Today is a new day

and it's high time I clean the screen of my mac. I've got war-hardened dust bunnies nesting in the imperceptible crevices of the digital plane.

There is something to be said for a desk job that allows you plenty of time for your thoroughly unchallenged brain to think of clever ways to talk about mundane and otherwise uninteresting aspects of life. Now that I'm out of the desk job and into a "run-around constantly job" I live in constant fear of becoming boring. Does this mean that I'm saying a desk worker is likely to be more interesting than a busy body? Little things seem to matter more and take bigger chunks of your brain power as you address 20 insignificant-yet-incredibly-significant tasks at once.

I suppose instead of spending time creating puzzles at a desk, I've transitioned into a life which my world has become an enormous puzzle. Every interaction is a piece and many pieces are only shades darker or lighter than the pieces around them.

Lines pale and disappear between success and failure, right and wrong, and decisions in one direction or another don't last more than a blink of an eye. For every success there is potential for a greater success. For every 20 right things you do, there is 1 wrong thing that nullifies all credit gained from the 20 right things.

But things work out one way or another...in fact, there is no one vision of the puzzle. It's being drawn as its being put together. The end is no where in sight until it's actually in sight.

Today may be darker or lighter, but the work on the puzzle today creates the signposts and starting lines for tomorrow's labor.

On summer Poetry and apocalyptic dreams

Summer poetry is the product of an abundance of quiet time. Quiet time is much rarer and much more coveted during the year to waste on the woes and sick-mindedness of a spoiled white American woman...

and yet, while self-loathing may be my default in order first to armor myself in the face of as yet non-existent literary scrutiny, I am rather pleased with myself enough to say that I'm proud for having decided upon poetry as a means to expel my demons as opposed to drunkenness and debauchery, which in either case, would only lend itself to the unleashing of those demons on those closest to me.

Besides, it can be fun writing somewhat amusing yet transparent poetry.

But as I said, summer poetry is the product of an abundance of quiet time. I haven't much enjoyed quiet time this year. In fact, quiet time is in fact the noisiest and least restful time of all. And I don't believe for one moment that I'm alone in this opinion. Quiet time is difficult, which is why so few people actually engage in it. During quiet time, you're left only with yourself.

How frightening.

People talk about about how they would never want to marry themselves (hence, the opposites attract phenomenon...) and that's because we have the potential to make ourselves more nuts than any outside person could do. It's a sad, truth, however, that unless you want to remain a shallow and altogether non-introspective individual, quiet time with yourself is a necessary, good-for-you annoyance. Like swallowing vitamins. (Who the hell decided vitamins needed to be the size of roaches and have the density of a bar magnet??) If you can just get them down your esophagus, you won't get sick all winter. deal?

and just as you must take your vitamins daily for them to really do their job, so must we brave our own ridiculous, fickle minds.

I suppose by subjecting you people to my poetry and this blog in general, I've decided to make sure you all suffer the introspection with me!

Congratulations, ye happy people.

Summer Poetry # 3

oh,
so quiet.
with maddening fortitude and tenacity
the volume does the void so magnify,
I hear the echo of a great hall in a closet
the sound of swallowing water clogs my ears
deaf to all but the great and persistent and fiercely confident voice
that isn't there
at all.
so very,
very
quiet.

Summer Poetry #2

Rise from a fall
out of determination
but if not from that
do it out of sheer spite.
let yourself be picked up
like a child
but if not like that
then
like a penny on the ground.
so many may have walked over you
but someone,
one among the many,
even while you lay pace planted on the road
saw you still had it,
worth.

Summer Poetry #1

Now

gone is gone is never gone is always and forever never

time is a twisted little twist of a devil

and love is and always never kind or forthright or civil

bewitched in betwixt the minefields we wander

through today before the future yesterday our hopes slay

faster and fiercer the pierce of and arrow that festers once entered

though we muster the shredded cluster of courage

the sepsis is imminent in the contentment of our sentiment

we must away tomorrow and today to live in tomorrow as it becomes today

but whether today tomorrow yesterday this moment has is will pass only now

More than one life to lead

News flash! We DON'T get more than one life to lead. But getting the obvious out of the way...

I've been inspired to write after watching the movie "127 Hours" with James Franco, which has supplemented experiences in my life quite closely. This may be a little heavier than my usual blog posts----and yes, I realize that IS saying something---but the time has come to talk about something really real, and not just ranting and manufactured meanings.

On January 11, 2011 my dad died of Leukemia no one knew he had. And even though the circumstances of the death meant he did not experience long-term suffering, the sheer loss has affected me in ways one would only understand having lived through it. The simplest lessons, the ones we hear over and over, learning by rote, learning vicariously through the dramatized versions we love to watch in film, are the most difficult to understand without experience, the most shockingly true once you have the experience, and the easiest to forget in the shallow pool we like to call regular life.

Let's not forget:

1. We only get one life.

We get one shot to live the best way we possibly can. But it's not really just ONE shot. Let's not forget either that life is a massive conglomeration of little, tiny, insignificant shots. A span of 80- 100 years (you hope) full of opportunities to love, and opportunities to make the right decision, or to learn from a mistake that seemed like a good idea at the time.

2. Life is short.

We have no idea how long we're supposed to be here. (Hence, we hope we get a span of 80-100 years) It's the end of the world for someone every single day. You could die choking on your cheerios in the morning.

3. LOVE who you "love," don't just go through the motions.

Hopefully, we all get to learn at some point what love is and what it really means. Don't mess with people. Don't complain about your spouse too much. When they're gone, you'll be wishing for his dirty laundry on the floor, or her yelling at you to pick it up.

I suppose having someone close to you die is a little bit like starting over in life, like having a second life to lead. Things that used to be so important no longer are, and some things that were important have become even more so.

All any one of us has, ACTUALLY HAS, is our will, our choices, and our love. That's it. We worry ourselves with so many things that don't matter, and we're so dense that people have to suffer and die to wake us up. And even THEN it doesn't stick.

(In defense of us humans, though, we live in a great paradox of living in the now and planning for the future. We don't know when we're going to die, but we have to plan on living for a pretty good amount of time because we probably will in most cases. So we forget the basics, the important integral parts of our being, while planning our lives.)

None of this writing really matter, I suppose. But I hope that those of us who are at a period like this, when life has been stripped of the human planning trappings exposing the heart of what we're DOING here, can remember what's important even after the initial shock subsides.

the metaphorical nail in my foot I got avoiding a metaphorical pile of dog poop

Would I have ever thought 5 years ago that I would look back on my quarter-century life and see a fistful of regrets?

No. The answer is no, I was sure I was too careful for mistakes. Or, at least too careful to make any real ones.

With that kind of cocktail of naivety and pride, it's a wonder I've even survived at all. I mean, shouldn't I have been abducted or died in some car accident by now? I like to compare my existence--the sheer miracle of it---to the miracle of retaining both of your eyes for the duration of your life. Those delicate, gelatinous balls of translucent tissue and water are affected by DUST particles for crying out loud. I mean, seriously!

And now that the veil has been lifted, what now? What the hell now? I find myself plagued by the memory of a speech on sin and its effects on us I had the wonderful privilege of hearing as a 9th grader. Imagine you are a piece of wood. Every sin is a nail you drive into yourself, the piece of perfect wood. Jesus (savior, woo!) removes the nails in confession, BUT we're left with the holes forever. In other words, the consequences from your mess-ups stay with you forever. and let me tell you, a broken relationship (friend, boyfriend, spouse, relative) is a scathing little bugger of a nail.

Pretty sad for us out there. Especially if you're like me and keep nailing things to yourself. Or running into stray ones just lying around. Nails that is. Or step on ones jutting out of the ground. They don't tell you that's how the nails really get you. We're not (in general) so masochistic as to do things we think will be injurious to our persons. NO! We think we're doing ok until @#$!@$%@#$^ in comes the rusty nail on the pavement we hit trying avoiding a pile of dog poop.

That's real life. Substituting a nail to avoid a pile of dog poop. Choosing or falling upon A "sad" to avoid an "even sadder." We don't usually get a choice of "Happy or Happy" or "Happy or sad." That would be too easy. And THEN sometimes what we THINK would be "even sadder" is really just the "SAD!"

I'm sure anyone reading this is probably thoroughly confused by all of this rant, but the point is very simple: Life, and trying to live it well, is just really hard.

Sometimes, sometimes a LOT of times, you're probably being an idiot. We just hope and pray our idiocy doesn't hurt us or people around us too badly.

My coffee is eating a hole in my stomach lining.

You know what I can't stand? When you feel like there's a giant iron weight strapped to your neck weighing down every breath you take and the movies you watch still have happy endings. That's not life. We're standing around with our heads in the sand and making up stories about how with wish life would be so we don't have to think about how the world actually works. And then we feed these stories to our children so it's all they know resulting in an ever increasing generational depression and/or apathy. Because what's the point when life always ends in pain, an everyone you know has to lie to cover it up because we can't deal with it!?

Banks are Evil

My house is cold,
I'm eating chocolate to warm my bones,
in this wretched zone of alone.
my dishes are growing, my bed linens thinning,
banks' pockets thicken with every penny I stick in
their miserly backsides cause their swivel chairs to squeak
and then, I'm sinking again,
in cold old home,
eating chocolate to warm my bones
in this wretched zone of alone.

How yelling at my ex across a street helped me become a better musician

First of all, for the record, I hate saying "my ex." I don't know why it comes so naturally, but somehow it has been programed into me by way of romantic comedies and kids television shows in which 14 year olds have "break ups" and "get back togethers." (In the words of the drunk trying to steal our cab last night: B**** please!)

But I digress. The real reason for opening this blog is that I had a maturity break-through as a musician the other day: I finally learned how to belt like a broadway star, and now having done so, I see a sort of beautiful symmetry to the timing. I'm growing up, so my voice changes like what's going to happen to Justin Beiber any time now. Except this girl-woman version. It's like a metamorphosis for which I sort of feel a sense of gratitude to the man who helped me get here. Broken heart, string-along, douche bag Trial by FIRE aside, I was able to use my experience in love to propel me into a place where I could physically express a passion I've never been able to express. Why yes, my life IS a movie.

Belting, as it was explained to me, like any singing is an extension of speech. But there's an intensity behind it that is different from other forms of singing. I learned how to belt by harnessing the voice I had when I yelled F*** You across a street. It was crazy then, and it's crazy now. But as passionate as I am, I'm not a yeller. Belting is like beautiful yelling. Yelling with abandon. It needs to be vulnerable and full throttle, or else it doesn't work. You can't be afraid and belt, kind of like you can't be afraid while you're expressing to someone months of hurt you've been repressing.

So I have a different voice now. A new power, in a sense, that kind of came out of nowhere and everywhere.