binge space.

I've talked more openly about my eating disorder as I've come to understand how it works and how to identify the symptoms. It took me a long time to find a name for it, longer still on how to address it. In my case, diet culture makes it worse, makes the strings inside my chest taut and twisted. The harder I try to control, to change, to fix, the farther the yo-yo dips and rises. I once told a former partner, "When I eat well, I eat really well. When I don't eat well, I eat really, really badly."

I distinctly remember moments with mentors that, looking back, were my attempts in asking for help but not knowing how to do that directly. I would talk at it the issue, express my frustration and helplessness, but pride kept the talk strictly cerebral. This was just an "issue" I was "working through," but what I really meant was, "I see where I need to go and end up but I don't know how to get there, please help me." I hoped they would understand. When that inevitably didn't work, I slowly became more pointed, trying to ask for help in more specific ways.

I was disappointed when my mentors didn't follow up with me. In retrospect, I think the people I reached out to didn't know how to help. Pseudoscience didn't help (what a shock). Positive thinking didn't help. I talked a lot of yoga-dogma bullshit while trying to dig at my issues with food and my body. I felt broken because I didn't have a normal relationship with food, and while I became a master at talking about brokenness I had no idea what to do about it. I had to stop teaching, stop practicing, and become pretty damned angry and disillusioned before I cut through the bullshit to make changes. I gained a lot of weight in those months, but my mental space was shifting.

I still struggle to trust I'll be believed or taken seriously when talking about my ED. Sometimes I am believed, sometimes I can tell people are just humoring me. I mean, it's weird, right? No one really eats perfectly. We've all eaten too much at dinner, reached for comfort foods. We all struggle to "be healthy," to "make good choices." Then there's that nagging voice that says, "It's not really an ED unless you're starving yourself/throwing up. You just lack control and discipline."

That last line is the killer. Remember the yo-yo? Higher rises, lower falls, my friend.

It's about the food, but it's not about the food. The reasons are complicated, the triggers are different for everybody and sometimes aren't even tangible. "Binge space," as I call it, feels like panic. It feels like my skin is too tight, noises are too loud/startling, small things feel overwhelmingly invasive. Chills along my arms and hands. I often don't crave anything specific in these moments, I just have a strong need to eat in order to escape the binge space. When I do eat, flavors are diluted and the food is very rarely satisfying.

I don't experience binge space as often as I used to, but it can still happen. Experience and observation have given me tools to figure out alternative coping mechanisms. If I do binge, it stops more quickly and I'm able to shift to another activity that allows me to safely "get out of my head." Once I'm calm, asking questions and checking in with people is INCREDIBLY important. I can't stress this enough. Having one or two people I can communicate with is vital. If I'm feeling shaky, I ask them to check in on me for a few days. If I binged, I let them know, and I tell them what I'm doing/not doing for self care.

For anyone who goes through something similar, these are questions I've found helpful: What can I do in the moment to diffuse the situation? What can I do to make the area around me safer while I "ride out" the episode?

While we can't always anticipate when it'll happen, having a game plan does help. Have a snack if I'm hungry, then decide if I need to wrap myself in a blanket and watch Netflix, or if I need to go for a walk, or put on some music and flail around to expel some energy. Those are some specific steps I wish I had known back when I was clumsily asking for help, so if this helps someone else, just know there are other people who get it. I get it. You aren't alone in this.

Best wishes, and much love!
T

honest.

As the months have gone by, the strangeness of leaving my community in northern California has eased. I'm not sure I can point to a specific moment when the ache in my chest and the twitching in my hands released but I do notice the difference, especially in reading old blogs when I was smack in the midst of that transition. The after-pangs, the initial couple years I spent down south practically frantic with a desire to escape, to go back, those times I didn't write about so much. I can point to those years and understand why; I can look back and see a pattern of withdrawing and wanting to be somewhere else. The things I did talk about were disconnections, the past feeling dream-like, and wistfulness.

Not having a "home" had a big impact on those after-pangs. I'm a creature that likes and needs to have something grounded; if I can't find it in my immediate spaces, I'll look for it in the past. And that, of course, is nostalgia. A big whopping pile of nostalgia.

Being somewhat more settled in my current situation, I notice not feeling pulled apart. I'm not so busy holding myself together so I can focus on the rusty relics that were gathering dust in the corner.

With this mental (and physical) shift, I'm left with a decision to make. This blog began with my departure from northern California; it was made up of ramblings of a wanderer. When my feet landed, reluctantly, down south, that transitional state continued internally. Then my grandmother died. Then I wrote some fiction and actually managed to finish NaNoWriMo two times.

If I'm being really honest with myself, the transition is never over. I'm not someone who does well with stagnation. The act of "change" isn't performed in wide sweeps; I feel it more in the gentle pushing, the mild discontent, and the urging to keep working. BUT, this blog is not about a homeless human anymore. My writing isn't from the perspective of a literal lost wanderer, suffering from the pain and grief of broken relationships. Even when I was in northern California, deep into teaching and practicing yoga, shit, my writing was filled with pretentious, dogmatic bullshit. It was honest to where I was at the time, and some of it still has meaning for me, but I have moved on and grown out of that skin.

But what's bizarre about this is that I still associate my writing with that person. I still associate this blog with that person.

That isn't honest anymore.

All this is not to say that I'm abandoning the blog. I'm just thinking "out loud" to feel out the identity of this blogspace. Maybe short stories? I can think of a couple projects I could post. Maybe short poems.

Time will tell, as the saying goes.

pushing and dangling.

Writing sometimes feels like trying to find a gap in a towering wall; a gap just big enough to squeeze a hand through, and sometimes that's a major victory. Fingers wriggle, feeling into the abyss for a familiar texture or shape.

I stare at written pages and stare even harder at the last sentence. This is the cliff. The jagged, broken tongue extending into dead space, where I crawl down and dangle from the ledge. All the while, the hand is still pushing into a small hole in the stone wall. Both of these images are true, existing simultaneously. Afraid of falling and desperately trying to break into a world you yourself created but left unfinished.

The solution is as simple as putting one sentence down. After that, another sentence. And another. So they continue until I build myself a ladder, slowly climbing down the cliff, slowly squeezing shoulders through an impossibly narrow gap.

This is the work. This is the difficult, no fun, sigh-inducing work. The work that leaves me outside in blizzards, the work that yanks on my arm to pull me into a wild dance. We spin, we get breathless, our hearts pound. We create life from intangible things and it’s like forming flowers from stardust. When we get it right, when we move together like two lovers on a rickety bed, we produce miracles. When we don’t, I’m left sitting with ashes in my hands. 

Remembering Grandma

A note about the days referenced in this post: I started writing this last year. It took me 8 months to put down my final thoughts, but these things often come in their own time. The events take place in October 2014. 

This piece describes my experience of witnessing my grandmother's death.

~

Last Friday I sat at my computer, trying to compose a Facebook status update. I’d type a few words, maybe a sentence, then pause. Hit backspace, start over. Type. Pause. Backspace. Start over. Over and over. I finally typed: “I don’t quite know what to say.” Not eloquent, but it was truthful. “Long day,” I added. That was truthful, too.

The two days following that Friday night felt like the longest game of jenga ever. Wooden blocks and seconds stacked up high until I looked up at that precarious, wobbling tower and realized the experience had been wearying, amazing, and sad.

My grandmother died today.

Some people are so ill for so long that we don’t quite remember what they were like when they weren’t dying. Other folks go quick; alert and active one day, gone four days later.

The latter happened to my grandmother. The swiftness of her death is surreal because of the conflicting memories that fire blanks inside my head. I saw her Wednesday. I ate at her table, she asked me what kind of chips I had to go with my sandwich. She was always asking people questions about their food. Sunday, I witnessed her death.

The suddenness was astonishing, yes, but the people who rallied and gathered in those final days are extraordinary. Roughly 15 family members came together, driving or flying to meet at the hospital. By Saturday night, all of us there understood that Clarice was not going to survive without assistance from machines. By Sunday, the official decision was made to take her off those machines.

I arrived at the hospital on Sunday shortly before 3 o’clock, just in time to join the family circle around Grandma’s hospital bed. We prayed, we were silent, we sang, we cried, and we giggled. This was our vigil; we were committed to sticking it out until she died. A couple people wouldn’t make it to the very end, and while I never spoke to them to ask why, I suspect I understand. Death can be a violent end or a fading whisper, but either way it’s an intense moment to witness.

Any time we were in her hospital room we had to wear these incredibly fashionable (and uncomfortable) blue plastic gowns and purple non-latex gloves. It didn’t take long for my entire torso to start swimming in its own sweat; I left the room more than once to peel and pry the plastic from my arms to let my skin breathe. But despite the small discomforts, I don’t think any of us complained; at least, not loudly. When you’re holding vigil you just… know to hold the space. That’s all that’s really important. In the moment and in retrospect, I think there’s a certain joy in that reverence.

I watched her breathing slow, become labored. Hours later, after watching, waiting, it finally dipped and rose erratically like an exhausted bird over still waters. It wouldn’t be long before she finally dropped into the sea.

Even so, we were all astounded by how long her heart kept beating in a normal “living” range. Bump. Bump. Bump. Bump. Bump. Her bionic heart was so steady that the nurses were able to move her to a step-down unit a few floors up. By then, her deepest breaths came in rattling, gasping bursts; sometimes she growled like a slumbering lion after several seconds of silent tiny breaths. We wondered just how much longer her heart would last. I watched her pulse on the monitor as it slowly dropped point by point. It’s odd to watch someone’s life trickle away by numbers on a screen; each second is documented like an old school video game you just sit and stare at, waiting for the bumps in the line to stop.

Once we settled into the new room, the hospital staff brought us ice water and graham crackers which we ate and drank gratefully. Most of us were camped out on the floor while others took advantage of the few chairs and bench space available. We took turns playing music on our phones; the Beatles came first. Here Comes the Sun, Blackbird. By this time, Grandma’s big, growling breaths only came once every twenty or thirty seconds, a leaky wind instrument punctuating John Denver’s “I Am the Eagle.” I sat in view of the monitor, still watching her declining heart rate while I munched on crackers and sang quietly with the family. We all agreed: the only things missing were marshmallows and chocolate bars.

Sprinkled between songs, silence, and nurse visits were bouts of giggling and unconstrained laughter. Her heart slowed further, pushing through time like a persistent but weary drummer. The tune is almost over, but there’s still more ending to finish. Once her heart rate dipped below 60, we all stood, gathering around the bed. We waited and we watched. Rather than several seconds, a minute would go by between her gasping breaths. Her pulse lowered to mid-30s. Then back to 56. Then back down again. Is she still breathing? She seems so quiet.

Suddenly, she snort-growled again, startling us so badly we started laughing. Tension broken, that’s when the Young Frankenstein quotes began to circulate. One after the other, we dramatized lines from one of my grandmother’s favorite movies. I think we all have our own memories of seeing that movie for the first time; I’m almost positive mine was at her old house on Wanda Road. Put. Ze Candle. Back.

Uproarious laughter. That amazing laughter carried as we continued standing in a circle around her bed. That was our vigil and I’m still certain that’s exactly how she would have wanted her final moments to be honored. We were laughing as her heartbeat flat-lined. We were smiling when she died.

I can’t speak for anyone else’s experience, but the first time watching someone die was, for me, both humbling and awe inspiring. Certainly, it’s surreal watching the machines and inner workings of the body fail, watching the essence of a person fade until a grey-skinned, slack-jawed shell remains. I couldn’t take my eyes away from her and it wasn’t just because of sadness. People die every second of every day, but this was her death. It was important, just like being born, graduating from college, whatever milestone you might celebrate. This was one of those milestones and the fact that we were all able to be there to witness it? That’s extremely humbling.

I felt stunned by how beautiful it was. In the most new agey way possible I was struck by the most intense feeling of awe and grace. It’s like watching a campfire after the sun has long since set and you’ve already made all your s’mores. The embers are growing dimmer and dimmer and you know at some point they’ll flicker and fade out completely. Your skin prickles with goosebumps as the cool air nips at your arms. You can’t turn your eyes away because it’s mesmerizing and beautiful how the light ripples just beneath the surface of what used to be whole twigs and logs. You hear the owls, crickets, and frogs chorus around you, accompanied by an occasional murmur from the people beside you. Time feels insignificant and while you’re aware of the world, your focus is still on that fire. You don’t want to miss its last flicker. The moment the fire is completely extinguished is the moment the vigil ends; you look up at the faces around you and see tired, old eyes. There isn’t much to say, but hugs are shared and a final round of a camp song is sung. The notes ring true and clear in the night before you turn and leave the fire pit. The world is quiet, the earth is still, and above you, the stars seem extraordinarily bright.

Bundles of Thread

The pattern: I remember the words that have been written and then imagine the words that have yet to be born onto paper.

The words yet to come inevitably feel enormous in the waiting. As each breath passes, my chest is heavier, made of denser stuff than bone. Someone has surgically switched out my bones for an iron breast plate; I can feel it grinding, pressing, squeezing.

It’s already hard to breathe; writing feels impossible. But the ache is still there, the ache is always there. It’s the quiet festering, it’s the bulb slowly forcing up through soil. Thick green sprouts will surely burst from my rib cage soon, poking between bones like fingers thrusting through prison bars.

It is an ache that burns worse when I am still; I understand why so many keep busy like compulsive liars. If the choreography becomes more frantic, more manic, the floor doesn’t turn to lava. If the floor doesn’t turn to lava, the acrobats don’t slip through.

This is an ache of an old family friend I’ve shared tea and scones with while discussing cello music and what it feels like to fall. It’s the itching skin of a former lover that pulled on my hair, jerking my head back as we wrestled to whisper pie recipes and names of crayon colors in my ear.

Timberwolf. One pound of blackberries. Grated lemon zest. Bittersweet. One cup of sugar. Jazzberry Jam.

The ache is a mute child that never learned to speak on her own, so she relies on me to communicate. Everything comes all at once, too much liquid down one plastic funnel and you wind up with milk all over your hands. What’s the best way to get all this across anyhow? Efficiently? Consistently? Creatively? With the stubs of crayons that have lost their wrappers scratched into newsprint or on plaster walls? It changes, as do the thoughts and the words. They build up and up and up like cardboard bricks until the only way out is pulling out a single brick and letting the whole tower wobble. Maybe the tower crumbles.

Then I’m left with a mute child and a toppled castle tower. And the ache.

Always the ache. It never, ever goes away. Writing doesn’t make it go away, neither does painting. All these things do is lubricate the iron breastplate; the machine moves more easily and stretches into the ache. Not to diminish, but to relish. The ache becomes a well worked muscle; vulnerable in the microfibers, but stronger as a whole.

Oh, if I could tell you all of the thoughts that have spun themselves into thread inside my chest. Soft thread, brittle thread, golden thread, invisible thread; I gather them into neat bundles and pass them to friends in the form of love and reminders. Often, that thread is all I am capable of giving. I reach out to you not because I demand something in return; I reach out because I ache and need to stretch towards something meaningful and beautiful. I reach out because otherwise I would be buried beneath the thought threads I create.

I am careful to whom I offer my bundles; they are often still attached to me, wrapped and knotted around my lungs and my throat or the connective tissue between my joints. If you pull too hard or I thrust too quickly I very well may bleed. If I take too long to offer, I may leave the pile of thread at an empty door, an unattended post. Some bundles people mistook for straw, or perhaps they saw something I did not wish to admit. I have not decided if these moments were my fault, or simply just were.

Winter symbolizes a turning inward. An eye swiveling back to inspect what beats underneath the flesh, or a hand pausing before it reaches out to offer another coil of thread. Have I felt frantic? I suppose I have, at times. This year has been full. Important people have died. Important people die every year, but this year was my family’s turn to feel that weight. My family and my friends; you lovelies know exactly who you are. It has been a very full year, has it not? I’ve begun to feel over extended, even as I feel isolated and wrapped up within my thoughts and feelings; I’d like to try a different approach.

I’d like to write you letters.

Will you take a letter? 

In which we go... everywhere. Cause there's just a lot of stuff to get through.

Occasionally, when I walk out of the bathroom or into my work building, I imagine a stranger, clothes tattered and dirt dusted, hair wildly askew, a pair of spectacles perched crookedly on the edgiest edge of their nose. They look at me, sagging mouth and bruised eye sockets, and whimper: “You… you didn’t blog. Why didn’t you blog?!”

Only then do I realize this person seems familiar.

Only, you know, not. But for dramatizing the niggling guilt I feel over ignoring this little home base, it isn’t terrible.

Here’s the problem with slacking on a personal blog: enough time goes by and suddenly your next post isn’t just about the bullshit or inspiring stuff from last week. It isn’t about the thought you had a couple hours ago, or the new project you’ve been spending the last few days tirelessly pouring over.

Suddenly, you’ve got months’ worth of mud, rock, and gold flakes to try and sift through. You’re helplessly staring at a mountain thinking, “Maybe I’ll start tomorrow.”

Shit, so how are you? Been good? Ups and downs? Yeah, I feel you. What have I been up to? Oh, well, been thinkin’ about a lot of stuff, but you know, since when is that new.

Though there have been fresh waves of ideas and ponderings, I suppose you could call them, that chew at my ear when I’m not paying attention. Mostly gaining my equilibrium back and, you know, paying taxes. I still believe that people are always in a state of flux about what they think and hold true about the world (if they’re self-aware, actively curious folk). Not that we should never take a stand on anything. But in a constant exploration, even one that builds upon a specific world/universe view and foundation, it’s so important to push a little, to challenge, to doubt, swing back to center, and then doubt again.

I guess that is a theme for me of late. The push and pull of faith and doubt. Not in the biblical sense, but relishing in live and creating, focusing on something that feeds my soul, while simultaneously examining my thoughts and assumptions. Not self-deprecating self-doubt, but “I see potential or good in this and I want to keep getting better/making it better.” And it’s strange. There are still a lot of things that I haven’t balanced out since moving down here but I feel okay. Exciting things are still happening.

One big update: I’ve been regimenting hours to work on stories and other writing projects. (Just because I haven’t been blogging, doesn’t mean I’ve been letting the teats go dry, I promise! Milk’s a flowin.) I kept burning myself out on the weekends or psyching myself out, so every night after work for the last couple weeks I’ve spent time writing or editing. My current project is a fairytale of sorts, something close to my heart. I grew up reading fairytale-esque short stories; one of my favorite childhood books was this anthology called Fearless Girls, Wise Women, and Beloved Sisters. That book contained fables and tales from all over the world and I would read and reread it beginning to end countless times. Working on one of my own was the perfect place to start given the head butting I’ve been doing with the first round of rewrites on the novel.

As beta reading, further editing, and other projects unfold, I will make a point to keep everyone in the loop of what happens next. All I can really say is a huge thank you to everyone who has supported me these last few months in their own ways. Some near, some far, some offering encouragement, some just offering a hand reaching out to connect, I love all of you. In this turbulent time I’ve felt lonely, sure, but I know I have a solid foundation of good people. I just want you to know that I don’t forget that.

Best wishes, and don’t forget to be awesome. Until next time, soon!

Good Knight.

My eyeballs keep rolling back to the little time display at the bottom right of my screen. Has another minute passed? Oh. Okay. Okay, focus. Has it passed now? No. Oh, oh, wait, 11:09! Shit. Shitshit. I ned to get to sleep.

As I told my mother, my Night Owl alter-ego is quite grumpy about my 6am alarm. Insert obligatory joke about my Knight in Owling armor advocating for my obscenely late bedtime. He just wants to spend more time with me, that’s all. Hehe. I’m dating a Knight Owl.

11:12. Shitshitshit.

So all of this (meaning the above ramble) came about, as they say, because of reasons. Namely, extreme writing constipation. Earlier, as I sat in a bookstore glaring sullenly at this exact same computer, the revision of my story mooned me from across the screen like the cheeky bastard it is. I’ve been stuck at this one particular part for weeks. So conversations were had, I twisted my mouth disapprovingly at the scroll of text and keep repeating: “No, no. It just doesn’t work. Something’s not right. Something’s missing.”

11:20.

Sometimes I get stuck. Sometimes the thing that’s doing the sticking needs to be reexamined and possibly changed so the sticking can become unsticky so the stuck becomes unstuck. Follow me?

11:22.

I put the chapter away. I went to watch YouTube videos and let the tantrum-inducing knot in my stomach subside. I can come back to this later. I can retrace my steps a little to approach my problem from another angle. Because sometimes the way I want my characters to be is not the way they should be.

But I knew I needed to write something. My fingers get itchy. I get itchy. And I think about how Neil Gaiman is like the close uncle who I grew up with and continues mentoring me with old stories and new advice, how you never really learn how to write, you just learn how to write the thing you’re writing and the next thing will be a whole new meeting and lesson. How this thing that I do, blogging, journaling, is a voice in my head that is unlike and so like the voice I use as an auditory expression and as you read this you probably have your own voice speaking this run on sentence to you.

And I think that’s weird. And interesting. It’s a different kind of space to share with people.

11:28. Even Sir Owl is admitting I need to sleep. But you’ve wound me up so thoroughly, dear Knight, how do you expect me to sleep?

11:29. I often mutter out loud to myself. When I’m solving a problem, walking through the steps, pondering an idea, having a conversation. It’s like a hand leading me through a process, focusing me and encouraging me to explore. When the voice stops, when my characters stop speaking to me, the knot in my stomach returns and I sometimes search and listen too hard, groping blindly for the frayed end of the rope.

11:33. I hear you. I will follow. Good Knight, may we dream of adventures to bring to a waking world. 

32oz Santa Cruz Lemonade water bottle and a damn good song.

I keep telling myself that my blogs don’t always have to be “about” something.

It doesn’t help.

~

Two things happened in the last 48 hours that reminded me, in a sudden, head-snapping rush, that I am not completely separated from the person I identified as “me” 9 or 10 months ago.

And that’s when I go, “Shit. It's been almost a year?”

A lot happens in a year.

Thing number one: I finally obtained a 32 ounce, glass, Santa Cruz Lemonade bottle. Which means I resurrected my habit of using one as a water bottle and carrying it around with me like a third boob, obsessively guzzling its contents (my simile kinda crapped out when I got to “guzzling;” I apologize for the weird mental images you may be experiencing right now).

The 32 ounce, glass, Santa Cruz Lemonade bottle was my water bottle. I kept one at the yoga studio. Religiously. Right before I went inside the studio class room I’d be sure to fill it up one last time, all the way to the veeery top. Then, screw on top, walk in, kick door stop, shut door, plunk that 32 ounce, glass, Santa Cruz Lemonade water bottle on the cabinet which also housed the sound system, turn off mood music, take a deep breath and…..

That person still feels very far away sometimes. But when I wrap my fingers around the top third of the bottle, where the concave curve is a perfect fit to my hand, I remember rubbing the diamond shaped indents as I held the glass container before, during, and after class. I remember my bare feet on a wood floor, the connection with my breath and the energy in the room. Electric.

Thing number two is Lord Huron. That band, their album represents something, evokes something very, very specific and visceral in me. A freedom, a joy, excitement, glee, hurt, uncertainty, choices… it doesn’t sound specific here but it’s an image super glued in one corner of my skull, maybe next to my left eye socket. Anyway, the last time I listened to a Lord Huron song was when I made the long road trip down to Southern California and officially decided to stay there. There wasn’t any emotional reason behind not listening to them again after that decision; I cancelled my Spotify subscription to tighten up the finances and since I didn’t own their album, I couldn’t conveniently stream it. Over time I just forgot about listening to them regularly. Until today. So I hopped on YouTube.

And it reminds me that that person, even from a year ago, is still a part of me. Thank god. 

"You’ve been gone for a long long time
You’ve been in the wind, you’ve been on my mind
You are the purest soul I’ve ever known in my life

Take your time, let the rivers guide you in
You know where you can find me again
I’ll be waiting here ‘till the stars fall out of the sky

When you left I was far too young
To know you’re worth more than the moon and the sun
You are still alive when I look to the sky in the night

I would wait for a thousand years
I would sit right here by the lake, my dear
You just let me know that you’re coming home
And I’ll wait for you

Years have gone but the pain is the same
I have passed my days by the sound of your name
Well they say that you’re gone and that I should move on
I wonder: how do they know, baby?

Death is a wall but it can’t be the end
You are my protector and my best friend
Well they say that you’re gone and that I should move on
I wonder: how do they know, baby?
How do they know? Well, they don’t"

Lord Huron – In the Wind

Just happy.

I welcomed in the New Year with board games and over 800 miles of driving in 48 hours. The highlight of my trip was nestled somewhere between The Perfect Hug and becoming the King of Tokyo as the Cyber Bunny (which in my opinion, is the monster most well suited to me: badass and adorable). As I sat around the game table on New Year’s Eve, greedily snatching roasted Brussels sprouts and cauliflower, cheese, rice crispy treats, and molasses chips and stuffing them into my face (not all at the same time) I didn’t think much on the “big possibilities” for the new year or its greater meaning and significance. I occasionally checked the trickle of “Happy New Year” text messages I received and joyfully replied, but I just felt happy to be where I was and grateful for the people closest to me (wherever they happened to be geographically).

I could easily dramatize 2013 as it did carry some rather dramatic changes. But the odd thing about this blog and my conversations with friends… the odd thing is, now that I’m sitting down to write a little bloggity-dee reflecting on this last year, I don’t have much else to say. I lived it, I wrote it, and I spoke it. Could I say, with flair, that this last year was hell? That it was challenging, displacing, heartbreaking and sad? Could I speak of the trees I watched dance, the eye contact I held with strangers, the deep soul love connection made and torn and gingerly handled? Or of the steps taken and the steps still needing to be taken? So many steps left. So very, very many and yet in this moment, as sleep begins to beckon to me, I’m content with letting a memory be a memory and a future, a future. No grandeur, no sweeping resolutions or sentimental statements or reading into what I’ve experienced and where I’m going.

I struggle to say I’m grateful for 2013 and what it offered, but I struggle to hate it in equal measure. The internal work I’ve done, the processing, the experiencing, is most clearly expressed in my blogs from last year but also the rough draft of my novel. I finished that draft shortly before 2013 ended, one year of work. As I start my edits and rewrites, I see the battle of what I was going through and what I was trying to say in those pages. My characters floundered in their own insecurity, though through no fault or even motivation of their own. The insecurity was mine; not just as a writer, but as a human being trying to make choices and changes.

Understandable, I think.

So standing on this side of last year, I can bear witness to a former self and incorporate her into a new being. I can allow myself that poetry, at least. But I think I’ll quietly slip into the new being like I would any other day, because how I felt on New Year’s Eve sums everything up: I’m just happy to be where I am. Home will continue to change, goals will continue to take shape, characters will continue to speak and surprise me, and tragedies will continue to occur along with beauty. Sometimes I don’t need any deeper meaning than that.

Much love to all of you!

Coin Operated Girl

Okay. Okay, look. I’ve got another little annoyance digging in my brain.

The token “strong female character.”

I went and saw the second Hobbit film last night. I won’t really dig deep into what I thought of the film as a whole (summary: good fun, many great elements, was on the cusp of feeling bored multiple times, probably won’t see it again), but I will speak about a very specific character decision that was made: the pretty red-headed elf lady. The orcs call her She-Elf, for some reason. It’s entirely possible that it’s a Tolkien thing, man of his time and whatnot, but really? Not elf. No, not elf. She-Elf. Totally different breed, apparently. Silly She-Elf.

Now before I continue on my ranty ranty bit, let me say this: Evangeline Lilly is lovely as the elf Tauriel, both in appearance and performance. And the little girl inside me enjoys watching her dance gracefully on the wind and on the earth as she shoots and slashes her way through spiders and orcs alike. I genuinely like her character. Tauriel’s compassion, her feisty defy-orders-to-do-what-she-feels-is-right attitude, and her battle skills all mesh together to make… Movie Arwen 2.0. Except redheaded and with more bloodlust.

Here’s my problem: an unnecessary plot addition was written so one single female character got to stand out as strong willed, feisty, and beautiful, among the men she interacts with. Is that, by itself, a problem? Not necessarily. Is it a problem that a female character was written in to a story that originally featured only men? No. Is it a problem that we have a gal who fights, is empathetic, and makes choices independently? Certainly not.

The problem is this character has been written many times before, in different stories and different circumstances, but she fills the exact same slot. She is a token writers stick into a story when they suddenly realize they need or want a female character, because this is nearly 2014, and shouldn’t we be progressive and stuff?

Her name is Tauriel. Her name is Arwen when she holds a sword to her lover’s throat and brags about sneaking up on him (Liv Tyler herself later recognized “you don’t have to put a sword in her hand to make her strong”). Her name is Fiona, from Shrek. Sure, she does kung-fu, but so do all princesses these days. What else do you have for her? She’s the blonde from the most recent Star Trek movie, whose only purpose seems to be functioning as a plot device and a hot piece of ass. Her name is Black Widow, to a certain extent, as depicted in the Iron Man movies and The Avengers.

It’s not bad to be kick-ass and pretty, that can be kind of awesome. But it’s not enough to be kick-ass and pretty. Those two elements do not a well-developed character make. Is Legolas strong? Is he kick ass? Is he pretty?

He’s all three of these things. Funny, we don’t seem to need to ask those questions. Well, except maybe that last one. But we often skip the “strong” adjective for male characters. Why? A) it’s a given or B) it doesn’t matter. It isn’t necessarily a part of the character’s merit. That doesn’t have to be proven, so we get to skip ahead to the other parts.

This woman’s token is wearing out real fast because it’s easy to use and it’s used often. The token’s characteristics have expanded to include “strong” and “badass fighting skills” but the role has not changed. The ratio of male to female protagonists has not changed.

But, you might say, some of these stories are based on older works and all the main characters are male! What do you want us to do?

The people behind the 2004 adaptation of Battlestar Galactica did something brilliant. They turned Starbuck, originally a male character, into a female (who was her own person). And it fucking worked. It worked brilliantly. Now, will I always expect gender bending in classic stories? No. Do I want every single story to be carefully balanced between male, female, and othergender characters? No. But tossing in a woman who can fight and be feisty and pretty does not warrant an automatic pat on the back. It does not warrant a “good job, look at how mindful you are to making sure women get positive representation! Look how much you get that women can be strong, independent, and badass! Here, have a cookie, because: Yay! Equality!"

This is not about women being depicted as sword wielding badasses or not. This is about WHY they are depicted as such. The why is incredibly, incredibly important. The why is the difference between a token and a thoughtfully constructed complex character. The why is the difference between a character who impacts and shapes the story and a character who is simply given something “to do” by the creation of elaborate side stories. Tauriel, in the midst of all her badassery, is also kind of just... an excuse for a romantic interest triange. 

As I’ve been writing I’ve come across this problem. It’s not a male vs female vs somegender problem, it’s simply a character writing problem. I find myself thinking “Oh! I want this character to do this, I want them to end up here. So this, this and this needs to happen, and then they can have this moment.”

Characters inevitably fall flat when they just react to whatever plot is written up. They will do anything I tell them to, but that does not mean they should. Characters, when they are allowed to be given life, will shape their own destinies. Is the plot serving the character and story, or is it simply serving a situation? Is the character breathing life, or is she coin operated? 

Thoughts on Frozen: Sisters, snow-dorks, and stone smurfs. (Contains spoilers!)

So I saw Frozen today. I cried.

Which should be no surprise to anybody.

After talking at (and with) a couple friends, I’ve developed a fairly cohesive review of my experience. As should be apparent by the title, this will contain spoilers. Please read responsibly.

~

First impression of the opening title screen and first scene: Dude, music.

And then… everything changes. Kind of.

Looking back, the opening scene has little to do with the rest of the film. So we see Kristoff and Sven’s origin, but what the heck happened to the rest of the ice men?

Change scene: we peek into the childhood of two sisters: Elsa and Anna. They’re adorable little princesses. They frolic, then something bad happens. We glimpse Elsa’s magical abilities (“winter” powers), and the resulting consequences. Terrified of a power she has, but doesn’t understand, Elsa learns she can accidentally harm those closest to her. Because of some vague warning from a few stone trolls, her parents shut her away from her sister and her world. She is shaped by a very strong belief more powerful than her magic: she must stifle and hide a part of herself to keep herself and her world safe. It’s the twisted interpretation of “with great power comes great responsibility.” Aka: “Don’t kill your sister, cause you totally will, even if you don’t mean to. So, just, hide your face or something. Cause, you know, shame! Dishonor! Dishonor on your whole family! Dishonor on you, dishonor on your cow, dis-“  er, ahem. Anyway. While she lives with her family, she is still separated and isolated from them.

Time passes, other stuff happens, and Elsa soon has to face the fact that she cannot hide forever because of, you know, circumstances. She’s terrified, naturally, and Anna has no idea why her sister is as cold and reserved as she is.

But let me take a break here: Where the hell did Elsa’s magic come from? She was born with it, not “cursed.” Okay. Does magic run in the family, then? Why are her parents so inept at helping her harness her powers? Presumably, if they think she can just wear some gloves and everything will be fine, then ice magic has either never been a big problem in their family, or it’s a new thing. Why was she born with it, but no one else in her family has it? What is her magic’s purpose (besides being a metaphor for being “cold” and “unfeeling”)? How does it work? How did it hurt Anna the way it did? Why did Anna’s memories of magic have to be removed entirely? I get the fear, I get the desire and urge to control something that isn’t understood, I get the love themes, I get the acceptance and the sisterhood themes.

But, but questions!!

I like the direction Disney is going with these princess stories. I’m guessing Brave, which focused on the mother/daughter relationship, broke open a new paradigm: stories about women protagonists without a romantic center. This is a new direction for Disney and sadly, a new direction for mainstream film and media in general. While Frozen is not devoid of romantic relationships/interests, I found those that WERE included were more self-aware and organic. Anna starts off excited about finding her “one” true love (which I see more as excitement about finding love and intimacy in general; she too has grown up so isolated, but without her sister’s internal struggle). Anna’s naiveté (which the film is self-aware of) kickstarts a journey to understand what “love” means as a whole. How SHE creates love herself, and how love defines relationships, period, whether it’s between sisters, friends, or partners/romantic.

While Disney may be heading that direction, their vision and execution is not perfect. I sense the legacy of these films shifting but Frozen as a whole is disjointed and scattered. My primary issue with this film is the same issue I had with Brave: too much going on and not enough focus/exploration on the stronger themes.

I can’t decide whether Olaf the snow-dork was a cute comic-relief character that worked within the story, or if he was misplaced. ( Olaf is CLEARLY a big hit with the kids and he’s a great marketing tool; I can’t fault Disney for that.) I get that he is a bridge character between the sisters, linking their past and their current struggle. But if that’s the case, I wonder if there was a better way to use that character. What if the comic relief came from elsewhere and his character explained (or even hint at) the source of Elsa’s magic or its significance?

What if Elsa’s power was somehow connected to Anna in a bigger way than “oh, if I don’t hide it, I’ll hurt her again?” What if Elsa’s magic developed to entertain and protect Anna, out of love, but when it backfired and Elsa accidentally hurt her sister, it raged out of her control? What if the ice magic was an ancient gift bestowed on the rulers of the kingdom, but over the years it was forgotten and Elsa was the first child in generations to have it?

Elsa has a power she is afraid of, and Anna’s power is that she faces her fears. Elsa’s journey to truly embracing herself revolves around her relationship with her sister, just as Anna’s journey to understand what love is revolves around the same thing. While the ice magic serves as a powerful metaphor, ultimately I think it becomes a vague situation for the story to happen around, not through. Like at the beginning? When the royal family goes off in the night to find those trolls to save little Anna? The mind is easy to change but not the heart? What exactly did Elsa DO? Give Anna a bad case of brain freeze? (I admit I was a little confused at that bit. I figure when someone gets hit in the head with a bolt of ice, they’d either end up with a bad headache or, you know, no head. What was the difference between the physical/material ice and the “magic disease ice?”)

And oh god, those trolls. There was another chance to give a little back-story or context for how magic functions in this world, but no. Sure, these trolls seem to have all this knowledge of magic, but besides ridding little Anna of a bad ice-headache and a vague warning to Elsa and her parents of “beauty” and “danger” if you don’t get that darn frost problem under control, what do these supposedly wise, old trolls do?

Apparently, kidnap the kid from the opening scene, raise him as their own, and then sing a little song mid-movie about fixer-upper relationships. A weird song about fixer-upper relationships. I get it was supposed to build the relationship between two of the main characters, but, really? And they look like stone smurfs. Smurfs. Stone. Smurfs.

What?

Not only did the story feel disjointed in parts, but the music was aaaaall over the place. I am not musically educated enough to articulate WHY, but that’s exactly how I experienced it. Intense, powerful opening music and then… where the hell was that during the rest of it?

I found “Let it Go,” sung by Elsa, to be one of the strongest songs overall, and one of the most impactful. Elsa goes from barely keeping her magic hidden to completely unleashing it from her fingertips, creating this gorgeous ice castle. But Olaf the snow-dork has his own style of song (which is admittedly adorable), the trolls have their own weird song (a total wtf moment), a few Disney-style pop songs, and… I don’t really remember much else. Regardless of whether or not the songs had merit, the main thing I remember is… not remembering them very well.

Growing up, Disney movies were all about the music for me. As questionable and cringe-worthy as Pocahontas was, damnit that movie had some amazing music. Lion King? Unforgettable, plus my all-time favorite villain song. Each decade, each “age” of Disney had its own flavor, animation, story, and perhaps most importantly for many of us, music.

Watching Frozen in a theater filled with children and families, I wondered how this generation of kids will remember the music. To them, is it the best thing ever, and am I just biased because I’m not their age anymore? Perhaps.

I really did enjoy the film. The visuals of ice and snow are stunning, the journeys of both sisters are wonderfully done and tender (like a steak, hehe). Character dialogue and exchange felt organic and fluid, right down to the most subtle of body language details, which made the motivation and development of each character clear and engaging. While largely scattered, the music did contain a couple gems that I hope kids will sing loudly in the backseats of cars, much to their parents’ chagrin or joy (or both). The kids sitting with us in the theater loved the movie, and were very vocal about it. And while I question how focused the story was and the roles some of the side characters played, I think those critiques are best served in thinking about how we might make even better films, stories, whatever, in the future. 

Living with an eating disorder.

Every day becomes a choice.

Each day rests on a series of pivot points; I find the first one sitting on my chest when I wake up in the morning. That’s when it starts and I pass through one after another after another after another. When I blearily blink the room into focus and slap around for the deactivated iPhone I use for a bedside clock. When I peer at the digital numbers, then look away to stare off somewhere around the window to ponder when I really, really have to get up. Repeat this last step several times. Looking at the time again helps, because sometimes it feels like my body and the objects around me aren’t quite real.

That’s when the first choice happens. The “what kind of day is this going to be?” sort of choice; except for me, it’s “what kind of life do I want to live?” And I’m surprised by how complicated the answer is. Not every time. But sometimes.

A friend reminded me of the balance: the balance between falling in love with the journey and not losing sight of the goal. It’s like there’s some goal out there leaving a trail of note pages for me. Every day I pick up another one and flip it over twice, trying to find a clue or hint. But there isn’t one. There never is. So what I write on that page becomes my choice. I can write as much or as little as I want to, but I have to remember that someday I’ll end up with this pile of pages and that’ll be it. That’ll be how I chose to represent my potential.

That’s staggering. You know? That’s completely staggering.

Some days I write thousands of words and hate every single one. But other days I fill up a whole journal and recognize its importance and its beauty. Some days I care less about the product and just enjoy the process; who gives a shit if the quality falls short? It’s quality to me. Then there are those days I write less than a paragraph and I’m convinced those are the best goddamn words I’ve ever strung together. The next day I’ll write three times more then cut out half of it.

Every day I write and look at what I’ve compiled so far. And I realize I need to write more. A lot more.

Because this is the choice. It’s the choice in creating substance or stopping before the story is finished. And the story may never be finished. Or it may be cut short before I make my next choice. But each one I do make will be mine, they will be precious, and they will be lovely. Even the ones I am most disappointed by. 

Little thoughts: Bedroom door.

I closed the bedroom door, listening for the muffled click of the latch. Over time the wood had warped enough to not quite fit its frame; often a careful little thrust was required to shut it. On those evenings when I watched the digital clock betray my trust, the time leaping over my body hunched in the recliner, I rarely crept in to bed before 4am. Mom slept in the room next to mine; I didn’t want to wake her. The floor itself had declared war upon anyone who dared to walk brazenly upon its face. It croaked, yowled, and brayed, practicing its barn yard battle cries even when we tiptoed along the edges of the hallway.

It’s all about knowing what you can and can’t control. I can’t control the floor, god knows I tried, but the bedroom door, that’s my domain. I remembered judging peoples’ moods by the way they shut a door. Did they slam it just a bit? They slammed it just a bit. What’s wrong? Are they mad at something? Someone? Are they mad at me? And here, when I said “I remembered” I really meant: “I still do that.”

I heard the voice in my head and wondered how old it was. If it was a fixed age, imprinted or woven into a tapestry that I hung around my neck as a representation of who I am inside. Or was it a shifting system spanning decades or centuries of life experience both lived and imagined? If I lived to be 150 years old, would I still talk about closing doors quietly and would I care if someone heard it? 

Female Sexuality and Empowerment (Your ass is showing.)

I got all inspired to write a blog on self-esteem, power, and female sexuality (and its expression) back when the whole Miley Cyrus thing happened at the VMAs. Not to talk about the event itself, but to talk about the conversations that happened after Sinead O’Conner’s barrage of open letters and then Amanda Palmer’s blog in response to Sinead’s first letter.

I wanted to talk about the comments people made in response to those responses.

I wanted to talk about the atrocious blog from a guy who likes, prefers, women with low self-esteem (because strong women are just so not vulnerable and don’t make him feel like a man).

I wanted to talk about power, and what it means to own it or to take it back.

I wanted to talk about what women taking back sexual power means and what it means for men to be in their own power.

I wanted to talk about what being “female” means and what being “male” means and how that’s not so easy, is it?

I wanted to talk about what seems to be a broken dialogue because I look at all this and just see scared people lashing out against other scared people.

I see big, influential people wielding more influence than they are willing to take responsibility for.

I see puppet strings and I see strings cut.

I see myself, at 13 years old, and I wonder what words like “self-esteem,” phrases like “your body is a temple” would mean to her.

I see myself, now, as a woman in her 20s, and I don’t have an answer to: “what’s the right way for a woman to express her sexuality?” (I know there isn't a “right” way, but the fact it’s still such a highly talked about and DEBATED subject indicates that this isn't over even if the answer is there.)

I don’t have answers to: “When is nudity exploitation, when is it not?” and “When is sexuality exploitation and when is it not?”

Discerning is hard, arguing is easy; I wonder if this debate is messy because we have to continue putting female sexuality in a box in this discussion (what is it/how is it and how should it be expressed/what does it mean), when by its nature, female sexuality (and sexuality in general) is extremely fluid and hard to pin down.

Two questions about sexuality and power keep coming back to me. If women try and take back their personal power by owning their sexuality rather than letting it be owned, what does that look like? And how do we tell the difference?

But when I ask those questions, more keep coming. What does male sexual power mean in this day and age? And whether it’s just women, just men, or some combination of both, is there a way to respect the human beings represented by such a powerful force?

I think this goes beyond slut-shaming because that argument, at its surface, is easy. “Look, she has no self-respect,” “Look, she is comfortable with her body.” Where’s the line? Is there one? Who holds the power? Who’s being exploited? Is anyone being exploited? What is appropriate? What lessons will my 13 year old learn if she sees this? My question is: what lessons will any of us learn if we don’t talk about what we see, read, watch, think, feel or do?

If we ask individual women: “What does ‘my body is a temple’ mean to you?” what answer will we find? I’m betting we’ll find a huge spectrum, but I don’t know what that spectrum is.

The big reason why I took so long to write this should be obvious. There are so many question that I don’t even know where to begin. It’s overwhelming, and while I could sit here, pick a place to start, and start dissecting all the information, I would never post the blog because I would be writing it for the rest of my life. And right now I don’t want to debate or argue; I want to share and listen. So I’m going to change the conversation.

I don’t want this one to be just me talking at you; I want this to be a dialogue. Not just from women or those typified as women, but anybody, however they choose to describe themselves, their gender, their sexuality.

Can people be strong and vulnerable at the same time? If no, why? If yes, can you give a story, an example, experience, or even some thoughts on what that looks like?

What does that look like for women to take back their personal power by owning their sexuality? And how do we tell the difference between empowerment and dis-empowerment?

(If something else provoked a thought, go with that!)

If you are comfortable enough to post a response on the blog I would love for you to share. If someone posts a comment you want to respond to, respond away (but please be respectful and considerate). Feel free to post anonymously or if you prefer to share privately and have other ways of contacting me directly, go for it. I will not post anything without permission.

Be honest and be bold. Much love, and we’ll pick this up again soon!

Fingertips and Steel Strings

I judge how often I play guitar by two details: how long the fingernails on my left hand are, and how callused my left fingertips are. Last night I picked up the black painted body of the steel stringed instrument, running my fingers along the only case decoration: an old name tag. The name tag reads “Fredrick the 3^rd” and it’s secured by four pieces of worn duct tape.

I haven’t pulled the guitar from its case in a long time. I've trimmed my fingernails and the skin on the tips of my index, middle, ring finger and pinkie are smooth and soft. No trace of calluses. To which I say, “This shit’s gonna hurt.” Because, you know, digging a bundle of nerve endings into the side of a steel string? No pain, no gain or something like that. I think about learning guitar as a kid. Not only do we get to suffer through shaky chord changes, figuring out which finger goes where, but we have to build up the hand and fingers strength to play anything properly and, well, prettily.

Coming back to the instrument now, I can play all the basic chords, and change between them, with reasonable aptitude. But those first few practice sessions are agony on the fingers. I know what I want to play and I know how it’s supposed to sound. But as the minutes tick by the sharp, stinging pain radiating through my hand and into my arm is difficult to ignore. To compensate, I don’t press as hard for every chord.
 

Point being, everything sounds like different levels of shit. There’s: “Oh that’s good. Really solid,” as the rarely reached goal. Then: “Eeeh, it’s a bit fuzzy. And what was that buzzing twang? Damn B string, damn you.” Then: “Hnnnng. Fuckfuck OW. Okay, that was a chord, right?” *strums again* “Well, I can hear all the strings I’m NOT pressing on, so that’s good?” Then: “…Well in my head I know what it’s supposed to sound like.” Then: “Fuck, I give up. We’ll do this a cappella.”

So why the sudden break-out-the-guitar inspiration? Funny you should ask. I first learned to play church hymns and folk songs. The latter speaks to a longer, deeper love of folk. Traditional tunes can be such a beautiful vehicle for expression. English, Irish, American, folk music holds a grounded space that I inevitably come home to again and again. Kate Rusby is one of those spaces.

I don’t remember how I stumbled upon her, but I began listening to Kate Rusby’s albums several years ago. Frankly, discovering her at all was a bit of a miracle given my spotty music knowledge and the fact that Kate isn’t that well known in the US (to my knowledge, anyway). She’s a contemporary English folk singer-songwriter armed with a skill on strings and an understated, melancholy voice that effortlessly slips under my skin. A fluid combination of old English songs carried on by her own tunes, folk tunes from the mid to late twentieth century, and her own tunes, her delivery is simple and stripped down. She offers a vehicle easily accessed and easily felt. The first album I listened to, “Little Lights,” was not one I instantly fell in love with. One track caught my interest and for some reason I decided to just buy the whole damn album. That album has been a long, slow love story. Similar to my experience with Patty Griffin’s “Living with Ghosts” album, it took time and patience for me to dig into the subtleties that ultimately became the reasons why I love it so much.

That is art to me. Vehicles of feeling offered by one and accessed by another. There is no greater honor than when something I produce impacts someone else so deeply that they spend their time digging in, exploring, and making their own experience. That’s a sort of soul sharing that can transcend time, distance, even culture. It can be a convoluted plot based film with complicated action shots and intense character development, a brutally honest self-portrait by a painter suffering from crippling old injuries and pain, an old English folk tune, or a new English folk tune.

They all remind us that the stories are the same, repeating in time and across space. Not that the differences don’t matter. My God, they matter so much. Those differences make our version unique; no one can tell our story for us. Those variations enrich us if nothing else. The ability to look into the soul of another and say “I love our sameness and value our differences,” that’s a precious wisdom.

Because it Mattered

Ho boy. Where to start.

Let's go with a highlight from last week: my cousin and I went to a wedding. This particular individual is my choir/singing buddy, practically since birth. So Disney movie music was our main road trip soundtrack until I broke out Jonathan Coulton and shared another piece of geekiness close to my heart. Truly, there is nothing quite like singing about zombies with a close friend (who also happens to blend amazingly with your voice).

The little cabin tent we stayed in after the wedding had a heated bed, which, I must say, was extremely necessary come morning. I felt like a kid again, huddling in my cozy bed with blanket upon blanket stacked on top of me (with one leg sticking out for temperature control), yet my nose is still slowly turning into an ice cube. If I shift my head just one inch too far, suddenly my face meets freezing pillow case and I'm afraid my cheek will stick to it like a tongue to a icy pole.

Cause, you know, that makes sense. But my point is, it's COLD. During the winter when I lived in the woods, my parents would take turns getting up to stoke the fire in the wood stove; that stove, plus any space heaters, were the only sources of heat so my room was often a bit... nippy. Yet there is a wood nymph part of me that loves this. Bundling up against the harsh environment, the tough skin I developed in withstanding the cold. I miss autumn in the forest. I miss the way my cheeks and nose turn bright red from the frigid air while my head and neck stay swathed in a warm wool hat and scarf. Except when the wool starts getting all itchy and my neck and forehead start sweating. Sweaty skin and itchy wool is not a sexy combo.

My cousin and I were hoping for a hot cup of cocoa before retiring to our wood frame and canvas covered bedroom, but the bourbon wasn't a bad trade off. Warm fuzzies plus unstoppable giggle fits? I'll take it.

~

I've thought a lot about a lot of things lately. Not unusual, granted. I have a few interesting blog ideas (beyond just the “where's Tasia?” pontificating kind of thing) in the back of my mind, so you will get a taste or two in the near future. This won't be a surprise, but it hasn't been an easy couple weeks. Hell, it hasn't been an easy few months. I haven't been able to thoroughly process, incorporate, and accept all this roughness rubbing against the inner walls of my heart while I've been floating from house to house, couch to couch. Every part of my being has been extremely unsettled. I desperately want to just cry sometimes but finding a “space” to release the dam... that's been more complicated.

For whatever reality I'm in (rather than better or worse, cause it's always both at the same time), I have found a house to be, sleep, eat, and plan in for the next couple months while I get back on my feet. The aloneness hasn't been a problem, but loneliness has. I feel very distant and separated from the life I danced in just one or two months ago. My life three to six months ago feels even further away. This will ease in time, I know, but right now my heart hurts and daily I have to decide whether to accept that or not. Sometimes I do, and I can relax into the ache. “I'm a solid okay” or “I'm on the low end of alright” have become acceptable responses to “How are you?” because they're true. Things are kind of shitty. Sometimes the melancholy tugs my lungs deeper into an empty well, but I still find moments to laugh, feel joy and breathe. I still feel love when I sing every word of Be Prepared from Lion King by heart with good company. The meaningful relationships I tend while wearing pajamas and gardening gloves, as complicated and heavy hitting as they are, still grow.

It's kind of like saying “thank you” and “fuck you” in the same sentence and meaning them equally. I don't believe I have to forget my past in order to find joy; I believe finding joy because of my past is a worthier goal. Recently I heard someone say “we're not our stories,” but we are. That's not all we are, but the stories we choose matter. The story we live and the story we make up might be different because we are awfully good at lying to and fooling ourselves sometimes. If I'm not my story, I'm lying to myself. If I can't choose my story, I've fallen too in love with victimhood. The choice matters.

A friend asked me about my experience with break ups and heartbreak a day or two ago. I remember something I heard a long time ago that still sticks with me: “It hurts because it mattered.”

And thank god it does. Thank god it did.  

Update!

I apologize for the irregular posts for the last couple weeks! I'm moving (driving) around a bit more right now so finding stable (mentally, emotionally AND physically) spaces to write worthwhile posts has been challenging. I aim to post this weekend, so stay tuned. :)

Love,
Tasia

Wednesday morning

Strange days. Strange dreams. I've been holding my questions and frustrations tight to my belly like a load of laundry, be it dirty of freshly clean; sometimes it feels like a mixture of both. A few people have been witness to my juggling act and those same people have been incredibly generous in their support. Another few, equally small in number, hear about it because I've told them. Only one has heard me cry over the phone. I hate crying on the phone but that one person makes it okay. That person just let's the space be.

This won't be a long update. Today I struggle to find an appropriate balance between dealing with survival, processing, breathing and expressing all this openly and my chest clenches. Suffice to say that I'm alright, and I still remember how privileged I am to rely on the support of others at this time. I won't sugar coat this or philosophize with sweeping sentences; right now breathing is enough. Enjoying the company of others is enough. Writing chapters to a story is enough. Measured steps towards settling is enough. Not really being okay is enough, for now.  

Roosters and Buddha: The Value of Ideas

Wtf?

My first retail gig was at gift store/art store: two thirds devoted to cards, trinkets, and hastily painted figurines, and one third for closely packed isles of art supplies. Being an art major, I was primarily hired for that knowledge and experience but my tasks and duties covered the entire store. I liked this job. Would I devote a life of sweat, tears (only not so much), and occasional boredom to this career? Well, no. But art supplies!

Over the years I have become less and less a knick-knacky person. I see an object. Do I have a use for it? No. Does it hold deep meaning/significance? No. Pass. I unpacked, priced, and sold objects ranging from charming, to odd, to just plain dumb. I'll never forget this one line of ceramic rooster figurines, maybe about half the size of an actual rooster. But wait, you say. Some people like collecting roosters! Call me practical to a fault, but I fail to understand the need for a rooster dressed up as a mermaid.

In retrospect, what strikes me most about the rooster mermaid/merman is our complete disassociation with where things come from and why the hell we need them. How was it made, where was it made, who made it, and why? On the personal side, why do we buy things? Why are we drawn to them? Why do we want them? Why do we need them? What's the difference?

So I have a bone to pick with the internet. It's related to my rooster mermaid but I will set that precious artifact aside for a moment. I have a bone to pick with the cultural phenomenon of inspirational quotes.

Let me put this into a specific context since these babies are not new to the cultural neighborhood. I see quotes tossed around on facebook/pinterest like a big, internet game of hot potato. Or like passing a joint. Take a hit, pass it along and bask in the glow of instant gratification. Right now, you are CULTURED. “Heeey man, you gotta try this out, man. This shit is DOPE.” (My apologies to any offended; I am not a pothead, nor do I have any experience in how to talk as one.)

I claim no exemption in Inspirational Quote Land. The procedure: I scroll through my feed. I see something: a line of text carefully composed on some photo or abstract design meant to catch the eye, evoke a feeling. The text is stylized. I read those beautiful words. I barely think for a split second and my instant reaction seals my fate. I am just so... inspired! A randomly picked verbal response worms its way to my brain: “Right on!” “Yes!” “Exactly!” “Soooo true!” “Amen!” “Love this!”

My inner emotional and mental beasts gobble these words up like candy. I can't help but give into the strong desire to share this glorious truth, this gospel, with everyone I know. These words alone represent what I think, what I feel, how I want to change my life, though I haven't really pondered why or how. Thus, I click the “share” button, passing on the life-changing wisdom with my one word reaction. All of this happens in a matter of seconds. Moments later, I've completely forgotten about it.

What does this have to do with rooster mermaids? Allow me to brush the dust off my art degree and introduce a couple friends of mine: Kitsch and conceptual art.

What is important?

Those of you familiar with “kitsch” may understand the term in its broader context and how it has been used since the word first came into use (including the “KitschMovement,” which aims to liberate the term from irony or disdain). I moseyed over to wikipedia for a basic explanation of kitsch because I'm lazy, but hey, it serves a purpose:

Kitsch “is a low-brow style of mass-produced art or design using popular or cultural icons. The term is generally reserved for unsubstantial or gaudy works or decoration, or works that are calculated to have popular appeal. The concept of kitsch is applied to artwork that was a response to the 19th-century art with aesthetics that convey exaggerated sentimentality and melodrama, hence, kitsch art is closely associated with sentimental art.”

“According to Walter Benjamin, kitsch is, unlike art, a utilitarian object lacking all critical distance between object and observer; it 'offers instantaneous emotional gratification without intellectual effort, without the requirement of distance, without sublimation.'”

I find “it offers instantaneous emotional gratification without intellectual effort” an interesting statement. Is sentimentality the bane of our existence? Well, you can decide. I do think there are themes and stories woven into our cultures and/or souls which evoke strong emotions within us, and those have value. We read/see/hear things that inspire us unexpectedly or move us. I get that. That surprise, excitement, passion is invigorating. It's a spark. It's a light. But what happens to a moth with a low bullshit meter?

I will defend liberal arts majors 'til the day I die. Why? Because art theory and history (along with any other field that examines metaphor, history, and meaning/value) teach us to investigate the intention/context in which something was made AND understand our reaction and response to ideas/art/thoughts/beliefs we consume.

Enter conceptual art. Some works of art sell for millions of dollars, and yet their aesthetic value seems... bizarre, such as Fountain, attributed to Marcel Duchamp. It's a urinal, on it's back, with a name scribbled on it and this piece changed the art world as we know it. And anyone who has taken an art class ever is rolling their eyes at me for using this obvious, over-used example, but damnit, I'm using it anyway!  Why do I find this so interesting? Not necessarily the piece itself, but the reactions people had/have towards it.

Conceptual art and kitsch point out something important: when we consume (see or purchase) art, we're not just consuming the aesthetic value or craftsmanship. We're consuming an idea, a moment of significance in time. Ironic or sincere, authentic or pretentious, it's context. It's history. Let me spell this out clearly: WE put a value on ideas. WE say “this is important, this is not.” WE say “this is worth my time and emotional and mental commitment.”

Here's my issue: do we cheapen ourselves by how we engage in and consume ideas?

Meaning and Value

My primary problem with inspirational quotes is the same problem I have with the rooster mermaid: we disassociate ourselves from where things come from and rarely pursue why things are important. In doing so, we strip away meaning and value.

I look at a piece of art: what do I feel? Then, how does this painting impact me, the viewer, based on my perception, history, spirit, and personal investment? What was the spirit/intention in which the painting was created? Or, in simpler terms: what was/is the intention, significance, and experience?

Inspirational quotes can be extracted from poetry (lookin' at you, Rumi), historical scriptures/texts (lookin' at you, Buddha/Jesus), speeches (hey there Dr. Martin Luther King Jr!), and literature (William Shakespeare, Paulo Coelho, and Maya Angelou walk into a bar...). All of these sources, just like visual art, have context. Take a phrase out of context and we take away part of its meaning, or even completely miss the point.

What about the personal meaning/significance we project onto a quote or story? Sure, we respond instinctively to experiences. But posting a quote and saying “Yes!!!” means almost nothing. Yes, we have an experience and we have an emotional response. Both of those are important and very, very valuable. Sometimes that's enough. But there's no dialogue here. This is bumper sticker philosophy; it's gonna excite one person and piss off the other. Why did those words impact you? What did you feel when you read them, why do you respond to them, what in your history or situation or life philosophy sparked the connection? “I see the world differently now!” “This inspires me to change my life!” Or my favorite: “This affirms my belief set that is already in place!” That's great. What next?

Why do we believe/think/feel/see things the way we do? What do objects, what do ideas, what do words mean to you? Understanding these questions within ourselves begins a dialogue; when we meet other people with different ideas, experiences and beliefs, we arrive pre-equipped with tools to converse, challenge, and explore perceptions well outside our own.

So I observe inspirational quotes being used as a form of spiritual or philosophical kitsch. They're mass produced, shared, they're popular, and they inspire us for a grand total of five seconds. Fast food for the soul, baby. Quick, cheap, and delicious.

We LIKE this stuff. Human beings are seriously sentimental fuckers. We like mass-produced, we like popular, we LOVE instant emotional gratification, and we're fine with this. We enjoy a scoop of ice cream and “yummy” is a perfectly acceptable summary of our experience. I sold rooster figurines to people who happily purchased them. We pass around inspirational quotes for a nickle a piece, we gather them up like M&Ms.

And that's okay.

If we are genuinely okay with the value of what we buy into.

Know Your Source

There is one more point I'd like to bring up: everything on the internet is true.

Did you laugh? I hope you laughed.

When we read/post a quote that gives credit to the author, do we asked ourselves these two questions? 1) Do I really know what it means (ie it's context) and 2) Am I sure this person actually said it?

Ah, yes, the glorious world of misquoting and fake quotes. Buddha seems to be an internet favorite; do these look familiar? 

“The mind is everything. What you think you become.”

Huh...

“Each morning we are born again. What we do today is what matters most.”

Waaaait...

One of my favorites: “In the end, only three things matter: How much you loved, how gently you lived, and how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.”

Oh heeeeeey!

You may notice from the links (this is one of the reasons I love the site) that misquoting something doesn't necessarily devalue the quote we love so much. The true source may not be what you thought, but clearly those words have meaning to you and to many others.

What is the source, if known?

Am I aware of the cultural value and context?

How engaged will I choose to be?

What does it mean? What does it mean to me?

What do I feel? Why?

Not all these questions require dissertation length explanations. Basic awareness or inquiry counts, too.

In Summary: How will we engage in ideas and emotions?

I realize that obsessing about inspirational quotes this much is rather silly. Quotes are snippets, they're sparks, they're inspirations. Why you gotta be so SERIOUS about it? But if a spark fizzles out, what was the point? If that's all we use to communicate our thoughts and feelings, how valuable are those commodities?

In the end, what you think is bullshit and what you think is valuable is up to you. How deeply you explore why things are meaningful is up to you. Yes, it's harder to get through a piece of literature, go to the source, or look into the background/history/context of something. Yes, it takes a couple seconds to verify who actually said something or what their meaning was. But I think it does a huge disservice to those who gave me the gems of wisdom to NOT go that extra step. To NOT engage and go beyond the popular, easy, quick, “shareable” content.

If a quote triggers something inside of you, that's great. Can you challenge it? Can you feel it? Do you want to know more? Perhaps most importantly, will you create something of your own? Understanding how and why words and art impact us is crucial if we ever want to successfully create stories and paintings, speeches and songs.  

I'll leave you with some excerpts (quote!) from one of my favorite blogs on how we consume art (and I highly recommend the whole essay, even if it is hard to read in all caps):

“...GOOD MEDIA CONSUMERS UNDERSTAND WHEN THEY'RE DOING WHAT AND WHY. THEY UNDERSTAND WHEN A MOVIE IS ENGAGING ON A CERTAIN LEVEL AND WHY.”

“GOOD MEDIA CONSUMPTION IS ABOUT AWARENESS...

BUT GOOD MEDIA DIALOGUE IS ABOUT CONTEXTUALIZATION”