ought to be is quite scary. This movie is set in 1953. I was born in 1981. Some things never change huh?
All sorts of thoughts swirled through my head, so many things that I have been told, or have assumed to be correct over the years. What is right? What is the correct decision? What is morally or ethically the way to live your life? I seemed to find the way a few years back when I settled on anything is fine so long as it doesn't hurt anyone. But is that really the answer? What is a man or a woman supposed to be? What does that mean? There are so many self-help books out there, so many guidebooks and handbooks to lead you on the right path. But what is the right path? I know what the stereotype of women is. I know what I like and don't like about my gender. But there are things that at times I wish I could be but feel inapproriate allowing. Most times I feel so guilty for sharing emotion with anyone. I suppose I have an innate fear of being labled a hysterical or weak female. How much of what I am is hysterical woman, and how much of it is just the real and true me?
As I began to consider that another thought occured to me. What is it like to live a man's life? To be taught from infancy that weakness is unacceptable and anything "feminine" in nature is to be repressed and/or removed from one's character? How must that affect someone. Men have as many moods as women, their hormones affect how they feel as much as ours do, but they are never taught that. They are never given help or insight in how to deal with such mood swings. They have no recourse when it comes to dealing with their emotions. If we are pushed and prodded into a mold of hysterical woman they are forced to be the stoic man.
Is it our culture or human nature to label everything? All must be neatly defined and labeled in a pretty box. Always there must be a popular path for all to follow. Always others must judge those around them. Always we must know what we want to do with our lives immediately upon entering adulthood and the course is to be followed for the rest of our days.
It is all very confusing and I am well and truly tired now. There are no answers. There never are. I realize this but I continue to search anyway. Some days I feel I am getting closer to answers, only to be shown another side, another path. I know at least one answer. No one knows what is right for me except myself, just as I have no idea what is right for anyone else. We all must choose our own path in this world. The only solution for the moment is to remember that no one has all the answers. To judge others for a path or decision is to rule without all the evidence. Some girls want to be housewives, work at hooters, rule the world. Some men want the freedom to cry, be an artist, express themselves. The decision is up to them and I feel I must fall back on my earlier discovery. So long as no one is hurt I can do nothing but respect the decision of others.
There are no answers, but thank goodness for provoking questions. Without them I fear my life would be stagnant. To never realize questions are there...that is the only true wrong I can see.
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
Saturday, December 27, 2003
Oh goodness gracious--just for the record if there were a blog olympics for writing this while cats jump all over me and my laptop I would have a gold medal. I will illustrate for you. A small, not so bright cat, a bright screen with a flashing line moving all over, obviously it is a toy! I'm not a cat person. I'm simply too nice to kick them out on the street.
Now for the good news. I successfully managed to link my old computer to my old where I proceeded to transfer files. I even managed to transfer my music which is hellacool because now I can make cd's with all those cool songs I downloaded oh so long ago. On the bad side, one of my disks has gone bad which means I have lost the most updated verision of my 43 page story. Yeah, that put a damper on the night. I have it printed out and I was going to work on it so I suppose I can just revise as I go but that really isn't very cool.
I say god damn, these cats are getting sold to the nearest Chinese restaurant. Their fat; I need the money. Sounds like a plan.
I am definitely enjoying my new toy. I enjoyed it so much on Christmas day, in fact, that I forgot to sing Happy Birthday to my father. Way I look at it, he never wants to stop watching whatever sporting event is on the television during my birthday so we're even. He and I are in agreement that singing the birthday song to someone doesn't exactly define a relationship. We're both just new age like that.
I had a fairly disturbing realization this Christmas. I'm starting to forget my uncle. For those of you just tuning in I will enlighten you--my uncle died when I was twelve. My only real memories are that he always seemed extremely refined, very cultured, slightly cold. I know had I the chance I would have really enjoyed him when I got older. What still pisses me off to this day is that he didn't have to die. The man had AIDS--there was no way to save him and no reason for him to die.
It is a strange thing that I have had these thoughts. At twelve his death didn't affect me much. I was too young to know him, and too young to care. I don't think I really ever missed him until about two years ago. It was then, finally getting to know my aunt, his older sister, that I realized how cool of a person he was. I realized how much fun I doubtless would have had with him just as I was with my aunt. Talk about delayed reaction. Eight years later I miss the bloke. How fucked up is that for emotional development? I suppose it all makes sense in some way. Now that I'm older and a tad wiser I know what I'm missing. Ignorance really is bliss.
VH1 had an AIDS special on the some morning. A tribute to all those dead and dying, an educational speech or two on where we as a country stand concerning the disease. It is disturbing to not be educated by the show, but reminded of the past. Growing up I spent a whole lot of time thinking "wow, I'm glad I'm not one of those people. It would be terrible to know what that feels like." Now I spend a whole lot of time wondering when I became on more grieving relative and faceless vicitm. I'm a statistic. It seems with every year I add to my tally, I prove another theory.
I sat through a sermon once, I remember one specific idea from it. The pastor discussed meeting people and how boring it is to meet someone who has never experienced anything. No one wishes tragedy on another, but how dull are the people that have never suffered? Is that because we percieve ourselves as having suffered and thus want someone to empathize with? Or is it because with suffering comes the hardest, purest kinds of truth and all people of a questioning nature crave that kind of wisdom? When tragedy strikes we want to know two things. Why did it happen to me and how can I feel better. Anyone can tell you it happened because "that's life" and you won't feel better until a period of time has passed. That's common sense. A sympathetic fellow, however, somone who has suffered before you can vocalize your feelings. Their wisdom isn't in knowing the answers it is in handling the pain. They've faced their demons, walked over the coals and come to terms with the ordeal. They can vocalize the roiling pain inside the chest that never seems to abate. They have the words for the feelings othesr are afraid to express. Listening to them you can stop feeling ashamed of your pain and understand it. Let it flow over you until you too have learned the art of survival. I think that is why people who have suffered are "interesting". Because if they've grown from their pain, not been destroyed by it, then they are living proof that life does go on. Sometimes when you're hit for the fist time you need that--you need to be reminded that the sun does rise tomorrow with or without your consent. A person at peace with her pain shows others there is a better life than simple survival. She is interesting because she is amazing.
I'm not sure what is too be learned here except some pains never go away. More amazing, though, is that old wounds always break open. The Christmas season is terribly hard for that. I doubt there is a person alive who doesn't feel alone one way or another through the holidays. How important it is, then, to let those you care for know you are thinking about them. How important it is to be understanding of everyone. While life can always be better what must be remembered is that it can always be worse. I don't know if that is optimistic or not. I'd rather think of it as plain old common sense.
Now for the good news. I successfully managed to link my old computer to my old where I proceeded to transfer files. I even managed to transfer my music which is hellacool because now I can make cd's with all those cool songs I downloaded oh so long ago. On the bad side, one of my disks has gone bad which means I have lost the most updated verision of my 43 page story. Yeah, that put a damper on the night. I have it printed out and I was going to work on it so I suppose I can just revise as I go but that really isn't very cool.
I say god damn, these cats are getting sold to the nearest Chinese restaurant. Their fat; I need the money. Sounds like a plan.
I am definitely enjoying my new toy. I enjoyed it so much on Christmas day, in fact, that I forgot to sing Happy Birthday to my father. Way I look at it, he never wants to stop watching whatever sporting event is on the television during my birthday so we're even. He and I are in agreement that singing the birthday song to someone doesn't exactly define a relationship. We're both just new age like that.
I had a fairly disturbing realization this Christmas. I'm starting to forget my uncle. For those of you just tuning in I will enlighten you--my uncle died when I was twelve. My only real memories are that he always seemed extremely refined, very cultured, slightly cold. I know had I the chance I would have really enjoyed him when I got older. What still pisses me off to this day is that he didn't have to die. The man had AIDS--there was no way to save him and no reason for him to die.
It is a strange thing that I have had these thoughts. At twelve his death didn't affect me much. I was too young to know him, and too young to care. I don't think I really ever missed him until about two years ago. It was then, finally getting to know my aunt, his older sister, that I realized how cool of a person he was. I realized how much fun I doubtless would have had with him just as I was with my aunt. Talk about delayed reaction. Eight years later I miss the bloke. How fucked up is that for emotional development? I suppose it all makes sense in some way. Now that I'm older and a tad wiser I know what I'm missing. Ignorance really is bliss.
VH1 had an AIDS special on the some morning. A tribute to all those dead and dying, an educational speech or two on where we as a country stand concerning the disease. It is disturbing to not be educated by the show, but reminded of the past. Growing up I spent a whole lot of time thinking "wow, I'm glad I'm not one of those people. It would be terrible to know what that feels like." Now I spend a whole lot of time wondering when I became on more grieving relative and faceless vicitm. I'm a statistic. It seems with every year I add to my tally, I prove another theory.
I sat through a sermon once, I remember one specific idea from it. The pastor discussed meeting people and how boring it is to meet someone who has never experienced anything. No one wishes tragedy on another, but how dull are the people that have never suffered? Is that because we percieve ourselves as having suffered and thus want someone to empathize with? Or is it because with suffering comes the hardest, purest kinds of truth and all people of a questioning nature crave that kind of wisdom? When tragedy strikes we want to know two things. Why did it happen to me and how can I feel better. Anyone can tell you it happened because "that's life" and you won't feel better until a period of time has passed. That's common sense. A sympathetic fellow, however, somone who has suffered before you can vocalize your feelings. Their wisdom isn't in knowing the answers it is in handling the pain. They've faced their demons, walked over the coals and come to terms with the ordeal. They can vocalize the roiling pain inside the chest that never seems to abate. They have the words for the feelings othesr are afraid to express. Listening to them you can stop feeling ashamed of your pain and understand it. Let it flow over you until you too have learned the art of survival. I think that is why people who have suffered are "interesting". Because if they've grown from their pain, not been destroyed by it, then they are living proof that life does go on. Sometimes when you're hit for the fist time you need that--you need to be reminded that the sun does rise tomorrow with or without your consent. A person at peace with her pain shows others there is a better life than simple survival. She is interesting because she is amazing.
I'm not sure what is too be learned here except some pains never go away. More amazing, though, is that old wounds always break open. The Christmas season is terribly hard for that. I doubt there is a person alive who doesn't feel alone one way or another through the holidays. How important it is, then, to let those you care for know you are thinking about them. How important it is to be understanding of everyone. While life can always be better what must be remembered is that it can always be worse. I don't know if that is optimistic or not. I'd rather think of it as plain old common sense.
Monday, December 22, 2003
Oh where to start--such a fun, great and absolutely horrible weekend all at once. Let's start at the very beginning...
Friday night, take off from work early to travel the route to Champaign. Now for those of you not familiar I will enlighten you. Traveling to Champaign is like going across Kansas. It's flat, it's dead and it never ends. Sure there are a few hills, maybe even a dilapidated tree here and there but over all it is a butt-ass ugly trip and boring as hell to drive. Add to this that every slow-ass, afraid to pass driver in the entire state seeming to be in front of me and you get a healthy dose of road rage. It doesn't help that I am no longer smoking and have discovered the car is the *absolute* worst place for nicotine cravings. Words were coming out of my mouth in combinations that I didn't know I knew and if I weren't so pissed off I might have been impressed with myself. But wait, there's more.
Salt is all over the road. Fine, good I'm glad, I don't like ice, but that means that salt was then on my windshield. I can't see so what do I do? Try to use the wiper fluid. But alas! Nothing comes out. Fine, I clean the windshield, continue on my way and stop about thirty minutes later at a truck stop. There I purchase wiper fluid, call a friend and stumble around under my hood until I find the appropriate hole and pour it in. Not until after I've filled it to the top do I notice the label says to only fill ¾ of the way during the winter to prevent freezing and cracking your wiper system. Not a big deal I think, I'll use some of it up. I get in, turn on the car (freezing at this point because it is hellaciously cold out) press the magic button and nothing comes out. I am at this point, more than mildly irritated. Little did I know my car had significantly more dastardly thoughts in mind for me. Unbeknownst to me my car was like and old person's heart, every start was one beat closer to death.
So I make it to Champaign, I curse, I grumble, I chew a lot of gum but I make it. I pull in I turn the car off I step back into the car to drive another block and nothing. No start, no whine, no click, not even a horrible screeching noise to let me know it has some fight left in it. The car is just dead.
Long story long I make it to Chicago. The weekend is fine (get to that later) and about fifty miles on my way home I stop for gas and it quits again. I sit at the gas station for an hour and a half and it starts one last time. I make it home and it will not start anymore. My car is possessed. I used to joke that my mom bribed me to stay at home instead of the dorm when I went to college with a new computer and a car. I got a computer that didn't work and car I couldn't drive. Sometimes life is too evil for words.
There was a time, following my amazing displays of rear-ending every known resident of Mac-town that family members referred to the car as "devil-car". I shook my head and said no, no, it isn't the car's fault, I'm just a bad driver. Now I may be a bad driver, but that car is definitely possessed. I no longer doubt it. I refuse to be careless and allow the car to hit other cars so it just isn't going to drive anymore. I can hear its voice in my head so clear, a whiny, hissing voice that tickles your ear as it says, "you think I'll let you travel with easssse? If you won't let me hit anyone I simply won't drive!" It is a hideous, evil, twisted thing and it needs to be put down. If only I had enough money to do so.
I cannot stand the insecurity of being without a reliable vehicle. I did it for three years, successfully, but during those three years everything I needed was near me. I could walk where I wanted to go and friends were in Mac-town at school. I had no need to travel alone. Now I have tasted the freedom of being able to travel on my own. I have felt the release in just going away for a weekend, sometimes without a plan or a destination but just leaving everything behind. I'm not sure I can go back to no car if I am still in Mac-town. I know I can't. I hate this town. I hate being an hour to four hours away from everyone I want to talk to and having no way to get to any of them. I don't necessarily know what I want or where I want to be but I know it isn't here. My car taking a big shit on me is further proof that Mac-town is a big black hole. It will suck you in and do everything in its power to keep you here.
Okay, enough of that. I think that is probably my longest useless rant in a good long while. The funny thing is I am in surprisingly good spirits. Irritated yes, but angry, no.
As to the no smoking thing it is going fine. I don't have cravings, at least not for cigarettes, but just like before I am now having the burst of energy that comes from not smoking. And as before there are not enough batteries in the country to wear me out. You want an aphrodisiac? Put away your cigarettes for a week. You're not jittery because of cigarette cravings.
Well that is probably enough of an update (more than most of you probably wanted to know but when have I ever pulled punches here?) for now. I look forward to getting completely plastered on New Years wherever up north my ride takes me. Hopefully I won't have three beers and puke on the outside of the bar like last time. That was just plain pitiful. Until then I bid you adieu, and watch out for purple Berettas. Stephen King's Christie has nothing on my egg-plant colored monstrosity.
Friday night, take off from work early to travel the route to Champaign. Now for those of you not familiar I will enlighten you. Traveling to Champaign is like going across Kansas. It's flat, it's dead and it never ends. Sure there are a few hills, maybe even a dilapidated tree here and there but over all it is a butt-ass ugly trip and boring as hell to drive. Add to this that every slow-ass, afraid to pass driver in the entire state seeming to be in front of me and you get a healthy dose of road rage. It doesn't help that I am no longer smoking and have discovered the car is the *absolute* worst place for nicotine cravings. Words were coming out of my mouth in combinations that I didn't know I knew and if I weren't so pissed off I might have been impressed with myself. But wait, there's more.
Salt is all over the road. Fine, good I'm glad, I don't like ice, but that means that salt was then on my windshield. I can't see so what do I do? Try to use the wiper fluid. But alas! Nothing comes out. Fine, I clean the windshield, continue on my way and stop about thirty minutes later at a truck stop. There I purchase wiper fluid, call a friend and stumble around under my hood until I find the appropriate hole and pour it in. Not until after I've filled it to the top do I notice the label says to only fill ¾ of the way during the winter to prevent freezing and cracking your wiper system. Not a big deal I think, I'll use some of it up. I get in, turn on the car (freezing at this point because it is hellaciously cold out) press the magic button and nothing comes out. I am at this point, more than mildly irritated. Little did I know my car had significantly more dastardly thoughts in mind for me. Unbeknownst to me my car was like and old person's heart, every start was one beat closer to death.
So I make it to Champaign, I curse, I grumble, I chew a lot of gum but I make it. I pull in I turn the car off I step back into the car to drive another block and nothing. No start, no whine, no click, not even a horrible screeching noise to let me know it has some fight left in it. The car is just dead.
Long story long I make it to Chicago. The weekend is fine (get to that later) and about fifty miles on my way home I stop for gas and it quits again. I sit at the gas station for an hour and a half and it starts one last time. I make it home and it will not start anymore. My car is possessed. I used to joke that my mom bribed me to stay at home instead of the dorm when I went to college with a new computer and a car. I got a computer that didn't work and car I couldn't drive. Sometimes life is too evil for words.
There was a time, following my amazing displays of rear-ending every known resident of Mac-town that family members referred to the car as "devil-car". I shook my head and said no, no, it isn't the car's fault, I'm just a bad driver. Now I may be a bad driver, but that car is definitely possessed. I no longer doubt it. I refuse to be careless and allow the car to hit other cars so it just isn't going to drive anymore. I can hear its voice in my head so clear, a whiny, hissing voice that tickles your ear as it says, "you think I'll let you travel with easssse? If you won't let me hit anyone I simply won't drive!" It is a hideous, evil, twisted thing and it needs to be put down. If only I had enough money to do so.
I cannot stand the insecurity of being without a reliable vehicle. I did it for three years, successfully, but during those three years everything I needed was near me. I could walk where I wanted to go and friends were in Mac-town at school. I had no need to travel alone. Now I have tasted the freedom of being able to travel on my own. I have felt the release in just going away for a weekend, sometimes without a plan or a destination but just leaving everything behind. I'm not sure I can go back to no car if I am still in Mac-town. I know I can't. I hate this town. I hate being an hour to four hours away from everyone I want to talk to and having no way to get to any of them. I don't necessarily know what I want or where I want to be but I know it isn't here. My car taking a big shit on me is further proof that Mac-town is a big black hole. It will suck you in and do everything in its power to keep you here.
Okay, enough of that. I think that is probably my longest useless rant in a good long while. The funny thing is I am in surprisingly good spirits. Irritated yes, but angry, no.
As to the no smoking thing it is going fine. I don't have cravings, at least not for cigarettes, but just like before I am now having the burst of energy that comes from not smoking. And as before there are not enough batteries in the country to wear me out. You want an aphrodisiac? Put away your cigarettes for a week. You're not jittery because of cigarette cravings.
Well that is probably enough of an update (more than most of you probably wanted to know but when have I ever pulled punches here?) for now. I look forward to getting completely plastered on New Years wherever up north my ride takes me. Hopefully I won't have three beers and puke on the outside of the bar like last time. That was just plain pitiful. Until then I bid you adieu, and watch out for purple Berettas. Stephen King's Christie has nothing on my egg-plant colored monstrosity.
Tuesday, December 16, 2003
Wow, I actually had someone ask me when I was going to update. I'm amazed there is someone out there still reading this. Well here you go, buh-bye now. Just kidding.
Where to start and what to say. I�ve had two revelations in the past four days, neither of them pleasant. The first is that you carry a lot of old ghosts with you when you go to a funeral. It brings to mind entirely too many memories. The second is that it is time for me to stop smoking. I do not want to die from cancer.
Many people would call me dumb for smoking and they would be right. There is no defense for why I do it, why I started. Maybe you could say peer pressure, maybe you could say naivete. I suppose I thought I was invincible. Not really of course, but I watched my boyfriend in high school battle cancer and he beat it. I think somewhere in my head that convinced me I would be fine. I had years and years to smoke before I had to worry. Maybe I could have smoked for twenty years before anything happened. Maybe I would die of a car crash long before it affected my health. But maybe, just maybe, I will wake up one morning with a pain in my chest that wouldn't go away.
I've come to accept that one day I will lose one or both of my breasts. Every female on my mother's side has had breast cancer by the age of sixty. Some of them died in weeks, others lived for years. I suppose I figure if it is in my genetics so be it. I can't fight it, can't help it, so there is no use worrying about it. But smoking, I can help that. There is no reason for me to heighten my chances of laying in a bed somewhere peeing and shitting in a tube, completely oblivious to the world around me. I've watched too many people waste away. I've held too many hands with blank stares behind them. I vowed two years ago when I gagged my way down the hall of a cancer hospital I would not end up some place like that. But I started smoking and I didn't stop. It doesn't make sense. It is nothing except stupid. While I find myself with a craving at this very moment and I know the cravings won't stop for the better part of a month I know I have to quit. I don't fear death. I fear pain. I fear wasting away. It happens to too many people. It robs too many lives. To knowingly add myself to the tally is idiotic--suicidal.
I don't begrudge people the right to smoke. Everyone must make their own choice. I know it pissed the hell out of me when people judged me for it. But it does scare me. I find I worry I'm going to receive a phone call one day, another call where the voice on the other end mutters she or he or someone we both love has cancer. Even as I know nothing I do will change that I will lose the ones I love I find myself scared. That is the true poison of diseases like cancer and AIDS. They don't just kill the people who have them, they kill a little part of the family and friends too. You lose a little bit of yourself every time you smell that smell--the one of rancid sweet corn that fills your throat until you gag. The smell that clings to every pore on your body until you fear you will never be clean again. And indeed, you never really are.
I missed my last chance to see my grandmother healthy and cognizant. She wasn't supposed to look through me, ask my mom if I was marching that day, as I held her hand. I wasn't supposed to see my uncle wheeled away on a cart wasted and dying not knowing if he would be okay. Fifteen year old boys aren't supposed to die. Life doesn't care what is supposed and not supposed to happen--I know that. It's hard and it hurts, there is no denying that. But I'll be damned if I'll keep smoking and give it one more weapon to use against me. I'm too smart for that.
Where to start and what to say. I�ve had two revelations in the past four days, neither of them pleasant. The first is that you carry a lot of old ghosts with you when you go to a funeral. It brings to mind entirely too many memories. The second is that it is time for me to stop smoking. I do not want to die from cancer.
Many people would call me dumb for smoking and they would be right. There is no defense for why I do it, why I started. Maybe you could say peer pressure, maybe you could say naivete. I suppose I thought I was invincible. Not really of course, but I watched my boyfriend in high school battle cancer and he beat it. I think somewhere in my head that convinced me I would be fine. I had years and years to smoke before I had to worry. Maybe I could have smoked for twenty years before anything happened. Maybe I would die of a car crash long before it affected my health. But maybe, just maybe, I will wake up one morning with a pain in my chest that wouldn't go away.
I've come to accept that one day I will lose one or both of my breasts. Every female on my mother's side has had breast cancer by the age of sixty. Some of them died in weeks, others lived for years. I suppose I figure if it is in my genetics so be it. I can't fight it, can't help it, so there is no use worrying about it. But smoking, I can help that. There is no reason for me to heighten my chances of laying in a bed somewhere peeing and shitting in a tube, completely oblivious to the world around me. I've watched too many people waste away. I've held too many hands with blank stares behind them. I vowed two years ago when I gagged my way down the hall of a cancer hospital I would not end up some place like that. But I started smoking and I didn't stop. It doesn't make sense. It is nothing except stupid. While I find myself with a craving at this very moment and I know the cravings won't stop for the better part of a month I know I have to quit. I don't fear death. I fear pain. I fear wasting away. It happens to too many people. It robs too many lives. To knowingly add myself to the tally is idiotic--suicidal.
I don't begrudge people the right to smoke. Everyone must make their own choice. I know it pissed the hell out of me when people judged me for it. But it does scare me. I find I worry I'm going to receive a phone call one day, another call where the voice on the other end mutters she or he or someone we both love has cancer. Even as I know nothing I do will change that I will lose the ones I love I find myself scared. That is the true poison of diseases like cancer and AIDS. They don't just kill the people who have them, they kill a little part of the family and friends too. You lose a little bit of yourself every time you smell that smell--the one of rancid sweet corn that fills your throat until you gag. The smell that clings to every pore on your body until you fear you will never be clean again. And indeed, you never really are.
I missed my last chance to see my grandmother healthy and cognizant. She wasn't supposed to look through me, ask my mom if I was marching that day, as I held her hand. I wasn't supposed to see my uncle wheeled away on a cart wasted and dying not knowing if he would be okay. Fifteen year old boys aren't supposed to die. Life doesn't care what is supposed and not supposed to happen--I know that. It's hard and it hurts, there is no denying that. But I'll be damned if I'll keep smoking and give it one more weapon to use against me. I'm too smart for that.
Thursday, December 04, 2003
There is nothing better than pounding out a sacred tune on the piano. Maybe a little Brahms, but honestly, if ever I doubt there is a higher power I have only to sit down at the piano and I’m reminded it exists. I don’t know what or who or where but I know something is there. It is more than a feeling, more than an instinct. When playing on the piano it is exploded through your fingers into the keys below. Forearm pain, wrist pain, numb fingers, none of that matters until the song is done. That is simply all there is too it. Some days I can not wait until I have a house of my own where I can have a piano at my disposal once again. I miss it with a passion that scares me.
It is somewhat an odd thing. I surprised a friend a few weeks back by sitting down and playing some notes in a music store. “I had no idea you could do that!” she said. It shocked me before I realized there was no reason for her to know. I didn’t play piano outwardly in college as I did through my youth. I no longer soloed at church or accompanied choirs. It was something that had become truly personal for there was no longer a public outlet. A few years from now there will be people with no idea I’m a musician. I find that thought scares me. It might be necessary for my survival to continue to perform. Piano is an emotional outlet that I never realized I had until it wasn’t there any more. Angry, play loud and hard, sappy play soft and slow, mischievous play something with a kick. Bored, learn a new song. I don’t always hit the right notes (especially lately) but I’m not playing for anyone else. Just me. A side job in a store playing background music would be absolutely heaven. I’m just not sure my arms and hands could do it. By the time I graduated high school my fingers were numb by the time I finished a song and I woke up every night near tears from the pain. That’s gone away only by not playing for nearly four years. Where is the happy medium? I’ll give up Brahms so long as I can still play. I wonder if my body will negotiate.
Oh but here I am rambling and you don’t really care. I know this but I do it any way. Welcome to me. Ah I digress. Though, how one digresses when she has no direction I do not know.
What a week it has been. It seems to have flown by but it doesn’t seem as if all that has happened could have occurred in just this past week. I would tell the tales but they are not mine to tell. I would berate my mother but that would old and idiotic. I mean honestly, how do you berate a saint? Though, something I found very amusing. I might have laughed had it not been so inappropriate. Wait, maybe I did laugh…oh well. Anyway, I’ll tell you the story. For all you gals out there you will probably appreciate more than the men. The mother and I were talking and she was hesitant to tell me somewhat discouraging news--a) I need to not be a loser and b) she was disappointed in me. Fair enough. I’ve heard it before. This time, though, there is a twist. I agreed with her! She kept arguing with me that I was fighting her. “You don’t believe me” she would say over and over and I would reply with “Yes, yes I do.” She was so flustered. She couldn’t comprehend that I wasn’t having a fit but in fact saying “yes mom, you’re right.” It was as if she was arguing with a ghost of me while I tried to show her that I was different. All these years I spent fighting her, I finally agree she knows more than I do and she argues that I don’t believe what I’m telling her. I mean, honestly. I think it must be a mother-daughter thing. We simply can not get along. It would be like the Cubs winning the world series. The day it happens you know the end is near.
Anywho, this is basically just a winding down ramble if you made it this far I am most impressed. I think I’m going to go work on my story now. Hopefully this one doesn’t short out on me like all the others. I’ll keep you posted.
Donde esta el burro!
It is somewhat an odd thing. I surprised a friend a few weeks back by sitting down and playing some notes in a music store. “I had no idea you could do that!” she said. It shocked me before I realized there was no reason for her to know. I didn’t play piano outwardly in college as I did through my youth. I no longer soloed at church or accompanied choirs. It was something that had become truly personal for there was no longer a public outlet. A few years from now there will be people with no idea I’m a musician. I find that thought scares me. It might be necessary for my survival to continue to perform. Piano is an emotional outlet that I never realized I had until it wasn’t there any more. Angry, play loud and hard, sappy play soft and slow, mischievous play something with a kick. Bored, learn a new song. I don’t always hit the right notes (especially lately) but I’m not playing for anyone else. Just me. A side job in a store playing background music would be absolutely heaven. I’m just not sure my arms and hands could do it. By the time I graduated high school my fingers were numb by the time I finished a song and I woke up every night near tears from the pain. That’s gone away only by not playing for nearly four years. Where is the happy medium? I’ll give up Brahms so long as I can still play. I wonder if my body will negotiate.
Oh but here I am rambling and you don’t really care. I know this but I do it any way. Welcome to me. Ah I digress. Though, how one digresses when she has no direction I do not know.
What a week it has been. It seems to have flown by but it doesn’t seem as if all that has happened could have occurred in just this past week. I would tell the tales but they are not mine to tell. I would berate my mother but that would old and idiotic. I mean honestly, how do you berate a saint? Though, something I found very amusing. I might have laughed had it not been so inappropriate. Wait, maybe I did laugh…oh well. Anyway, I’ll tell you the story. For all you gals out there you will probably appreciate more than the men. The mother and I were talking and she was hesitant to tell me somewhat discouraging news--a) I need to not be a loser and b) she was disappointed in me. Fair enough. I’ve heard it before. This time, though, there is a twist. I agreed with her! She kept arguing with me that I was fighting her. “You don’t believe me” she would say over and over and I would reply with “Yes, yes I do.” She was so flustered. She couldn’t comprehend that I wasn’t having a fit but in fact saying “yes mom, you’re right.” It was as if she was arguing with a ghost of me while I tried to show her that I was different. All these years I spent fighting her, I finally agree she knows more than I do and she argues that I don’t believe what I’m telling her. I mean, honestly. I think it must be a mother-daughter thing. We simply can not get along. It would be like the Cubs winning the world series. The day it happens you know the end is near.
Anywho, this is basically just a winding down ramble if you made it this far I am most impressed. I think I’m going to go work on my story now. Hopefully this one doesn’t short out on me like all the others. I’ll keep you posted.
Donde esta el burro!
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