Wednesday, December 31, 2014

the year of trips and tolstoy

I keep wanting to write 2013 or 2015, but for whatever reason this entire year I have struggled with remembering that the calendar reads 2014. Well, it won't for much longer. Thank heavens! Kidding. Isn't that what people are supposed to say on New Year's Eve? "Thank heavens this year is almost over! Good riddance! Cheers!" And a happy and healthy New Year to you, too.

But, so far, it has been a decent year. No colossal complaints. I spent most of my 8765.81 hours recovering and reading and riding on the Matterhorn. Okay, so I only rode on it once. I didn't even ride on It's a Small World because the damn ride was closed for the day. But I did ride in an Autopia car with one of Mitt Romney's many, many grandchildren. So somehow the Universe finds a way to balance itself out. Herself. The Universe HAS to be a womyn, right? I mean, she does have a black hole WINK WINK. Ugh. Apparently this was the year I made inappropriate and not-terribly-funny vagina jokes on a public blog.

This was also the year I had a torrid love affair. With Adderall. I am disinterested in discussing it right now. Just because. Just because I've exhausted the subject in my own personal journals and there are better things to discuss. Maybe one day I'll write a memoir about addiction, but for now I'll continue to write vag jokes and limericks.

This year I flew to Arizona to stay with a solid friend for a few days. We needed each other's company, although I'm afraid to say I wasn't the best company due to a certain prescribed pill which leaves me paranoid and kind of an asshole. A hungry, cold, jittery asshole. Anyway, Arizona was wonderful. The desert will always be wonderful. I visited one of the best museums I've ever been to and saw one of the best foreign films I've ever seen and ate some awesome fish. Yeah, fish in the desert. Maybe there's buried treasure out there in the sand underneath the unforgiving sun. Should we go find out in 2015?

This year I worked in a daycare for two months. I knew I'd only work there for two months. I just needed something to fill in part of my day so I would stay sane. Note to self: Sitting in a room for four hours with 14 infants and toddlers and Barney playing on the TV is not the best way to maintain one's sanity. Hey, at least I know now how to change a diaper. Sure, it takes me ten minutes and all of my willpower not to gag, but in the end the baby has a clean butt and I guess that's all that really matters.

This year I went to Disneyland. Like I mentioned above. And it was approximately a million degrees in the Magic Kingdom. And I got laryngitis, which was inconvenient to have while on Space Mountain. And I later drank wine and tequila and ate fish in Downtown Disney with my best friend. Fish in California? Now that makes more sense.

This year I bummed around during the summer. Of course. Somehow I always manage to bum around during the summer months. I can't imagine what it will be like when I grow up and have to actually, you know, work during June, July, and August. The horror. Seriously. Unless I am a park ranger. Then AWESOME.

This year I got a job as a teacher's aide at an elementary school. I thought my job was going to have a little bit more responsibility, but mostly I just untangle cords, staple papers, and occasionally tell 1st graders to shut up in my head. Well, it's the truth. Sometimes the truth is ugly and petty. At least I'm kinder out loud. The job, which I miraculously still have, is what it is. It is temporary, or at least that's what I keep telling myself on those hard days. I wouldn't still be there if it wasn't for the kids. They are actually quite wonderful and refreshing, as kids mostly are once you get past their obnoxious behaviors, and I love being around them. But I don't believe it's where I am needed the most.

Where am I needed the most? Anywhere? Will I continue to run after an ideal version of myself/my life until I collapse? I shall save these questions for the next post! Or the next one! Or the one after that one! Or whatever!

This year I went to San Francisco. It was the hardest and the greatest and most expensive. Did you know a plate of celery sticks at the Palace Hotel costs $17? And it doesn't even come with hummus. But aside from the astronomical prices on everything, San Francisco was a delight. Getting lost by myself in Chinatown was a delight. Wandering around a bizarre arcade and talking to nice Canadian tourists and finding myself again in a tea garden was a delight. Lost and found, lost and found. New beginnings and saying goodbye to old habits. Again, it was hard hard hard and oh-so-great.

This year I read what some might call "a fuck ton of books." My ONE New Year's resolution was to read all of War and Peace. And through the grace of God/Buddha/the ghost of Tolstoy, I finished it. I also knocked some other classics out of the park. Middlemarch! The Brothers Karamazov! The House of Mirth! And, like, so many others. Check my goodreads page if you want? If you are feeling weird? Are you feeling weird? I know some weird books that might help. They might also hurt! Books both close and open so many wounds.

I am so tired from writing about all of this. I know there's more to say. There is always more to say. Should this be part 1 of 2? Is anyone even interested in reading more of my life in 2014? I think I am. But that's just narcissism. Or healthy reflection. I'm not always a narcissist. I'm not always the best at spelling "narcissist" either because that took me at least four times to get it right.

I may be back with another 2014 post. Or not. Maybe it's time to say farewell to what was and begin looking forward to what will be. And 2015 will be the year I finally finish Ulysses. Maaaaybe. Maybe some resolutions are meant to be broken.

Tuesday, December 30, 2014

attach

It's hard for me to understand why I still write. For a long time I fell back on the old "I was born to be a writer, it's just what I do" excuse. Not that it's an excuse. It's an explanation. And it's what defined me. I could be struggling, but that's okay -- I'm a writer. Writers struggle. Writers also indulge, deny, fail, fail often, cry, get super moody at all the wrong times, feel nothing, feel everything. Being a writer was a way to explain away whatever I did or whatever I felt or whomever I hurt, including myself.

But now I don't know if I can keep relying on that excuse. Yes, excuse. I change my mind. I'm a writer, I can change my mind. It is both an explanation and an excuse.

And, I suppose, it's a lifeline. It's my lifeline. It is deeply personal and the act/art of writing has rescued me from deeply dark waters more than once. Even if it had only saved me once, I would still be in its debt. I owe it to the act/art of writing to continue writing. I can't turn my back on it when it for so long held my head above water. I just have to remember to breathe every once in awhile. Gotta do my part, too, you know?

So now I'm not sure what to do, which avenue to pursue. And that's okay. If all I ever do is bare my heart to the world wide web through an earnest mess of fog and pearls, then that should be enough. Not should -- will. I will be enough, I already am.

Monday, December 29, 2014

diver/time divider

This blank screen has been taunting me for too long. And by "too long" I mean five minutes max. I have only been sitting here for five minutes? I guess this is an example of five minutes feeling like twenty. Or an eternity. Or does it matter? Because like I previously mentioned, time is an abstraction, but our bones are not. So maybe I was sitting here, a bunch of bones encased in dry skin, feeling like time was holding me hostage when in fact it was my own thoughts and my own mind making me miserable. I am not miserable, though. Please do not worry! I am just drained a little, a little bit struggling with the wintertime blues, a little late to this whole game of life. Just joking. I don't even know what it means to be late to the game of life. It's a game? Since when? Games include timers and buzzers and colorful little pegs. Life gives us timers and buzzers and pegs, but it also gives us heartache and horror and hours spent hiding away from the aforementioned. Did I mention I am not sad? Not in the traditional sense. I am not currently crying my eyes out. I am not sitting in a dark room with my head pressed up against a wall. No, I am warming up my feet on the heater vent and practicing breathing techniques. Did you know that the world record for holding one's breath underwater is 20 minutes and 21 seconds? Don't tell me that you knew that because you didn't. But do tell me that you will practice the art of breath holding with me so that we will remain vibrant and alive when the dams break. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. I could force myself to reread this. I could make myself become an editor and revise the untidy, confusing, frustrating parts. I could clean up quite nicely if I tried. Tonight, however, I will let you wander through the labyrinth of these words. Feel free to sit down and rest whenever. There are no pools in this maze, so go ahead and exhale. We made it. We made it to the end.

Sunday, December 28, 2014

Q and A: Queer and Asshole: JK: Question and Answer: JK again: Quick! an Asteroid!

Questions I ask to myself, to others, to no one in particular:

What does the poet know that we don't know?

How much iron is in your typical bison burger?

Is deodorant bad for you?

Time is an abstraction, but bones are not.

The last question wasn't a question.

Neither was the last one.

But this one is?

Where are our answers?

Is it going to snow, ever?

Are the trees as thirsty as we are?

Where are my pants?

How have I gone 30 years and 6 months without knowing how to change a light bulb?

Bright idea.

Do I have to put a bandage on my thumb if it is bleeding?
st
Bandages just get wet and fall off.

How do I keep my thumb dry?

There are more paths than there are destinations. Sage Meg!

Should I change my name to Sage?

Should we pull out of these personal wars we've started with ourselves?

Should we learn to love the landmines?

Should we raise our white flags and finally surrender?

(But seriously, get back to me on the iron content in that burger. I'm hungry and have always been hungry.)

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

cape

Screen screen scream screen. Ice cream? Just screens. Surrounded by screens and teens but not really teens. I am usually surrounded by preteens, though. I spend my days alone and then surrounded by preteens and then alone. Not always alone, though. Guess I'm not always truthful. Guess sometimes truth is stranger than fiction and most days I just want to be normal. Give me the dream package vacation and get rid of the screens. Maybe I'll take a screen door leading out to the back porch. One screen, that's my limit. I will open the door and the creak will speak for me. Dinner is served, come running back from the corners where you hide.

But alas, here I am. Hiding behind the screen, stifling a scream, wondering if I have enough peppermint ice cream to last me through Christmas.

When you don't know what to write, write about your insecurities.

That's what this whole blog is, though, correct? Various shades of insecurities posted for whomever wherever to read. This is not a criticism, just an observation. But this observation leads me to desire a cape. I want a cape to show the world how brave I am. Because I desire to be brave. I desire to be a hero, one of the super kind. I desire, most of all, to be super kind. A super kind superhero. Do I fly off of walls? I definitely don't build them. My cape might not lead to flight. My cape might serve as nothing more than a shield. The important thing is that my shield is behind me and I have nothing but my fist in front of me. Not to fight. To lift. To lift up a power I have yet to unearth inside of me.

(Learn how to use the Power button in the Start screen or in Settings to properly turn off your PC, make it sleep, or hibernate it.) <--- Great advice.

Saturday, December 20, 2014

who what where when why how you doin'?

I'm not entirely sure how to rest within the messiness of life. I don't think any of us are. We are fundamentally human, not fundamentally imperfect. Dropping the idea of perfection might be the first step to learning how to rest. It is definitely a necessary step. (So what are the steps I take in order to drop the idea of perfection? There are so many steps. My only hope is that I don't trip up the steps. Or down. I'm not sure which direction these steps are going. I guess I'm the one going, not the steps. The steps are just there, being steps. I could learn a lot from steps.)

I'm not entirely sure what I am doing with my life. I don't think any of us Millennials. Why is it that my computer does not recognize the word "Millennials"? Aren't all of us born between 1980-2000 so g_ddamn important and special and unique that we should at least be recognized if not praised?! And why are we all still living at home with college degrees gathering dust in an envelope on the floor in our room? Ugh, whatevs. Hand me my phone so I can find an emoji for how I'm feeling.

I'm not entirely sure who I am attracted to. Some days I desire a partner who will wear matching Eddie Bauer polos and khakis with me while we relax on an Alaskan river cruise during our summer break. We are both teachers, did I mention that? Maybe professors, but probably "just" elementary school teachers. We live humbly, we attend some kind of local church mostly for the social aspects, and on occasion we eat at Sizzler. Then the next day I transform into a nudist anarchist mutant who lives in some dingy apartment in Paris with an androgynous Tilda Swinton lookalike. We smoke on roofs and cry in stairwells. We buy bread and cheese, but watch it rot while we paint the sheets with old brushes.

I'm not entirely sure where I will find the time to write the books that are trapped inside of me. This is a funny -- perhaps even hysterical, definitely absurd -- problem. The problem isn't even with finding the time, but with my wild idea that there is even a time to find. Anytime I try to catch time in my hand in order to observe and manipulate it, it winks at me and dissolves into dust. In fact, it was never in my hand to begin with. So the cage door is open and the words are free to escape, right? Come out come out wherever you are.

I'm not entirely sure when I will stumble upon a hollowed out bible in a motel room buzzing with florescent lights, but I hope it's soon.

I'm not entirely sure why there is something rather than nothing. I'm not entirely sure why I crave hamburgers. I'm not entirely sure why free will exists and often I doubt that it does. I'm not entirely sure why we can't feel the planet spinning when we are walking around a park full of trees imported from various countries. It's a tree museum. I'm not entirely sure why we are in each other's lives, but here we are, fundamentally human and all.

Friday, December 19, 2014

interesting, sure sure

currently interested in

mysticism
eating more fat
embracing a fluid identity
patterns
finding the perfect pizza
creating the perfect sandwich
finding and creating
letting go of the idea of perfection
interpretation of dreams...
...specifically my dreams...
...specifically my dreams about exes...
...who are so holy and gentle that it breaks my...
...heart.
writing more poetry
remembering why I wrote poetry in the first place
(either remembering or discovering, not sure which one)
smelling shadows (do they have a scent?)
community
origins
roots and clouds
attempting to have an intimate relationship with another human
dogs
always dogs
dogs forever
dogs for president!
so many dogs ruling one country
all countries
dogs take over the world

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

engulf

I want to walk roads ancient and carless. There is an crescent-shaped harbor where I will sit at a cafe and wait. When waiting becomes almost unbearable, I will walk off the doubt up steep stone streets. I will lead myself away and maybe away from myself. Leading myself away from myself? I can at least try. Drop the I. Cast the eye up. See the sky. It's a mirror, that's all.

And then in the fall I will roam around somewhere indulgent, somewhere lush and with leaves waiting to die. But I catch them right before they do, I catch them with their breath held and the whole world on pause. I will stop. I will let them keep their oxygen for at least a moment longer. I won't be greedy. Then I will press play and resume wherever it is I walk to next.

It might not be anywhere, at least not anywhere physical. It may be a spiritual transformation that looks more like dirty palms and cracked fingertips kissed by the wind. There will be lines I read around my eyes as I try to read the lines on a map I do not know how to fold. I will inevitably become frustrated and stuff the map in a pocket or perhaps behind a rock. I don't need it anyway. I've got the sky and a determined I and eyes of the wildness in my bones which begin to open and let the light back in. I will return. I am home.

Thursday, December 11, 2014

identify

Thing I identify with:

Things with which I identify. Ahem.

Buddhism.

Art.

The indie scene I CAN'T HELP IT OKAY.

Anything related to Southern Utah. Okay, not anything. I don't relate to the crowd that likes to go jeepin' or whatever the crap they do. Or anything extreme and extremely stupid. Or pushing over stones in Goblin Valley. Ohhhh that just makes my blood boil even thinking about it. Dumb dumb dumb scout leaders. Dumb dumb dumb mothereffers hope a stone lands on their crotch. Anyway, yeah, Southern Utah. I relate to the juniper tree, the sagebrush, the raven, the red rock. The bare and bleached bones in the desert sand, thirsty.

I used to identify with veganism, but not so much anymore. I kind of miss the days when I did. But I definitely identify with it more than I will ever ever ever identify with any kind of huntin' killin' eatin' deer jerky culture. But then again, if you live somewhere where that is your only means of survival and you are respectful and not wasteful, well, then, coonskin caps off to ya, sir/ma'am!

Well, duh -- books. The reading of them, the writing of them, the buying of them, the hoarding of them, the giving away of them, and so forth. And so let's go read! What am I doing here typing away about coonskin caps when I could be cracking open a classic? Hmmm? I ask you questions I can't even answer.

Introverted life. All of it. The cats and the cozy window seat with a good book and cup of jasmine green tea which you purchased at the Tea Garden in San Francisco when you were going out of your mind from shopping at malls all day and then suddenly you stumbled upon the garden and you wept because suddenly you felt your soul come alive and you knew you were home and you could breathe because there were trees and there was space and there was silence when everyone shut up for once so you could think. And be. And drink your jasmine green tea.

Kids. As much as I don't like certain kids (you assholes know who you are!!!), most kids can be absolutely weird and refreshing and reflective and far more insightful than many adults. I'd rather talk with the kids at work than the teachers any day. And I do. And I have far better conversations because of it.

Well, I want to dance to surf music now. Tired of sitting down, man! Gotta catch some waves!

Tuesday, December 9, 2014

basics

Who I am. The basics.

I grew up in Pleasant Grove, Utah. Below the canal. The rich lived above the canal. Our neighbors had a farm. I remember feeding horses the apples from our tree in the backyard. Our next door neighbors' house burned down when I was 13. When we sold my childhood home, the new owners painted the previously brown house a salmon color. It has been almost 8 years since we moved. I still dream about that home, but not as often these days.

I have a college degree. I'm proud of that. I forget that I'm proud of that.

I'm a generally anxious person. I'm not proud of that. But I'm not ashamed, either. I just wish all of the anxiety would go away.

I like to spend my time outside, usually alone, and with a book. Maybe a notebook. I don't write as much as I used to. I wish I did. I wish I wrote more, had less anxiety, and could actually use my college degree to pay the bills. I wish I had fewer bills and more willpower. I wish apples didn't come individually wrapped, like they do in some stores and in some schools. I wish schools, specifically universities, cost ZERO dollars because then I would go back and get TWENTY more degrees. I would get a degree in religious studies, art, art history, theater, environmental studies, geology, anthropology, psychology, all of the -ologies, and philosophy. And more. I like to have conversations, real ones, real heart-to-heart ones, with another soul. So yes, I like being alone, but if I can connect on a deeper level with a human? Well, goshdammit, that's the greatest feeling. I miss it.

I try on identities like some people try on shoes. It has always left me feeling a bit nutty and groundless. Where is my parachute, you know? And why do I keep jumping out of these planes?

I dyed my hair dark and impulsively cut bangs and I've been in a pissy mood because of it for weeks now. And that's stupid. And it goes deeper than hair color and baby bangs. Or does it? Am I just a mass of shallowness?

I've never had the desire to go to Hawaii. I mean, it looks gorgeous and if anyone offered me a free trip to Hawaii I wouldn't be upset. But it's never been on my list of top 20 places to visit. I actually don't have a list of top 20 places to visit, but if I did, Hawaii wouldn't be on it.

I also have never had the desire to get married, although I think I eventually will.

I have a lot of desire for other things, however, and it probably causes me to suffer. Riiiight, Mr. Buddha???

More. Later. Love you. Always.

Saturday, December 6, 2014

pick

It has taken me about five minutes to begin this post. I had the window open and ready, my fingers poised to type out the most profound! the most insightful! the most shockingly honest and absurd and philosophically rich. the most! But then I got distracted by my right thumb. Specifically, I became distracted by the subtle lines in the skin of my thumb. I thought one of the lines was a cut, actually. I thought I was about the bleed all over the space key. I thought, "Well, here's another distraction." I thought, "Do I even have any bandages?" I thought, "Why hasn't it started to bleed?" Then I realized it was not a cut, but a line for some psychic in the future to read. Do they read thumbs? Probably just the palm, huh? I could grow up to be a thumb reader, I suppose, but that first means I must grow up.

And now I am really distracted. And maybe a little bored, as I'm sure you are after reading a paragraph all about my thumb. I guess I didn't come here with much of a story to tell or a flowery poem to breathe onto the screen. No, I just came here to say hello. HELLO! Is it me you're looking for? Well, you are in luck, sir/ma'am. Here I am. Oh! Tricked you! This is not really me. These are letters which form words which form fragmented sentences which form paragraphs about thumbs which make you fall asleep at you computer. And it's all in your head. I am all in your head, at least right now. And so are you. You are in your head, you are in my head, we've created each other. Who have you created me to be? Merely curious. I might be the funny girl from a few years ago or the one who makes happy thoughts happen on social media sites. I could be the cause of your frustration (ah, but remember -- I'm just words on a screen!) or the idea behind some dream.

But in my world, in the world outside of your head, I am the person who picked up a violet red crayon that was left abandoned in the street. I put it in my purse and continued to walk while reading an essay about coyotes and ghosts. I went to the store. I bought Christmas lights and thought about God as I waited in line at the self-checkout. I went back outside and back into my head as I observed a solitary crow strut around a garbage can, determined. I hoped he would find a proper dinner or at least a lonely crayon companion. The mountains turned pink as the sun clocked out. I watched houses begin to light up as the scent of casseroles and chimney smoke crept out of their doors and into my hair. I stopped. I took the violet red crayon out of my purse and drew a circle on the sidewalk. Maybe the crow will notice if no one else does. Maybe it will keep him curious throughout the night.

This is who I am. Or rather, this is who I was two hours ago. Who am I right now? I am the words you read on the screen before you blink and look away.

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

a letter from a few days ago, sweethearts

It's 4:00 on a Sunday. Only 20 more minutes before I can light up and have my own sacrament, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. Ugh. Caps lock. So stressful. Ugh. Life. So stressful. I wish I did have some special sacrament all rolled up in a nice joint which I could smoke expertly out of my bathroom window. If only my bathroom had a window. If only I knew how to do anything expertly. "Hey! There's Expert Meg!" they'd say. "Hey! There's Expert Meg, who happens to have some really neat bathroom windows." they'd say. They'd say a lot of things and a lot of those things would be true. I'd be an expert and I would have windows and maybe the only false thing would be my name. It would no longer be Meg. It might be something like Sage or Raven or Willow Smith. Ouch ouch ouch -- brain freeze. I am chewing ice like a mad/horny woman/womyn right now because, I dunno. Because anxiety? Because anemia? Definitely not sexual frustration. I'm most likely asexual. Now I'm cold. Let me put away this cup of ice before my body temperature dips down into the negatives.

I have been doing quite well lately at not being so negative. That's not to say that I am a Sunshine Sally. Puh-lease! But maybe I kind of am. Like, I've been listening to and genuinely enjoying reggae music lately. And I'm into positive affirmations on occasion. I just figure that I've given my Sylvia Plath side enough attention and nurturing for the past decade or so. Now seems like a good time to experiment with being generally positive and lighthearted. Maybe it will snowball into me becoming a best-selling self-help guru? I'll hold seminars in Best Western ballrooms. I'll charge middle-aged housewives hundreds of dollars to let me tell them with compassion and conviction that they have been doing everything wrong so far. But wait! There's more! Turn your life around this weekend, sweet pea. Turn your life into a ray of freaking sunshine, sunshine. Your aura and your chakra and your astrological sign all say this and this and this and isn't this grand? Now pay me a grand and I'll be on my way. I have a book signing in Des Moines I need to be at in less than 24 hours. I have to be at the local Barnes and Noble at 4:20 on the dot. My followers expect me to be punctual! So outta my way. Good day!

Okay, so that's what I might do with the rest of my life. I might also tip toe up into the mountains and never return. That does sound a little Plath-ish, but I don't mean it to. I want it to be more Gary Snyder-ish. More monk-ish. More I-changed-my-name-to-Sage-Raven-Willow-and-now-I-make-reggae-music-and-smoke-out-of-yurt-windows-ish. That's still escaping, though, isn't it? Is it bad to escape? Do I really have to face absolutely everything? I don't know. I don't even know what I'm going to eat for dinner. I never know. I think I'll make a tinfoil dinner and sit on the back deck and pretend like I am around a campfire with a couple of lovers and loyal dogs. Old dogs. Old, arthritic dogs I adopted from some sanctuary in the desert. Look at me. Look at how good, good, good I can be. Oh, don't worry. I'll feed my vegan dinner scraps to some hungry crows and canyon ghosts. I will send smoke signals to lonely souls, keeping them warm for at least one night.

Sunday, November 23, 2014

wong

"There are two ways to dehumanize someone: by dismissing them, and by idolizing them."

Thank you, David Wong, whomever you are, for that quote! I agree! You are not wrong, wong. Wrong Wong? More like Right Wong! But actually more like David Wong, because that is your name. Why did your mother name you David? Was it because of the bible? Or an ancestor? Or did it just sound nice? Are you a nice man, Mr. Wong? Would I dismiss you or idolize you if I were to meet you? Do you eat meat? If so, come over for Thanksgiving at my house. If not, come over for Thanksgiving at my house. Our home will have both carnivore and herbivore options, David. So please. Join. Give thanks with friends. (Note: We have yet to become friends, Wong, but I have a good feeling about you. A really good, solid, hearty feeling about you. I bet your mother named you David because her husband told her to. Do you know your mother's husband? Assuming they were married. Maybe they were never married, maybe she used a sperm donor, maybe she conceived immaculately. That's ridiculous. I am ridiculous. Are miracles inherently ridiculous? Am I a miracle, David? I'm going to go out on a ledge and say that we are both miracles. Probably.

This post was not meant to be this. But this is what this is. It never existed before I typed it, so how was it "supposed" to be anything other than what it is? I may be sloppy in my thinking, but it's always sloppy before the storm, you know? The storm of insights. Just stay with me. Stay with me and keep reading and respond and then get upset at your response (or my lack of response to your response) and then slam your computer or your flip phone or your phone book (who were you going to call? were you ordering takeout?) and throw whatever object you just slammed across the room to the wall with the red mark on it. No, the red mark isn't paint or blood or unintentional ketchup stains. No, the red mark is from the shoe you threw at the wall last week when you were mad at something you've now forgotten. You buried your head in a bath towel after to muffle your scream. You scared yourself, you strained your voice. You had no choice but to try to remove the shoe stain on the wall. It wasn't your wall, that's why. It was David's wall and you don't want to make a bad first impression on Mr. Wong when he returns home. "Why the red mark?" Wong inquires. "Why the long face, Wong?" you mumble. It wouldn't be a good way to start off your friendship with David Wong. It would just be confusing.

But sometimes confusing is okay.

Okay?

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

gem

Recovery is difficult. Each moment is a reminder that you have no idea what you are doing. I am not entirely sure how I keep moving forward, but I do, even though most days feel like a two-steps-forward-one-step-back kind of day. And if I am doing my math correctly, that is still a forward motion with just a little bit of frustration sprinkled on top. All of this being said, here are some things that bring me joy and comfort. This is a list to remind me of all the happy things when waves of doubt threaten to drown me. Swim! Swim! Breaststroke! Butterfly! Flotation device!

REI (yep! started this list off with a store!)
vegan cooking (because I refuse to debone anything)
meditation (as hard as it is to sit still for even 60 seconds)
long, directionless walks (as long as I don't have to pee)
heart-to-hearts with a sweetheart
tea
early mornings (when they are quiet and spent slowly waking up)
being outside, no matter the weather
art, especially outsider art and art done by children
jam bands (there! I admitted it!)
gardens and greenhouses and soil and succulents
dancing like a complete maniac (just ask my mom)
running (as long as I run for the "right" reasons and not to punish myself)
used bookstores
weird small towns
dogs. oh dogs. all the dogs.
and cats
and animals
even snakes
but not if they are in my sleeping bag
sleeping bags
camping and hiking and backpacking and being
minerals and rocks and gems
gem backwards is meg
isn't that sweet?

Love you. Love me. Well, I'm learning to love me. I'm excited about this new romance.



Saturday, November 15, 2014

product

Saturday! Saturday Saturday Saturday is supposed to start off a bit lazy, sure, but then it's supposed to be one of those productive days where all of those boxes on your to do list get filled with little satisfied check marks. Buy your almond milk and egg replacer at the grocery store! Fill up your gas tank (while promising to save up for a hybrid)! Walk the dog/pretend dog you've created for yourself since your landlord doesn't allow pets! Clean out the garage! Mow the snow! Wack the weeds! Alphabetize and organize and prioritize and maybe even philosophize on the importance of productivity in modern society or whatever whatever whatever you don't really know what you are saying, but you are saying it and it means that you are doing something and doing something means that you exist and you are worth taking up space on this rotating rock in space. In short, Saturdays are meant to be spent not sitting in front of a screen eating an entire Tupperware of tofu scramble and tub of hummus. I had grand plans for today, people, but I fell short. Way short. And I ended up with a stomachache and no more hummus. Buuuut...

But it's okay. It really is. It's so okay that I am even grateful for the chance I had to have the laziest Saturday possible. It took a long, frozen walk around the park/tree museum for me to feel this gratitude, however. I began to understand (and admit to myself) that I deserve to be patient with myself during this transition. It's a transition from the lengthy days of summer into the quickening darkness of winter. It's a transition from the world of cuckoo pills into the world of a sober, stark, and relatively sane Meg. It's a transition from starvation into fullness. None of these transitions are a piece of vegan cake. And it is worth reminding myself of this over and over and over again. It is worth reminding myself to be gentle with myself because my Self is worth it. (My Self is also an illusion, but I'll get into that in another post.)

So what if I wasn't "productive" today? Maybe I should examine my definition of productivity and ask myself if it makes sense. Maybe I should also realize that HEY! Winter is a time to rest, to hibernate, to stay inside and read and write and drink the best Egyptian licorice tea ever created. Maybe I should sink into what's here right now and feel the relief that comes with letting go of expectations, to do lists, check marks, and all of the other busyness in which I tend to drown. We all deserve to take up space for the simple face that we are. We exist and we are okay as is.

Thursday, November 13, 2014

grad

I wore my flower Doc Martens and oversized sweater because I wanted to feel COOL. I wanted to feel cool, but casual. I wanted to feel cool, but casual because I was going back to college. Not, like, in a "Hello! Back to get another degree that will be remarkably useless!" way, but in a "Hello! I am here to hear a lecture. Not just hear it, but see it and learn from it!" way. Wow. That last sentence deserves so many red marks. But you aren't a copy editor and neither am I. I was, though, at one point. When I was in college. College. I went back to college last night.

And it was hard.

I spent almost a decade at that school (yes, it took me EIGHT years to get a bachelor's), graduated by surprise (which meant I didn't really have the chance to say goodbye), and haven't been back in four and a half years (holy crap). Anyone would have felt a bit out-of-sorts returning, right? I didn't prepare myself, either. I was attempting to be SPONTANEOUS and FLEXIBLE and SOCIAL and just kinda went to the lecture. I decided that I was going to get out and expand my mind -- and also see if I could handle not going to the gym for one night. Exercise addiction is a real thing, people. Plus, I was (am) genuinely interested in the lecture subject -- marriage equality. Equal rights for all! Even dolphins! Oh, so now you can marry a dolphin? What about a carrot, you plant-loving-NPR-tote-bag-wearing-mountain-hiking-recycling-do-gooder-hippie? So yeah, the lecture was good. I wish I would have paid more attention to it, though. I was too lost in the thoughts of the past. Too lost in the regrets of paths I didn't take, people I abandoned, all of the many many many things I never tried (study abroad! internships! grad school! late-night pizza binges!), and so on. And on and on and on until I was too drained emotionally that I shut off and smiled vacantly at the people I passed in the hall on my way out of the student center.

So I guess that was a failure.

Then again, it was also a giant success. I gave something a try. I knew that my main purpose in attending the lecture was to get out of my house, to break my strict schedule, to try something new, to step beyond the barrier of my own mind. And I suppose I didn't mind the uncomfortable feelings and memories that came along with my return to campus. I mean, not really. For brief moments I was able to view my experience as an opportunity to practice acceptance, loving-kindness, and gratitude. Yes, gratitude. Gratitude for the opportunity I had to learn as much as I did. Gratitude for the difficulties I faced each semester, such as figuring out how to deal with classes and clinical depression at the same time. It forced me to grow, become stronger, and eventually develop genuine empathy for others in similar positions. There is also the gratitude for the mountains of life-changing literature I consumed, poetry and absurdist one-act plays I wrote and shared, incredible and incredibly complex humans I met and loved and with whom I disagreed. And then there was the occasional pizza, the long nights spent writing and researching and philosophizing in streets and on roofs. The deconstructions as well as the constructions. The sacrifices and the eventual resurrections. And did I mention the pizza? There can't be college without pizza. It might even be a fact, but I am skeptical because I also learned to question everything while in college. And that is probably the thing for which I am most grateful.

That was my night. I returned home in my heavy Docs and baggy sweater with a head full of gooey memories and soupy confusion. I walked around the block in the bitter cold of the night to detox my brain a bit. It sort of worked. Walks and nature will always help in clearing whatever has become muddled. Still, I have a slight nostalgia and remorse hangover today. I will work with it. I will let it sit while I examine. I will accept and give thanks. I will ask questions and be okay with never hearing an answer. And maybe someday soon I will order an entire pizza for myself and enjoy it tremendously.

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

miracle

Einstein had it right, you know? Doug Einstein. I kid, I kid. I'm speaking of Albert. And I'm specifically thinking of his quote, "There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle." (Note: I did a quick Google search for this quote and stumbled upon a lot of different versions of it, some of them turning it into something vastly different from the "this should be embroidered on a pillow" sweetness of the one we know so well. Interesting? Yes. But I shall not discuss the validity of the quote above or dissect what Einstein may or may not have meant. Just so you know. We'll leave all of that stuff up to Doug Einstein.)

But back to the quote. Or, if I were Queen Oprah, the "aha" quote. It's an aha quote because it gave me that aha moment and it also gave me a free car and a cup of chai tea. Once I realized I can pretty much choose how I view any given situation or event, I felt released from the prison of my conceptual mind. Put THAT in your Harpo Studios pipe and smoke it. Am I making sense? I'm probably not shedding new light on anything, but who cares. I could be writing a report on why hamsters are better pets than turtles, which is what the 5th graders are doing right now. Isn't that a dumb report? Like, screw that! Turtles are just as cool as hamsters, if not wildly cooler. Gimme a break, 5th grade.

So I am approaching life in this new way -- as a turtle. Okay, I kid, I kid yet again, yet again. I am waking up in the morning and making an effort to smile and vocally say, "Yeah!" Yeah yeah yeah, OMG how cheesy. But cheese can be good, especially if it lifts you out of a severe depression. Give me all the self-affirmations in the world, people! Give me all of the smiley face stickers and gold stars. And pats on the back and hip hip hoorays and three cheers for me. I'll take it all and see what happens. Throw it all in the pot.

Speaking of pot, should I work on a pot farm?

Speaking of farms, I will most likely work on an organic farm this spring/summer. I can't wait to harvest vegetables or animals or wine or whatever and then gather around a bonfire and play hacky sack with a guy named Zack or a join in on a drum circle with a group of dudes named Zack. Hopefully both!

Speaking of Zack, did you know that Einstein's real first name was Zack? Yeah, it's true. Zack Albert Douglas Einstein.

I am off to make some tofu scramble pantsless! Pantless or pantsless? I plan on listening to reggae music, mon, and shouting "yeah!" And I will smile and I will add way too much turmeric and I will be okay with it and I will feast.

Sunday, November 9, 2014

point

My head is clearing, my heart is opening, my entire world seems fresh and almost Dr. Seuss-like. What happened? Giving up prescription amphetamines helped immensely, yes. Yes yes yes. It was a domino effect, really. Stop taking crazy pills, start eating, eating makes the brain work, the brain working means I am less paranoid and isolated and more at ease and warm to other humans. And animals. I love animals again instead of thinking that they are all assholes. JK, I never thought animals were assholes, even while strung out on stimulants. Okay, maybe I thought certain yippy dogs and cats who shed too much were assholes, but that's only because I was the asshole, you know? Like, an asshole who was super great at alphabetizing and not blinking. So at least I had that.

But that's pretty much all I had. I didn't have time to sit in a hammock and, well, just sit. I didn't have time to listen to music and well, just listen. I didn't have time to paint, to watch, to appreciate, to pause, to think about anyone or anything beyond myself and what would serve me. All in all, it was the best of times for about 15 minutes and it was the worst of times for the rest of the minutes.

Then why did I continue to pop the pills? Two major reasons: addiction and appetite suppressant. My brain became addicted to the chemicals and my brain became addicted to the way in which it prevented me from eating. Finally! Finally I didn't obsess over food and what I would or would not eat at my next meal. Finally I could forget all about food even being an issue because, frankly, I almost forgot food existed. Finally I felt as though I had some control. And maybe that's what my eating disorder has provided for me over all of these many hungry years -- a sense of control. Yes, it is a false sense of control because yes, it ends up controlling (and killing) me. But up to a point I did maintain some control. It was empowering, up to a point. It was exhilarating, up to a point. It was euphoric, up to a point. Then you get to that point, to that top of the highest peak where the rocks are unsteady and the wind is fierce and the oxygen is thin. And you are thin. And you can't hold on for long when the winds pick up, so you shake and shiver and start to slide. It's a long way down. There is no net and because of this you know it can't end well. It never does, it never will.

Something inside of me clicked on while I stood teetering at the edge about to fall off. Something woke up and I looked around and I realized the severity of the situation. And I saw a raven gliding past the orange sunset silently. And I could smell the sage in the air that felt like a knife. And all of it cut me open until I knew how to do nothing but cry. Cry and climb. I climbed down from the point because I no longer wanted to fall. I held on to the rocks, blessing them for assisting me and supporting me. Funny, I thought, they had been there this whole time. They were rocks after all. They had been there waiting to help, to guide me to stable land and a stable life. Rock by rock, moment by moment, I found my way to the bottom.

But it wasn't the bottom in the sense that it was a pit. Oh no. It was a beginning, a place where I could look up and see the sky instead of looking down and seeing how I would die. I am not sure why I am speaking of it in the past tense. It is my present. I am still at the beginning and unsure of how to use my feet. I'll figure it out. I have rocks and ravens and sunsets and sage to guide me. I have food and family and friends and forgiveness. I have a desire to move, another chance, and eternity right now. I am ready, I am here.

Friday, November 7, 2014

joy

I'm still chewing on ice cubes, which makes me think I still have anemia, which is to be expected, but I am on the up-and-up. Did you enjoy my comma usage in that last sentence? You did? Why did you enjoy it? Frankly, that is a pretty bizarre thing in which to find enjoyment. What other super stupid things do you enjoy? Asking questions on blogs? Chewing on ice? Fog? Pearls?

I tend to have a rough time starting blog posts, don't I? MEGHAN. Stop asking questions! I mean, Meghan, dear sweet handsome amazing beautiful talented worthy-of-love Meghan, I feel as though you could stand to cut back on asking so many questions in your writing. The reader does not wish to be in the position of answerer of questions. Answerererer. Then again, do you really know what the reader wants? Do you even know what you want? Did you realize you just asked two more questions? Make that three. Three? Now it's four. Forget about it.

Hey, everyone! Third paragraph! And now I'll start being more direct. I am happier. Not just happy, but joyful. Happiness is fleeting and a lot of the time contingent on the superficial. Joy, on the other hand, is more of a steady undercurrent. It is a way of being that can still exist even when shit hits the fan. I am still struggling, but I feel this heavy, heavy fog starting to lift. Maybe that is hope? Maybe I hit a place so dark and lifeless that I was left with no other choice but to look back up at the sun. I mean, not directly into the sun because of the whole retinal damage thing. Anyway, I see brightness and I am beginning to thaw out. I feel brightness, in other words. I see, feel, taste, touch, and smell brightness. And it smells like patchouli oil. I am flying my freak flag, folks.

How do I continue on this much brighter path? Stay away from stimulants. Keep meditating, no matter how booooooring it gets. Yoga? I guess? Eating. Forgiveness. Therapy. Definitely therapy. And asking for help, knowing my limits, finding my voice. And did I mention avocados? Avocados will probably get me through a lot. Music, art, trees, sweetheart 5th graders who actually want to be around me, heart-to-hearts, service.

I can continue. And, for the first time in a long time, I want to continue.

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

(un)fog

It's me! The mayor of San Francisco! Go out and vote today, citizens! Go ride a cable car! Go to the wharf and comically fall into the water after comically chasing a seagull (who comically took a crap on your comically large head). Go go go listen to Ginsberg howl at City Lights and definitely go listen to Jesse rip with the Rippers down at the Smash Club. Then you have the Giants and the Golden Gate and the Ghirardelli. You have the soccer games on Saturdays and the brunch with babes in cool shades who order on the rocks while seals by the harbor lounge on rocks. You have the townhomes and the out-of-towners with no home, but they find a home on the streets that go straight up into the fog that doesn't lift for what seems like an eternity until suddenly it does and then it seems like it never existed. Make it to the top of Haight-Ashbury and share a joint with the British boys dressed impeccably well. Their sunglasses and slicked back hair and I-don't-care attitude contrast beautifully with the woman over there who may or may not be on acid, standing on a crate creating visions out of the patches of clouds. There are patterns, there are gates opening to gardens, there are rocks in memorial parks that read "Norman was here" and maybe he was. Maybe he howled and lifted his own fog before settling down underneath this cypress tree. Norman continues on even when he stops. We don't stop, though, because we still have to get lost. The shops are steaming and the scents wake up your stomach. Your eyes wake up, too, if you want them to. And now your brain has been retrained, it has been set free from its own Alcatraz, it washes up on a shore and is snatched up by a kid with a collection. We end up in corners, we end up in pockets, we end up in palms. We end up beginning to give up whatever blocks out the sun, a constant purging of the mind-poison so to speak. So speak up. Stand up on your crate or your cable car or the tips of the branches of your cypress tree and find your voice, your path, your baptism in your howl.

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

flashlight

I hope I'm not finished with my hippie phase. I hope it wasn't a phase. I hope I settle into being a weirdo earth mother goddess tye dyed let it all hang loose groovy daughter of the forest wild eyed freak flag waving womyn. I do! I do hope that I can ditch other parts of myself, the parts that leave me scowling, frail, and in no way a flyer of freak flags. And to ditch them, I must first make friends with them, ask them what they need, thank them for letting me know that something in my life is/was off and that certain needs were going unmet, let them know that they are destructive, and then quietly and peacefully retire them. I won't avoid those other sides of me because they will just flare up at the most inappropriate times, demanding to know why I have ignored their hisses and demands. In other, simpler words, there are dark parts of us that need a little light. The light does not feed them or give them any kind of power. It gives you power, it gives them less control. I am a professional at not facing what causes me fear, so by examining the dark corners and allowing the junk to be cast into the beam of my metaphorical flashlight is by far the most radical thing I can personally do. Also, it should be noted that metaphorical flashlights are almost as awesome as symbolical headlamps and allegorical lanterns.

And now I just need to do these things. I can discuss the ways in which to do them, I can freely give advice to whomever is there to accept it, and I can type type type about it over and over and over again on my blog, but if I don't actually take action and begin the process to heal myself, then... so? So what. I don't want my life to be one giant "so what." I want my life to be open, not closed. I want the heart to be open, not a wound. I want my life to be a source of healing, a constant drinking from all sorts of metaphorical/symbolical/allegorical wells. In order for these wounds to heal, however, it needs some air to breathe. The bandages need to be taken off. It is time to retrain my brain, to trust in the body and the heart and the process. There has always been a fullness inside of me; I no longer need to be empty.

Monday, October 27, 2014

antsy

I would put more thought into this post if I didn't have to go to work in 28 minutes. There is a desire to in my fingers, since my fingers have a mind of their own and even their own name. Some fingers even have a 9-5 job in order to support their growing family, a family who lives in a pleasant finger suburb. Sure, it looks pleasant on the outside, but inside the small community, a darkness is beginning to creep into the streets and up into the trees. It's a darkness that clashes with the purity of the white picket fences and the manicured lawns. The darkness is a weed, growing out of control and killing what was once beautiful and fragrant. Just kidding. What the hell am I typing? Again, don't ask me. Ask my fingers.

Sooo I just want to type right now. Allow me to have this one indulgence. I promise I have something more "put together" in the works. But I don't want to rush it. There is a pleasure I receive from seeing a post published. Like, it makes me feel as if I have done something with my day. I am a truly productive person! Sure, I may not contribute to any kind of society, but at least I am, uh... I am. I am I am? I am I am the great Sam I am? Green eggs and ham? Green Megs and Han. Meghan. Meggham. Scrambled Megs.

You know what? I miss human connection. I miss sitting on a roof at 2 in the morning having a conversation with another person about something deeply philosophical and profound, something I've never done before. Okay, I did it a few times, probably, but I'm sure it wasn't at 2 in the morning and we were most likely discussing our favorite Saved by the Bell episodes (which are all of them). So maybe I want to talk with humans again, face-to-face. And I want to not sit on a roof, because that's dangerous, but sit in a park or a cafe with great windows and at least decent coffee and chat about whatever pops into our head (roofs! books! religion! that time Zack literally put ants down Slater's Hammer pants!). And although I don't usually like to be touched, sometimes it would be groovy to be hugged by a dreamy person. Hugged for a good, awkward 47 seconds or more.

I guess it's time to step out from behind this protective screen. Maybe I can occasionally show my face in public! Maybe I can make an effort to make it to social events or to make (and keep) plans with friends. Maybe I can recognize that I already am making an effort and to give myself credit for whatever progress I make, no matter how small it may seem. Maybe maybe maybe. Maybe it's time right now, however, to go to work and to stop kids from throwing spaghetti at other kids. Hey, as long as they don't dump any ants down any pants, all will be well.

Sunday, October 26, 2014

swing

ice ice ice ice all i do is chew on ice and send out bad vibes to strangers who drive diesel trucks and honk at me and breathe with their mouth open and think nothing because thoughts are for losers and hey what's that a deer let's shoot it.

What an odd way to begin a blog post. But then again, what do you expect from me? You expect this. You expect the frantic, run-on sentences. You expect the sudden, rough transitions. You expect to be worried for my sanity by the end of the first paragraph. But then sometimes I write some fairly decent, polished things. Things? Go grab me a dictionary. Or a thesaurus or a vocabulary builder book or whatever. And while you are doing that, would you mind refilling my cup with ice? Thank you! I owe you!

And here is a transition: I feel as though I owe so many people so many things for no definite reason. Have I been this way my entire life? It sure seems like it. Looking through this thesaurus you so kindly handed to me, the feeling of constantly being in the debt of others is also known as "people pleasing syndrome" and "perfectionism" and "chronically coming up short you dumb idiot baby why can't you do anything right everyone is better than you come on just try a little harder." Man. How exhausting. Time to start living the antonyms, amirite?

After the above paragraph, I took a break. I went on a walk and read my book while I walked like a crazy person. A crazy, literary person. A crazy, literary person who just so happens to not be quite as crazy when she is outside. Outside anywhere. Even if it's on a metal picnic table with ketchup stains outside of a Wienerschnitzel off of State Street in Family City, USA. Even if it's there. Point is, I can't have walls and a roof. I mean, obviously I can. In fact, I kind of need some literal walls and an actual roof. Not emotional walls, I guess. That's what people say -- Don't have emotional walls! (Do people say this? Often?) But don't emotional walls protect us from invading armies? Anyway, I'm no military expert. Armies shmarmies. Walls smalls. Biggie Smalls. Small Wonder. It's no wonder I stay up until 3am -- my mind won't stop running away from me, up into the trees, swinging from branch to branch in search of a bunch of bananas or at least a burrito. My body waits patiently on the sidelines for the monkey mind to wipe itself out so it can finally fall into an interrupted sleep for the remaining hours of the night. I dream of carnivals. Have I mentioned this before? Well, I do. And they are always abandoned.

My walk helped. Immensely. Sitting in the sun on the deck also helped. I tried to write by hand, but the pen felt too slow for the monkey. I went to the store and cured my depression by purchasing wasabi and ginger hummus. It's a thing. And it's a holy thing. Then I dressed up like a 12-year-old boy who loves hip hop and went on a short, brisk walk around the block. (Around the 'hood!) I couldn't stop staring at what I like to call "Jesus Clouds." (Jesus, clouds!) They were magnificent and glorious and almost as holy as the wasabi and ginger hummus. I am back now, inside, cold. As much as I desire the act of chewing on pebble ice, I will put that craving out of my mind and dive into a cup of fennel tea instead. (The sentence you just read might have been the most exciting sentence ever constructed in the English language.) I am tired and my left hand is numb. I don't want to think about why it is suddenly numb. I would rather read ghost stories and let the fennel do whatever it does.

And now I wait. I wait while the monkey begins to swing and I think about trying to bribe it with some Sleepytime tea. But monkeys don't want tea. Monkeys only want me to let them have complete control over the keyboard. Type away, monkey mind. The world is your banana.

Saturday, October 25, 2014

token

I deserve a gold medal or at least a pat on the back by a man (or a woman or a genderqueer) wearing a gold medal for successfully going to a MALL on a SATURDAY and not having a TOTAL meltdown. You know, the kind of meltdown that results in me screaming into an overpriced and oversized sweater in a ridiculously narrow dressing room with bad mirrors and bad lighting and a bad lock on the door that doesn't lock or locks too well, which means either some bozo walks in on me half-naked and sobbing or I am trapped and have to decide whether I awkwardly ask the clerk who isn't there for assistance in escaping the confines of the torture chamber or I awkwardly crawl under the door and shuffle off to the sales rack to gain some sort of composure so I can interact with the cashier and buy, like, a hat or something. And will I ever wear the hat? Probably once at some forgettable concert where I will feel like a generic hipster fraud for wearing such a goofy hat I impulsively purchased after a total meltdown inside of a dressing room inside of a store inside of a mall inside of a city full of folks who don't have such fragile emotional lives. In other words, yeah, I'll wear the hat, but that doesn't mean I'm going to like it.

Deep breath.

Hello! Right now I am spying on my weirdo neighbors in their backyard constructing what appears to be some kind of stove. They tend to have a lot of jovial dinners complete with laughter, languages I can't understand, and some kind of loin. Pork? Beef? Oh, and microphones. No, they don't grill microphones, but they use microphones (multiple microphones? no, probably just one.) to talk to the dinner guests. Are they making toasts? Are they sharing their favorite memories of grandma? Are they reciting love sonnets and dirty limericks? Again, I do not speak their language, so I have no clue. But they sound happy and there is usually applause after words are spoken, so I'm guessing all is well. But all of this is also annoying as crap to the neighbors who have to hear/smell/see everything at the dinner while they are trying to watch reruns alone on their couch with a half-frozen burrito waiting patiently on a paper plate. So yeah, keep it down over there, highly-social-speech-giving-stove-constructing neighbors.

Right now I am also chewing on ice! Typical! Tipper! Tipper Gore! Gorilla! Guerrilla! Guerrilla Girls! Feminism. Forever. Amen. Awoman. Awomyn. Alright alright alright.

I walked by a beggar today and wanted to give him a few bucks. This time I honestly had no bucks or doll hairs or scrilla or whatever. Just parking tokens, which I guess I could have given to him because who knows? Maybe that token would have saved his life by stopping a bullet or transforming into a genie who grants him three wishes. I had to pass him and just say hello and how are you and I looked down at my blue sneakers, shyly and a bit ashamed. I never know what to do or how to act or what to say in those situations/all situations. I guess the first thing I can do in any instance is to just be kind? Right? Like, be compassionate and patient and wish someone well. And listen! Listening is so so so achingly important. I do wish, however, that I had the kind of cash to just freely give to lots of people, whether friend or stranger or strange friend. Maybe the parking tokens I still have in my wallet actually will transform into a genie and grant me three wishes. I guess I'd have my first wish be: gimme lots of money (but without the danger and drama that can come along with it -- that isn't a second wish, though, that is included in the first wish, okay?) so I can buy lunch and a round of drinks for everyone in the world. And so I can build hospitals and schools and art centers and research labs that will be used in finding cures for all that ails. And river cruises. I would go on so many river cruises. Second wish? Well, wait a second. I don't quite know. I'm beginning to feel stupid for saying I'd wish for a lot of cash. Selfish? But I'm giving a lot of that cash away, yes? I don't know, man. Guilt and self-doubt stops me from even accepting wishes. No thanks, genie. Go back in your bottle/parking token. I'll just keep living life penniless and wishless.

Well, this post blows. Kidding, it's okay. It's just not what I intended for it to be. What was my intention? Maybe it was to have more linear thoughts, to discuss the power of simplicity/now/love, to tell you about my new 10-year-old BFF (I will tell you about her soon!!!). Maybe I should stop typing "maybe" and start typing out a list of all the cool things I can do for other people who really are penniless and hopeless and drowning in a society that expects them to be everything they cannot currently be. Maybe I can give them some relief, some tiny token of hope, some kind of hip hip hooray into a microphone at a dinner to tell them that they are worth it and they can make it and they can feast on the food I've cooked for them, for me, for us to share. Kumbaya! This is my wish.



Friday, October 24, 2014

clear

It feels really good to type! I wish I had a ton of thoughts, though! Because then I'd have something to type! Who am I kidding? I have too many thoughts all of the time. There doesn't seem to be any connection from one thought to another -- is that called Monkey Mind? Hopping from branch to branch? Do monkeys hop? Ahhhh! Too many questions and exclamations and "ands" and constant critiquing! What if my name was Quing. Quing Wiemer, PhD. Here are some more of my thoughts:

I want to read a scary, stupid book about a carnival. Ever since I was a bud in my mother's stomach (do babies live in the stomach? they don't, do they? whatever!), I've had recurring dreams about carnivals. Scary carnivals! I'm interested in what reading about scary carnivals would do to my psyche. I want to psych out my psyche. I want to walk into the fun house of my mind and see my subconscious reflected in a mirror, distorted and tall. I want to shrink down to the size of a thimble and walk through a miniature door into a world full of empty rooms with clean desks and blank papers. I will sit down at every desk and write with a pencil four times my size! Then 7:00 will roll around and I will have to decide whether it's AM or PM and whether to eat dinner for breakfast or breakfast for dinner. I'll take my time deciding because time will not exist. I will have no watch, but the sounds of a large ticking clock with be constantly overhead. Where is that clock? And can I smash it so it shuts up? I have menus to plan and meals to cook. I can't concentrate with the nonexistent seconds tick tick ticking. Let's go smash some clocks, shall we?

And so these are some of my thoughts. I would keep writing and maybe I should and maybe I shouldn't and who's to say except for me? You may not be reading this anymore. You may have started to read this post expecting to gain some beautiful insight into the nature of human existence, but instead you read, "I was a bud in my mother's stomach" and you were, like, "no thanks, I'm outta here." Then maybe you exited and entered BuzzFeed and found yourself reflected in a particular Disney princess or in a city in the world where you are supposed to live. Thanks for reading what you could stomach, however. We can only take so much before we are full. But let me get back to my empty rooms and comically large writing utensil. Is it writing utensil or writing instrument? Is it a fork or a tuba? Think about this and get back to me at your leisure. I love you.

Thursday, October 23, 2014

bloom

In high school I got into the habit of writing two poems each night in small journals I purchased from Barnes and Noble. The covers of the journals featured something embroidered or beaded, usually flowers. What I wrote was in no way remarkable. The words inside were more like weeds than the wisteria on the outside. But inside my head I was on to something. I was a budding poet about to bloom. I just needed some slight guidance -- and maybe a windowsill and some water with a few hours of sunshine each day. It would only be a matter of time before I became the poet laureate, right? Right. Or at least one of those rare creatures known as "a poet who actually makes a living off of being a poet." I used to dream of being an Academy Award winning actress until one afternoon I realized that was an outrageous dream that bordered on delusional. It would be better if I changed my dream to something more realistic and practical. How sweetly naive I was to think that the life of a poet was in any way realistic or practical. Why do we believe being sensible is on par with sainthood? I can write about how we should embrace our fantastical notions and wild mind and walk those unpaved paths... But do I embrace my own confusion? Not very well. I can't seem to give myself a break or to break out of the box that has always been too small for me. I know I do this -- I know I keep myself trapped -- so the question is: How do I free myself? Or maybe a better question would be: Why am I afraid to free myself?

Is there something that holds you back? Do you know what holds you back? And why aren't you going after whatever it is that wakes up your soul? If we stay scrunched up inside the box with too little oxygen and far too much fear, we are going to miss out on all of the almost-unbelievable colors outside. The shapes, the depth, the shades, the dense forest of magical oddities -- they will all cease to exist without the help of our senses. The wondrous world needs us just as much as we need her. May we work the rest of our days to open, open, open and bloom.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

bump

My hands are still cold from my morning walk. I am chewing ice while I type this, which might not make much sense, but I am chewing them with my teeth, not my fingers. That made sense, right? I am stuck in the predicament of having both nothing and everything to write about. Will you fix that last sentence for me? I know it ended in "about" and I know that's a no no, or at least I think it's a no no. I think about a lot of things I know nothing about. There I go again! About about about. Thank the Buddha above I don't say "aboot" like a damn Canadian. Like, what's that aboot?

I can tell you that I finished reading War and Peace yesterday. It was an experience. I do love Tolstoy with most of my heart. I appreciate that he made the chapters short. Pierre! Natasha! And the rest of you! I'll miss you all! I can tell you that I read a handful of books while I was reading the epic masterpiece. I read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, which annoyed me, and The Hours, which broke my heart in all the right ways. I can tell you that I've started reading The Golden Notebook. Apparently it is one of Mr. Barack's favorite books and so far I am enjoying it very much. I will now have something to discuss with the Prez if (WHEN) I get invited to a dinner at the White House. I bet Michelle's organic heirloom carrots are going to taste wonderful with those organic rosemary potatoes. Fist bumps all around.

I can tell you a lot of things. I am an open book! But not an actual book. I am a human. A human girl. I identify as a female, yes, but at the same time I often forget that I am a girl. I don't think that I am a boy, I just think I am a person, sexless and ready to go on some sweeping adventure with a cast of characters, such as wizards and elves and fairies and lords and witches and a tiny goblin or talking dog who acts as the comic relief and also wise sage. That tiny goblin/talking dog has a big role to play! So here I am in my own life, wearing a cape and carrying a sword for protection while I wander off into the woods to find something important. That something (spoiler alert!) ends up being myself. I find myself in the woods! And this Self is neither male or female, goblin or dog. This Self is a solid shadow, a sort of blank canvas with a conscious stream of... Of being? Of experience? Of thought? Maybe just a conscious stream of water. All streams lead to the ocean. The sequel to this popular series of Self adventures will take place on the ocean, naturally. On a pirate ship, of course. The Self was forced to walk the plank, unfortunately. Or rather, fortunately. Very fortunately. Once the Self has drowned, the real treasure can be found.

And that concludes my stream-of-consciousness post. I have to get ready to go work for minimum wage in a smelly elementary school cafeteria. No organic White House veggies are served there, but if I'm lucky I will get to fist bump some first graders. I might as well dream big.

Thursday, October 16, 2014

weave

I spend a lot of my energy trying to distract myself. We all probably do, right? I mean, that's why we have various devices that begin with the letter I, wide screens and pipe dreams, drugs and dogma and credit cards and drastic haircuts. And more often than we care to admit, that's why we enter relationships. We enter to exit a reality that doesn't sit well inside. Well, this isn't a post to tell you that I've begun dating someone. Hahaha, don't be ridiculous. And this isn't really a post to tell you that I just impulsively purchased a home theater system and a Ferrari and smoked salmon from Alaska. This post won't tell you anything you didn't already know ("yeah yeah yeah, distractions are not a permanent fix and you gotta live in the present moment, man, and ugh! society! and ugh! turn on tune in drop out!"). Basically, you can stop reading right now. I don't want you to, though, because I think you are a lovely, beautiful, incredibly intelligent creature and I enjoy your online company. Please. Sit. Stay. Let's have tea.

Ultimately these posts are for me and maybe -- MAYBE -- my grandchildren. Not that I'll have human grandchildren, but I may have dog grandchildren... Which poses a very confusing question. Does this mean I must marry a dog? Might as well! Dog marriage will be legal within a matter of months (weeks? days? minutes?) because, well, the whole gay marriage thing. Psych! Psych you so hard in the mind. Your mind has been psyched and may never return. Say goodbye to your mind and hello to a lifetime of psyched out psycho experiences of psychedelic proportions. Anyway, dogs: yes. Children: no. Gay marriage: always yes. Tacos or hot dogs: your choice. Beyonce's baby bangs: undecided.

Okay, so maybe these posts aren't just for me or my future granddogchildren. I know this is a public blog, so I know at least one other person (or dog?) will read whatever brain hairball appears on the screen. I hack up these words and have no idea why I decide to publish them for whomever. But I do. And I hope that someone will be able to weed through the mess that is this blog (and anything else I write for other eyes to see) and obtain some kind of gem that will comfort them, even if only for a moment. Cue majestic harp music. Not that I believe my writing to be profound or, frankly, even readable most of the time, but if I am to be honest, all I hope to do with anything I create is to create a connection with some soul out there. I want us to feel that bond and realize that we can relate to one another on many different levels and in many different ways. Yo, we ain't so different, you hear? And know that I am here. And I hear. And I will listen whenever you wish me to and we can hold hands across the web and finally exhale and say, "We've got this, baby doll. We've got each other."

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

horizon

On my morning walk around the park, I fell into a black hole and ended up in Tokyo. This is not true. But it IS true in another universe. In this universe, however, I did not fall. Instead I slightly tripped over the curb and almost stepped on a dead bird. The weather made up for these incidents, though. It was overcast, but not cold. Just crisp like a dead bird on a sidewalk in Tokyo. Crisp air, cloudy sky, and apparently the sprinklers in the park had been on all night because everything was moist. Ewww, sorry! I said moist! Everything was dewy. Uh, everything was... saturated. Aqueous. Damp. Slippery. Okay, wet. Everything was wet.

As I was aimlessly wandering around and trying to shake the bizarre dreams from my head that I seem to have on a nightly basis, I couldn't help but imagine I was in the Northwest. I imagine being in the Northwest more than is probably healthy because all it tends to do is make me crave crave crave and then suffer suffer suffer. But whatever. There's something so right about that environment for my soul. A rainy, light jacket day is basically a Xanax for me. Maybe I should chase after this groovy feeling? Maybe I should pack up my bags and hitchhike/drive my little white 2004 Ford Focus out to a place under the clouds and by the sea where I can be comfortably introverted and pale.

Then again, I am chronically suffering from a symptom known as The Grass is Always Greener on the Other Side. And, technically, the grass IS greener in the Northwest. Or rather, the moss. I run away to places I imagine to be one way only to find out that they are not. I continually fall into these black holes in my mind, expecting to end up in a location my soul knows through and through. Instead I end up in foreign lands where I wander the streets looking for something to eat. I order what I think is a grilled cheese and end up with a dead bird on my plate. No, not a dead bird. A galaxy. I end up with a galaxy on my plate and soon I am eating everything, including the black hole which was my only way back to the place where I started.

Whoa. Mind blown.

And I have no clue where I'm going with this. I guess this is just another post where I talk vaguely about an unmet need, where I try to dig deeper into why I want something but instead I wander off into outer space and Asian markets. There are black holes everywhere, folks, and maybe the trick is to stop avoiding them, to stop apologizing for your curiosity, to stop viewing your falls as mistakes. Sometimes it takes a fall to finally see where your feet meet the sky. What's up and what's down? Ultimately that's up to you to decide.

Sunday, October 12, 2014

give me a catnap or some catnip, preferably both

So apparently that whole "lack of sleep turns you into an asshat" thing wasn't just a myth, an urban legand, a scary story parents told their ill-behaved children so that they would finally fall asleep at 8pm -- just in time for the parents to settle down in front of a screen with their half-frozen mashed potatoes and watch a situation comedy and not talk. In other words, sleep seems to be important. Nine out of ten doctors would recommend sleep. Who is this lone doc who pooh-poohs the naturally recurring state characterized by altered consciousness? A fool, that's who. A fool with a PhD and bad handwriting and even badder advice. Badder is a word? It is? I mean, I know baddest is a word because it's printed on a bumper sticker on my car: "Baddest Bitch in the 'hood!" Don't drive while drowsy, by the way. That's bad.

I've been drowsy since the day I was born. That is entirely false. In fact, I was a little Mexican jumping bean as a child, although I was clearly not Hispanic. I was, and still am, as white as they come. And they come pretty white these days! Just look at Taylor Swift. I cannot for the life of me imagine a whiter girl than she. Except for me. Shake it off or whatever. My song would be "Sleep It Off" and it would be a lullaby and it would work. It would put everyone with insomnia to sleep for 100 years until a charming prince/princess came along and exclaimed, "For the love of bad bitches everywhere, wake up! Have you not heard your phone alarm going off for the past 36,524 days?! Well, everyone else in the kingdom has. And by the way, you've missed a lot of stuff while you were off in dreamworld. I don't want to tell you too much, but let's just say Florida no longer exists and humans now have lizard tongues."

From the freakout I had earlier about who knows what to the meltdown I had just now over I have no idea, it's time to realize that all of the signs point to GET MORE SLEEP. I know, I know. Now to make an effort to get that vital shut-eye. But I don't have the energy to make an effort! This is half of a joke, folks. Which, if you are even slightly competent in math, means that I am half serious. Half joke plus half non-joke equals a whole... a whole lotta something. A whole lotta yadda yadda yadda. Whole. Complete. One. One of these days I'll learn that naps exist for a reason. In the meantime, I will probably continue to be a yawning asshat with good intentions and bat bitch bumper stickers and dreams of being an Anglo-Saxon jumping bean once again.

Friday, October 10, 2014

watch

I am still struggling with the first sentence. No, not even the first sentence -- I wish it was that easy. I am mostly struggling with the entire piece. The entire piece of what? Exactly. I don't know. I don't know if I even have ideas anymore. Does creativity start to fade when you blow out the candles on your 30th birthday cake? I didn't blow out candles, so who can say? Oh wait, I did blow out candles. Did I make a wish? I'm sure that I did. I'll take any opportunity to make wishes. My wishes are never indulgent. My wishes are always anxieties, pleadings, more of a prayer than an inwardly expressed desire for something frivolous and fun. I don't do frivolous and fun. I didn't even eat a slice of my birthday cake.

I was half joking about creativity disappearing once you hit the 30-year mark. It probably sticks around, but now it's hiding in corners and crawl spaces, being a stubborn, elusive little bitch. Come out come out wherever you are, creativity! I see you! Okay, I don't actually see you because you are transparent, but sometimes the light sneaks in through the attic window and reflects off of your pocket watch and I catch a glimpse of your whereabouts. That's right, creativity carries around a pocket watch. The watch, of course, doesn't tell the actual time -- at least not the time we are accustomed to. It tells it's own time, but it never tells anyone the time. Am I making you angry yet with my bizarre "story" about a ghostly creative spirit in an attic with a watch securely attached to their ghostly lapel? I know I'm already confused and exhausted with this post. Then again, most of my days are spent in a state of confusion and exhaustion. And in a liquid state. I can morph into liquid whenever I need to. I am Alex Mack! Some of you Nickelodeon darlings get what I'm saying! Anyway. Sigh.

The whole world is covered in wrist watches and I've been spending my time searching for that one broken pocket watch. I am going to keep searching, though, because I made a wish. And I made a cake. And I hope that this time around I allow myself to take a bite.

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

life is like sliced bread: just kidding, it's not: the true story of sandwiches: what is true? what is false?: now a major motion picture

I know it is entirely too early to tell, but today feels much better than yesterday. It's not surprising, though, because like I said in my last post, every other day is good. One crazy-curmudgeon-sour-puss-everyone-is-stupid day followed by a oh-hello-there-seagull-eating-trash-in-the-park-parking-lot-aren't-you-a-beautiful-creature-my-lord-isn't-everyone-and-everything-glorious day.

I guess it's not this drastic all of the time, thank goodness. And maybe it would do me well to stop thinking that every other day will be shit -- that would put a huge dark cloud over my "off days" the second I wake up, which sucks, and it would also screw up my "on days" because I would be dreading what's to come.

Come on, Meg! You are into that Buddhist hippie mindfulness Eckhart Tolle crap, right? Right! So harness the power of now! Live in the now! Now is the time! Now you realize there IS no time! No time except for right now and also dinnertime. I love dinner so so so much. Just me and wasabi sandwiches (it's a thing, I promise) and television. I know, that's not a very "mindful" dinner, but... But I am still a beautiful creature, just like that seagull eating trash in a parking lot! Except I'm eating a bizarre Asian-American culinary creation on the couch.

Are sandwiches American? Does any country claim to be the birthplace of the almighty sandwich? Hold on a sec -- Okay, so apparently there is an Earl of Sandwich? John Montagu, the 4th Earl of Sandwich. He didn't invent sandwiches, but according to a totally legit website, the Earl made them popular. And I guess this all took place in England or whatever, but America and England are pretty much the same country, right? I mean, not right, but also right. Like, I am right and I am wrong. I am happy and I am sad. I am on and I am off. But today! Today I am on. Or rather, right NOW, in this moment, the only moment that has every existed, I am on, I am okay, I am proud that the gays can finally marry.

Yeah for gays! Yeah for seagulls! Yeah for earls and sandwiches and deep breaths and ice cubes I can chew and the days that I can choose to be whatever I want them to be. Isn't it a relief? Isn't it a relief to know that we are the puppet masters in our own lives? Yep. It definitely is.

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

hook

Every other day I feel like a saint. Okay, maybe not a saint, but I at least feel nice. Relatively nice to myself, not not nice to others -- an all-around okay human being. And then the days in between? Well, I become a bit of a beast. I see the world through the eyes of a curmudgeon and I feel like tripping everyone I walk past. No, not tripping them. That would lead to a confrontation. And even in my edgiest moments, I would much rather disappear than engage in a fistfight... Mostly due to the fact that I have noodle arms and probably the worst upper hook this side of the Mississippi. Where is Mississippi, by the way? Is it by one of the Carolinas? Up until right now I had forgotten that South Carolina existed. Oh! And West Virginia! There isn't a North Virginia, correct? Okay, just checking. Quick! Draw me a map on the back of a cocktail napkin while I drink the cocktail you ordered in order to chill the bleep bleep out.

Where was I? Oh right. Grumpy Pants Meg. Sour Puss Wiems. Totally Awful Attitude and Geographically Impaired Lady. JK, I ain't no lady, not even when I'm wearing a skirt. Or a dress. Or a neon sign around my neck that reads "LADY." Not even then. Anyway, I need to find ways to counteract my crappy mood on those days when I am not a pseudo-saint. Meditation? Okay, sure. Mantras? Why not. Muscle relaxers? If only.

But seriously, the world doesn't need anymore bad vibes. I don't want to be the non-lady, fake saint who contributes to the blahs that seems to be everywhere these days. Maybe I can begin by smiling more and scowling less -- unless it's at a strange man because those dudes get the wrong idea. I need my Bitch Face for them. But for everyone else, I promise to be more pleasant. I promise to be more compassionate. And I promise to never swing my arm at you unless it is to give you a high five and wish you all the peace and happiness in the world.

Monday, October 6, 2014

fragment

The problem I come across with writing blog posts... Or writing letters... Or writing reviews/essays/short stories/poems/wills/customer complaints/customer compliments/grocery lists is that I do not know how to begin.

I don't know how to start off the piece with a killer first line. Some prolific writer wrote in some book somewhere that the perfect first sentence may be the 187th sentence you write. Or something like that. So I guess that means we keep writing and writing and writing and editing and revising and rewriting and finally -- ahhhh. There we go. There's the sentence on the page/screen/sidewalk and it is perfection.

No, not perfection. Please don't get caught in the perfection trap (again), Meg. Besides, if the first sentence is perfect, then is it all downhill from there? Unless you make yourself crazy by making every sentence that follows just as perfect... But don't do that. Maybe don't think so much about it?

Maybe what I need to do is try a zen-like approach to writing, which means I don't write and instead sit on a black cushion for 12 hours a day getting hit on my back with a bamboo stick. Okay, no. It means that I write when I write, I chop wood when I chop wood.

Most likely I won't be chopping wood anytime soon, although the days are getting brisker. But I will be writing, and a very important step in the process of writing is to, well, actually write.

I think about writing, I stress out from thinking about writing, I distract myself from the stress of writing by not writing and instead I busy myself by chopping wood and/or taking important quizzes on BuzzFeed to find out which Disney Princess I am. And this needs to stop.

There are so many lumberjacks out there that can do a better job at wood chopping than I. So let me let them chop the wood while I write about the ax separating the fibers along the grain. And sure, there are also countless writers out there who can construct a better first sentence than I can, but even imperfect logs burn and create a fire that can warm an army.

I'm on my mark. Now it's time to go.

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

harvest

I worry I am becoming less creative the older I get. I worry that I begin too many statements and questions and commands with the word "I." I used to worry that I used the word "and" in excess, but I don't worry too much about that anymore. I worry that one day I will realize that I've never tasted all of the fruit in the world and I will be crushed beyond belief. All it is is a part of a flowering plant, the means by which these plants disseminate seeds. And it also happens to be the subject of still life paintings. The apple was the one thing Eve could not resist. Is it still life when you are cast out from your home due to an all-too-human surrender? You surrender to what some may consider sin; you consider the flesh divine.

There I go on another tangent. Maybe my entire life has been a tangent? I am not sure I exactly understand the definition of "tangent," though. I guess a lot of my writing is mere stream-of-consciousness. That style can be exhausting for not only the reader, but for the writer as well. Sometimes I want to dam up that stream, you know? Not that much electricity would be generated from my stream. I am not sure I exactly understand how dams work. Or streams. Streams lead to oceans, correct? And do fish swim against or with the current? Currently I don't care. If I don't care, why do I keep asking questions? There I go again.

And again I've written another blog post that doesn't quite say much (while at the same time saying so much!!! right?!?! like, read between the lines, man!!! or woman! female followers, hello! i appreciate you!). I am not sure I exactly understand how to use the mighty parenthesis. But why do I feel the constant need to be exact? Maybe living in the exact, in the precise, in the supposedly "all-knowing" is all crap. It's a delusion, it's a destination that will never be reached, it's the apple at the top of the tree that upon closer inspection is actually not an apple at all. It's the moon. It was an optical illusion and now you can't trust your eyes, your mind, or the moon. There is no creativity to be found when you are too busy doubting the mess. Sometimes inaccuracy offers us the fruit of its labors. It's up to us to step outside and take a bite.

Thursday, September 25, 2014

wiggles/walks

I have gotten into the habit of going on a walk in the park the minute I wake up. I started walking to get my wiggles out. Listen, I have a lot of wiggles in the morning even before my coffee. Listen, I can be a 30-year-old and still use the word "wiggles," okay? Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain. Telling me just what a fool I've been. I wish that it would go and let me cry in vain. And let me be alone again. Those last four sentences were song lyrics not written by me. Name the song and the group and I will give you the prize of immortal life.

Anyway, my walk. So I walk around the park by my house while reading The New York Times and War and Peace because I am pretentious like that. I initially start out welcoming the world. The sun! The breeze! The trees! The new day! Hello! And then people happen. Yes, Camus, hell is other people. Granted, I am the other for others -- in other words, I am no peach pie for some folk. I disrupt their world just as much as they disrupt mine. Okay, I am being a tad hyper-sensitive, I know. Most of the time people at the park are just minding their own business. Walking their dog (but does their dog really have to poop in my path?), getting their daily exercise (but do you have to run with your stroller the size of a mid-size SUV?), catching up with their friend (but do you really have to have such an idiotic conversation about your juice cleanse?), and so on. Occasionally some gem-of-a-human will drive by me in their pick-up truck equipped with a Duck Dynasty bumper sticker and gun rack in the back and honk and/or shout incoherently out their window and/or politely ask for my opinion on Tolstoy's Christian anarchist views. Well, maybe not the last one. But the first two? They happen far more often than they should. They should never happen, actually. And it pisses me off. And it also scares me a little. It may seem odd, but being harassed first thing in the morning isn't exactly my favorite way to start the day.

So I come home from my walk, which was supposed to relax and refresh me, but instead I grab a large cup of ice and chew away my anxiety and anger. Something has to change and I hate to say that it's most likely my attitude that needs an adjustment. Yes, it would be nice if the harassment stopped, but it won't. Yeah, if the dog poop and the stroller moms and the mind-numbing conversations I can't help but overhear would disappear life might be easier. But then it wouldn't be life, right? Life comes with annoyances, interruptions, and too many wiggles to successfully erase. It's learning how to handle these situations in a way that doesn't add fuel to the asshole fire. It's learning how to send out good vibes for the sake of the world and, maybe more importantly, the sake of your psyche. Hell may be other people, but I can create heaven within myself.

IN THE NAME OF COFFEE AND TOLSTOY AND CUPS OF ICE, A(WO)MEN.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

outermost (the post about aliens and ice and smoke)

Greetings! Welcome to my blog! Welcome to Internet Land! Where all of your dreams will come true, all of your time will be wasted, and all of your naked photos will be hacked and sent around the world and maybe even into space. Aliens might see your boobs! But then again, aliens have probably already seen it all. X-ray vision and whatnot. What? Is this not a good beginning to a blog entry? Well, pish posh. Whatever. I've forgotten how to blog. Is blogging passé? Should I be Snapchatting and/or Skyping instead? I think I should probably be sending out smoke signals for the extraterrestrial creatures up there in the celestial skies and tell them to stop being perverts. Maybe I should also chew on some ice.

Yes, I've been chewing on a lot of ice lately. This could mean one of about a dozen things. I could be sexually frustrated (HELL-O!), anemic (OH CRAP), dehydrated (WHO ISN'T?!), or anxious (DUH). I guess those are just four things, not a dozen. Look, I never said I was good at math. But guess what? I'll say it now: I am terribly wonderful at math. Not even joking for one damn second. I was the top student in my COLLEGE math classes! I even went on a date or two with my math professor AFTER I was out of his class! I know that last thing has nothing to do with my math skills, but it does have something to do with my dating skills, which I do not possess. I possess little to no skills in the world of dating. But man oh man, I am more than capable of plotting ordered pairs on a coordinate plane. Sexy? Uh, yeah. I don't blame you if you want to chew on a bucket of ice after reading about my mathematical skills. I don't blame you, but I won't kiss you. Yet.

Hmmm. So I guess my blog has abruptly shifted from being a place where I write vague and poetic musings to a forum for my descent into madness. Let it be! And so it shall be! And I will lose followers by the post, but I will gain lost time. Weird how you can gain while you lose, huh? Weird how time is just a construct and numbers are erotic and I am neurotic and aliens are paying attention to my smoke signals. It is strange, though, because I do not know how to start a fire. How can I send the message without a flame? Apparently I am. Apparently someone out there is reading this. Apparently madness is still expressed in a sane way through the tidiness of words and (mostly) complete sentences.

So will you, aliens of the Internet (whom I love), continue to read my smoke signals? I can almost promise you that I have more coherent things to express. I will have to express those things at a later time, however. I have to go to recess! Seriously. I get paid to play with 5-year-olds. If there's one thing I've learned from working with children, it is that they too are aliens. Aren't we all? But heaven help me if they ever read my smoke signals. Pssh. Like those goofballs can even read anything beyond the word "cat." Give me a break. (And give me a chance?) (Also, while you are giving me a chance, will you also give me a very large container of chewable ice? Thanks, you adorable space inhabitant you.)