marinate. ruminate. repeat.

as is to be expected, i find myself spending the last weeks of december considering the year that has passed and trying to anticipate what the next will hold. this has been nothing short of an eventful year, and despite all of my many ruminations (most of which are written in public, but unadvertised places), it has been incredibly difficult for me to summarize the changes that have taken place in any sort of articulate, succinct way. (and for those of you who do read those other places: some of this may be redundant for you--i know. bear with me.)

if you have been connected to any of my social media (or the other aforementioned places of writing/processing), you know the series of disasters that have taken over this year. for those of you still catching up, here's the short list: major anxiety attack, housefire, electric shock (that broke my arm!), car crash, violent mugging (that broke my nose!), and kidney infection. the series of disastrous events led several friends and family members to tell me that i had practically become a caricature of myself, or some sort of cartoon character (ha!). i have been in the hospital more times this year than i have in any other. i went from giving this bright, optimistic interview about my job as a domestic violence advocate to being completely burnt out and giving notice without a safety net or some sort of plan to save me from becoming one of the homeless folk i served. my dating life has been infinitely better than it has been this year than it ever has (a combination of increased self-esteem, an improved ability to vet, and the luck of meeting several fan-fucking-tastic people who, even if things didn't work out, have turned out to be friends that i hope to have in my life for many more years to come), but was still a seemingly turbulent component in the ever-tumultuous effort that is emotional growth and maturity. i threw myself into a lot of new things that were frightening and intimidating to take on.

basically: a lot has happened, and while, on the surface it may not seem like much has changed, i find myself a very different person than who i was one year ago. of course, that's the nature of rapid maturation that occurs when one is in their early twenties, yes? while intellectually i can recognize this is natural, normal, and ultimately, probably not that remarkable, as it occurs it continuously remains an absolute marvel to me.

one of the most satisfying things about reflecting upon what has passed is that although this year has possessed some of the most horrifying experiences of my life, this year has still not shaken me as much as 2008 did. fortunately (or unfortunately?), my father's death remains the most staggering, hurtful events of my life, and so, even though this year was ugly (and i was ugly through much of it, as a result), it wasn't the worst year of my life. it's a seemingly small comfort that relieves me enormously.

it's difficult to express all of the things that i have gleaned, particularly about myself, through the absurdities that 2011 offered. i barely know where to start. i learned so much about self-care, about developing community, about working through hard conversations and uncomfortable moments and my total aversion to legitimate vulnerability. the physical pain that occurred this year taught me so much about how i address all pain (physical and emotional). the disasters helped me unpack my pride, which never, ever allows me to ask for help, even when i am hurting myself more by pretending i can TOTALLY DO IT ALL BECAUSE I AM SO INDEPENDENT AND I KNOW EVERYTHING PS. DON'T TOUCH ME, ASSHOLE, I DON'T NEED ANY HUGS. HUGS ARE FOR PEOPLE WHO NEED THINGS. STOP TRYING TO BE NICE TO ME AND GO AWAY AND BY THE WAY, GO FUCK YOURSELF. (at this point, i would like to note that i am a superpleasant person to be around.) i also abandoned a lot of aspirations that i was committing myself to because i thought i "should," instead of focusing the energy on figuring out exactly where and who i want to be (and who i already am). i am still figuring a lot of this out, but the strides that have been made are massive.

most importantly, the people who were in my life this year made the most noteworthy impact. i was fortunate enough to have many of my existing relationships flourish in ways i could not have imagined. i also was fortunate enough to have a mass influx of new folk who have altered my foundation irreversibly. for every lowdown louse that has entered my life, i have had at least twenty sparkling souls serve the recovery of my faith in humanity. truly, if there is anything enviable about my life, it is that i have the most amazing friends anyone could ask for. they are so wise, so empathetic, so generous, so patient, so intelligent, so passionate, and so, so, so creative. they almost make me a little sick with how wonderful they are. i often feel like i do not deserve the presence of such incredible people, and i am so glad that they have chosen to let me into their lives. i am constantly inspired by them, with those big brains, even bigger hearts, and all of their lofty pursuits (also inspired by their many silly, sexy, altruistic, and ridiculous endeavors, as well). i cannot thank them enough for their presence. there just aren't enough words.

2011 has been a doozy, ladies, genderqueers, and gents. i would be lying if i didn't tell you that my anxiety for what the future holds doesn't still overcome me (and at the most inopportune times too, goddamnit), and there is still so much work to be done. i walk out of this year with so many scars (and an unfortunate bump on my nose), but i also walk out with more optimism than i can remember possessing in as long as i can remember.

several years ago, i wrote that i was falling apart, and one of my dearest friends (and possibly my number one reallife hero), july westhale, told me, "and we'll be here to help you pick up the pieces." i didn't believe her at the time, and i don't think i even understood what that meant. i had no sense of what community meant. the idea that there were people who were going to stick around, even when i wasn't performing for their benefit, and even when i wasn't doing my best to "earn their love," was completely unfathomable to me. i have often operated on the basic belief that we walk into this life alone, we walk through it alone, and we walk out alone. it has been a constant state of isolation. although on some level that still holds some truth, i walk out of this year knowing that hey, maybe the world isn't as lonely as i thought it was. silly me.

2011, i told you to bring it, and boy, did you. so 2012, bring me more. maybe, though, let's shed a little less blood this time.

either way: i'm ready for you. let's go.

The Poor Relation

No longer torn by what she knows
And sees within the eyes of others,
Her doubts are when the daylight goes,
Her fears are for the few she bothers.
She tells them it is wholly wrong
Of her to stay alive so long;
And when she smiles her forehead shows
A crinkle that had been her mother’s.

Beneath her beauty, blanched with pain,
And wistful yet for being cheated,
A child would seem to ask again
A question many times repeated;
But no rebellion has betrayed
Her wonder at what she has paid
For memories that have no stain,
For triumph born to be defeated.

To those who come for what she was—
The few left who know where to find her—
She clings, for they are all she has;
And she may smile when they remind her,
As heretofore, of what they know
Of roses that are still to blow
By ways where not so much as grass
Remains of what she sees behind her.

They stay a while, and having done
What penance or the past requires,
They go, and leave her there alone
To count her chimneys and her spires.
Her lip shakes when they go away,
And yet she would not have them stay;
She knows as well as anyone
That Pity, having played, soon tires.

But one friend always reappears,
A good ghost, not to be forsaken;
Whereat she laughs and has no fears
Of what a ghost may reawaken,
But welcomes, while she wears and mends
The poor relation’s odds and ends,
Her truant from a tomb of years—
Her power of youth so early taken.

Poor laugh, more slender than her song
It seems; and there are none to hear it
With even the stopped ears of the strong
For breaking heart or broken spirit.
The friends who clamored for her place,
And would have scratched her for her face,
Have lost her laughter for so long
That none would care enough to fear it.

None live who need fear anything
From her, whose losses are their pleasure;
The plover with a wounded wing
Stays not the flight that others measure;
So there she waits, and while she lives,
And death forgets, and faith forgives,
Her memories go foraging
For bits of childhood song they treasure.

And like a giant harp that hums
On always, and is always blending
The coming of what never comes
With what has past and had an ending,
The City trembles, throbs, and pounds
Outside, and through a thousand sounds
The small intolerable drums
Of Time are like slow drops descending.

Bereft enough to shame a sage
And given little to long sighing,
With no illusion to assuage
The lonely changelessness of dying,—
Unsought, unthought-of, and unheard,
She sings and watches like a bird,
Safe in a comfortable cage
From which there will be no more flying.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson

holding on and letting go

i keep trying to remind myself: healing is a process. healing is a process. healing is a process.
i know i am taking the right steps toward where i need to be, which is important.
i know that the emotional rollercoaster is going to last for awhile, and that it is okay.
i know that i am going to need to reach out to people when i need them right now, and that this is also okay.
i know that i am going to need to continue to be an advocate for myself, emotionally, financially, and legally.

lastly, i know i am capable of getting through this. i have been through worse, and came out better for it. when i think about how terrible this year has been, it occurs to me that 2008 still eclipses every terror i have ever faced. there is something comforting about the fact that the loss of my father still serves as a significant benchmark for traumatic events in my life. if it isn't as bad as that, then hey. i am going to be okay. i just need to hang on to that.

this year has been a year of setbacks, but i feel like i have still grown in many ways. there has to be something said for that. right?

Long. Very long.

-Trigger warning for violence & physical assault-

I have been in fights, but until Thursday night, I had never been kicked in the face before. I had been having such a lovely evening, too; I never would have guessed that I would end up lying on the ground screaming, "YOU MOTHERFUCKER!" as some dude stomped on my head.

I had gone to a cafe about ten blocks from my house to write in my journal and sip on a cup of coffee. I have been working on a whole lot of self-improvement stuff (I won't get into the details here), and planned to write it all out in my journal. As I have mentioned here before, writing helps me process my emotions, and can help hold me accountable to my own goals. I ended up chatting with one of the cafe employees, and as we chatted, a few other employees and regulars from the cafe joined us. We sat on the patio, laughing, drinking beer, and playing silly games until around midnight. The night was yet another marvel at the magic of instant camaraderie. I left feeling sad that the evening was over, but appreciative that I got to participate. These kind of ephemeral moments are my favorite.

I normally would have listened to music on my way home, but my phone had died as I tried to call a friend on the way out of the cafe, so I shoved it into my purse and slung the bag over my shoulder. While I live in an area that can get a little rough in the evenings, I walk around at night all the time. I got accustomed to walking during the two and a half years I lived without a car. For most of that time, I had a job that didn't let out until well after dark, and I got comfortable with walking a good two or three miles to get home. I pride myself on generally being pretty damn vigilant, and based on how little I get harassed (aside from the occasional, "HEY BABY, CAN I GET YOUR NUMBER?" or the flasher that lives down the street), I am fairly certain that I give off an air of, "Don't. Fuck. With. Me." I make it a point to be civil, which usually makes it clear that I am not afraid, that I'm not trying to cause a problem, and that I'm aware of what's going on. If someone on the street asks me how I'm doing or what's going on, I'll answer. I will often greet people I pass with a "Good evening." I carry pepper spray in my bag. I always keep regular checks over my shoulder as I walk down the street. I am unafraid. I am fairly confident in my ability to assess whether someone is bad news or not. Clearly, at some point, it just doesn't matter.

I was almost home, with only three blocks or so to go, and all of the sudden I felt a blow to the back of my head. Some guy quickly moved past me, and I got a brief glimpse of him. I don't know if I said anything in response (knowing me, I surely did). I am not sure whether he hit me again, or whether it was because he grabbed the strap on my bag, but I fell to the ground. Things become blurry here. I remember screaming at him. I remember curling up on ground and clasping the strap on my bag. There were blows coming down on my face, on my head, and I remember the warmth of the blood in my mouth. I felt the tension in the purse strap release, the smooth strap running through my fingers as he snatched it and ran back the way he came.

I stood up, shaking, and felt my face. Bloody. There were no cars or people on the street. I have never felt so fucking alone in my life. I didn't know what to do, so I screamed for help. I screamed for someone to call the police. I kept screaming one word at a time ("Help! Police!") because I didn't know what else to say. I was afraid no one would come. I didn't know what else to do. A woman leaned out of her apartment window to tell me she was dialing the cops and told me to wait. I think she asked me what happened, but I can't remember. I remember looking at the blood on my hands and how my shoulders shook as I gasped. I was hyperventilating at this point. Some man with long blonde hair ran down the street, cell phone to his ear, and said, "I've got 911 on the line right now. Are you ok? Are you ok? What happened?" He sat me down on his porch, and the people who were at his house (roommates? company?) brought me paper towels and a bag full of frozen vegetables for my face.

The police came. I filled out a written statement. They took photos of me. The woman from down the street had a daughter who saw the entire event, and fortunately, could give a description of the guy. I couldn't stop crying. I kept asking the paramedics, "IS MY NOSE BROKEN? IS MY NOSE BROKEN? Is my face really fucked up right now?!" Clearly, my vanity knows no bounds. I told the officer that I hoped the gentleman who attacked me got a painful, incurable rash on his balls (the officer laughed, which made me feel a little better).

The list of injuries: Several abrasions on my head, two black eyes, a massive lump on the back of my head, a fractured nose, a tear behind my ear (meaning that my ear folded forward when he kicked me, and it was hard enough that the skin behind my ear tore--as in, my ear was tearing off my head), several massive bruises on my shoulder and arm, and cuts on my fist from (I believe) trying to hit him. ETA: For those of you who like photos, here are some of my absolutely fucked face.

What a fucking nightmare this year has been. First, a housefire. Second, an electric shock that broke my arm. Third, a car crash that totaled my car. And now, this. I have already been struggling to remain positive through all of these ordeals, and I am finding it incredibly difficult. This will be the fourth time in 2011 alone that I will have to put a large portion of my life on hold so I can recover from disaster. The amount of demoralization I feel seems bigger than me.

After this event, I was put up by a friend who lives near by. Amongst my friend group, I am notoriously terrible at being taken care of (please see: vulnerability turns me into a giant asshole. please see: sup, defense mechanism?). Regardless of that, being the generous, compassionate person he is, he set me up with ice, ibuprofen, and a beer on the couch, and listened to me rant and rave (and cry). I don't think I can thank him enough for his kindness. He created a space where I felt completely safe, even if I was difficult about it, which was exactly what I needed after such a disaster.

I am so grateful for all of the friends and family who have offered support in the two days (jesus, only two days?) since this has happened. They are the constant reminder that for every piece of shit I encounter, there are at least twenty benevolent folk to make up the difference. I think I would have truly lost my shit a long time ago if I didn't have their support.

I am hoping that by writing about the event, it will quell some of my rage. These things happen, right? It's not the end of the world. It's not my fault. My skull is not fractured. He didn't have a weapon. I'm alive. I have extraordinarily bad luck, but I do not want it to change me for the worse.

After each of these events, I feel angrier and more cynical toward the world, and I don't want to be that way. There were already so many reasons to be cynical prior to this year, and I had managed to maintain the tiniest semblance of optimism. While I have always been a bit of a grouch, I have always maintained my own special brand of brightness. I fear that these events are sapping me of it, bit by bit. While I have more than two dozen people who would gladly listen to me, there's no one I feel truly comfortable confiding in, and so, this all goes nowhere. I know that I need to reach out (more than just updating social networking with tiny snippets of my lividness), but I almost don't know where to go. After the fire, I went to a therapist, and while it served some purpose, it didn't solve this problem. I am trying so fucking hard to not become a horrible person, but every time something like this happens I feel like everything good about me is crumbling apart.

I don't know what else to do. I am so good at surviving, but absolutely terrible at building (or rebuilding). I can maintain, but I don't know how to move up from there. I have been trying to teach myself that, trying to work on it, but these things have happened in such a short period of time that I feel like every time I start heading somewhere, the world knocks my feet out from under me.

The Universe, to me: Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Oh, and by the way, Lizz, go fuck yourself.

I'm determined to make it better, but I don't know how to be happy while doing it. I have lots of exciting stories to tell, but the truth is that I would take being boring over the disheartenment this brings. Without question. I'm so sick of hearing the phrase, "But it could have been so much worse." Yes, it could have been, but I am not comforted because it was still horrible. Lastly, if you didn't know: these stories are only exciting when they didn't happen to you.

I'm sorry this isn't the inspirational story that we all love to read. (And I'm sorry this is not about something more important, like Occupy Wall Street, or Troy Davis, or any of the other shit happening in the world.) It is hard not to love it when someone posts about a struggle, or a disaster, and then follows it with a resounding, "BUT I WILL PREVAIL!" I know it's disappointing, but I cannot maintain a perpetual onslaught of GLITTER! CUPCAKES! KITTENS AND POSITIVE THINKING! Sometimes I wish I could. While I appreciate that there are people who are effortlessly capable of that (and who probably seem much saner than the likes of me), I can't. It wouldn't be real. Unfortunately, that's not my story. Not tonight. I know that this is life and these things happen, but come on. This is getting ridiculous, and I am exhausted.

what my life has been like lately.

there are never enough words.

Today is Father's Day, which is always a weird one for me. (I've talked about my father's death before, so I'm sure that comes as no surprise to those of you who are keeping up.) People on Twitter are talking about the things their fathers taught them, and I've tried to come up with something within 140 characters, but there's so much to say. With what he taught me, both through his positive and negative behavior...I can't sum it up so succinctly.

In life, my father taught me that learning for the sake of learning is worthy. My father taught me that compassion for the underdog is a necessity. My father taught me that forgiveness for those who are inextricably tied into your life is invaluable. My father taught me that the person who seems the most stoic and strong can also be the person that needs the most support. He taught me that generosity is one of the few things that is unregrettable. He taught me how small things, like calling at midnight on a birthday, can make someone feel unbelievably special and valued. He taught me that love can remain perpetual, although it may change, through time and conflict.

In death, my father taught me that vulnerability is a gift you give others. My father taught me that self-destruction isn't inevitable, or sustainable as an integral part of one's identity. My father taught me that an individual can be completely blind to the depth of their impact on others. His death taught me that ultimately everyone is alone, and that learning to be comfortable in the balance between solitude and loneliness is indispensable. He taught me that vanity and pride are terrible reasons to not reach out when you lack the resources to rebuild after personal disaster.

I wish I could've given him more when he was falling apart. I wish the last time I saw him wasn't a year before his death, when he was coming out of a coma induced by his own feeble attempt to stop drinking. I wish I hadn't left for some shitty bookstore job because I had somehow reasoned that this was somehow more important than staying by his side, and that I had known how much help he needed. I wish I'd known how to assure him that I still loved him, even when his alcoholism led him to behave in outrageously hurtful ways. I wish I'd known enough to see his anger as a defense mechanism, rather than an abandonment. Although I know that I did the best I could with the knowledge I had at the time, I find that these regrets have been indelibly woven into my conscience.

More than anything, I wish I could tell him all that he has done for me, even in his absence. He had no idea how important he was, and that hurts. If only he knew. If only. It's further evidence that the wisdom and experience that comes with being fifty two is not enough to keep someone from feeling small and worthless.

I want to believe that the person I have become is someone he would still be proud of. I've never missed anyone as much as I miss him. I wish he was alive, even if he was still all fucked up, just so I could call him and yell at him. I never realized that simply knowing someone is alive in the world, even when your relationship is imbued with contentiousness, is a gift.

Happy Father's Day, Daddio. You're still tops to me.

The Fishbowl Effect

As you can see, I haven't been blogging at all. I haven't had any urge whatsoever to divulge my shit all over the internet. Shocking, I know! I've still been vaguely keeping up with Twitter, but both my online and real world social lives have taken a nosedive in the past month or so. Everything that has gone on in the past few months finally caught up with me and I became utterly overwhelmed. I decided to check out, and I think it's just what I needed. I've slowly started to come up for air. That's not really what I'm here to talk about though, and that's not the only reason I've stopped updating.

With the internet, it's so easy to people watch. Check in on people you don't speak to, or even care about, and spy on what they're doing. Peek in, take a look around, and get out, with no responsibilities or obligations to speak up and say a word. It's utterly noncommittal. It's living in the fishbowl.

I'm guilty of it, you're guilty of it (also, in case you were wondering: I do have a sitemeter and I do see you), we're all guilty of it. I'm sick of it. If you can't be all the way in, get out. While I may have resurfaced socially, I don't know when I'll be coming back here. I'm so tired of this vacant, disconnected world, where writing publicly is nothing short of speaking into an abyss of nosy parkers. Right now, I need and (more importantly) want more.

If you want to keep in touch, you can always email.

xoxo,

Tizz

laugh for days.

It's Raining In Love
by Richard Brautigan

I don't know what it is,
but I distrust myself
when I start to like a girl
a lot.

It makes me nervous.
I don't say the right things
or perhaps I start
to examine,
evaluate,
compute
what I am saying.

If I say, "Do you think it's going to rain?"
and she says, "I don't know,"
I start thinking : Does she really like me?

In other words
I get a little creepy.

A friend of mine once said,
"It's twenty times better to be friends
with someone
than it is to be in love with them."

I think he's right and besides,
it's raining somewhere, programming flowers
and keeping snails happy.
That's all taken care of.

BUT

if a girl likes me a lot
and starts getting real nervous
and suddenly begins asking me funny questions
and looks sad if I give the wrong answers
and she says things like,
"Do you think it's going to rain?"
and I say, "It beats me,"
and she says, "Oh,"
and looks a little sad
at the clear blue California sky,
I think : Thank God, it's you, baby, this time
instead of me.

three years.

For the Dead
by Adrienne Rich

I dreamed I called you on the telephone
to say: Be kinder to yourself
but you were sick and would not answer

The waste of my love goes on this way
trying to save you from yourself

I have always wondered about the left-over
energy, the way water goes rushing down a hill
long after the rains have stopped

or the fire you want to go to bed from
but cannot leave, burning-down but not burnt-down
the red coals more extreme, more curious
in their flashing and dying
than you wish they were
sitting long after midnight

tales of disaster: the retelling.

Please excuse my silence. I've been dealing with this monster of a drama in the past two weeks or so. eta: just kidding--less than two weeks. it just feels like lots of time is passing, but in slow motion.

here's the story:
my aunt, to me, "you've suffered a lot of trials for a little, young twenty two year old!"

well, this is a lifetime of adventures, even when i'm not trying!

i spent friday packing and preparing to move. i'd packed about ninety percent of my things, and pulled them all out into the living room. my moving help was arriving the next morning, and after having moved so often (and typically, so haphazardly), i was determined to make this an organized, easy, relatively painless move.

in the middle of the day i took a nice long nap. it was chilly, but the sun was shining through my window and it was nice to lie there in my olive green room, half asleep, in the warmth of the sunlight. my flatmate charly took off around five thirty in the evening to go to her aikido class. awhile later, it had gotten much, much colder (the bay area has been experiencing a serious cold front--apparently it even snowed in san francisco on saturday), and i flipped on the heat. i kept running around the house, packing and moving and organizing, and after awhile i took a break, put on my headphones, and started watching a movie on my computer.

now, my flatmate has a dog, and the dog had been acting a little silly since everything in our house started getting packed up and moved around. after charly left the house, the dog had been following me around, and she started scratching at my door after i closed it. scratch scratch, whine whine. i kept telling her to go away, and she would be quiet for a minute, only to scratch again. finally, after about ten minutes (maybe?), she scratched incredibly hard, and then yelped. as i sat up and took my headphones off, i realized i smelled smoke. i thought that maybe i'd left something on the stove and forgotten, even though that's not at all something i normally do.

i opened the door to see kajal, the dog, pressed against my door, and half the hallway's floor in flames. kajal ran past me into my room, but i coaxed her out, fearing she would get trapped. i couldn't find my cell phone at first, so i ran through the house trying to find it and opening doors to let the smoke out. i ran back into my room to call my phone from my computer, found it, and then dialed 911. as i ran out of my room, the hallway wall had started burning, and the flame was bigger and taller than me. i ran past it and into the kitchen, where the smoke was so thick i could barely see. i ran out the back door and called for kajal, who had disappeared into the backyard. i grabbed her collar and literally screamed to the dispatcher, "MY HOUSE IS ON FIRE! send help, please, my house is burning down!"

people talk hypothetically about what they'd grab if their house was burning down, and that's a nice thought, but all i could think about was getting the dog and getting the fuck out. get the baby and GO.

i stood outside, barefoot and wearing thin pajama pants and a tank top, with kajal, watching the fleet of firefighters water down the house. a neighbor brought me a jacket. several asked if i was ok and needed food or water. my flatmates came home a little over an hour later, after finally getting my bazillions of phone calls. charly was in tears when they drove up. once the firefighters left, we surveyed the damage as best we could with giant flashlights. we stood in the house, aimless, and unsure what to do or where to go or what to even grab. they had turned the electricity off, and the house still felt warm.

we didn't see the extent of the damage until the next day, in the sunlight. although the firefighter said that on a scale of one to ten, it was a three, the damage was still fairly severe. they had to create a makeshift floor for us to walk on. two flaming doors had been ripped off their frames so they could be extinguished: one was found half charred, on the curb, and the other was found under the lemon tree. dave's bed is ruined, a huge bunch of my clothes and everyone's bedding got destroyed. what wasn't burned was ruined by the heat and smoke. the walls are covered with blistering paint and the windows are adorned with blinds that are paused in their half-melted form.

if it had been five minutes longer, i would've been trapped in my room. the hallway would've been too firey to escape from (plus, the floor fell through), and there are bars on my bedroom windows (to keep intruders out). the likelihood of both kajal and i being hurt is extremely high. and instead, we lucked out.

yeah, we lost some stuff. it's actually terribly lucky that we all were moving anyway, so we aren't homeless. the emotional trauma is worse than i thought it would be; all three of us who were living in the house are experiencing highs and lows. the financial hit is going to end up being huge; i had to buy a new mattress, and i don't even know what clothes i lost yet. i now have only one pair of pajama pants (which are currently soaked in firehose water and burnt wood--i've been sleeping in leggings/yoga pants), and i lost a ton of (really cute) underwear and stuff that i wore on a regular basis. what bedding and clothing i tried to salvage may still be ruined by the smoke smell that has permeated everything in that house.

the worst is the emotional distress, though. we're all experiencing ups and downs and trying to pull together. i definitely feel more bonded to my flatmates after this experience, even if we aren't flatmates anymore. we're still spending the next few weeks going back to the house, picking through to see what we can salvage and what's worthless, to clean up as best we can.

what a fucking ordeal.

on the upside, i'm in my new place, which is disorganized and strangely empty, but lovely. i have a little green tea kettle and my new mattress came this morning, so i can sit on my cozy bed and type type type. i still feel exhausted, but things are going to be ok. photos of the disaster: coming to your computer screen soon.

sometimes i feel like my life should come with a DISCLAIMER: NOT FOR THE WEAK OF STOMACH OR FAINT OF HEART. if it didn't actually happen to me, i'm not sure i'd believe it. it's all so ridiculous.

written february 27th, 2011

For Jane - Charles Bukowski

225 days under grass
and you know more than I.
they have long taken your blood,
you are a dry stick in a basket.
is this how it works?
in this room
the hours of love
still make shadows.

when you left
you took almost
everything.
I kneel in the nights
before tigers
that will not let me be.

what you were
will not happen again.
the tigers have found me
and I do not care.

fountains and mountains of ink

i'm taking a moment to write this from the middle of my bed, where i am wearing jeans that are two sizes too big and sitting on top of the polka-dotted tulle from a red prom dress crumpled among my bedsheets. i'm moving next weekend and i have taken on the dreary task of disassembling all of my shit to discard what i don't need or want and pack up what currently sits out. honestly, i've been trying to do this for the past few days, but instead it's amounted to going for walks, watching netflix, and checking my horoscope.

confession: when i feel misplaced, i find myself regularly clicking to find my astrological guidance or perusing sites that encourage hopeful anonymity (missed connections on craigslist, postsecret). while many people turn to god, i turn to pseudoscience and candidates voted "most likely to be socially awkward and/or die alone" to look for the answers to my questions, or a secret message that will say to me, "everything is ok!" and convince me that things are much more beautiful than they seem in the present moment. embarrassing and futile, but a habit i can't seem to break.

with every move, i've been determined to get rid of a bunch of the things i have lugged around for the past fifty or so (perhaps slightly hyperbolic, but not really) moves. brutal sentimentality has made it impossible to part with mementos, keepsakes, and anything that is a reminder of fondness. i can find affection for plain, unremarkable rock that was collected from the right beach, at the right time, with the right person. being that i don't want to end up on an episode of hoarders, i've done my best to keep my packrat tendencies in check, and what better way to do it than right before moving? leave it all behind; start fresh.

although the nostalgia i find in an old rusty paperclip from the bottom of a plastic box is certainly a heartbreaker, what kills me is the sketchbooks and the photo assignments with encouraging words and the paperwork with my father's name scribbled across it. i found an envelope from some health insurance paperwork he sent me in 2007 and convincing myself to throw it away requires a ten minute pep talk while staring down the envelope, seeing who will blink first.

the worst is the encouragement, though. however much potential i had at one time (according to the stacks of drawings and paintings and photographs that have the words of mentors written across them with the kind of language that makes for a great daily mantra) means very little now. i used to hope i would die young so that this potential would be all that was left; there's nothing more beautiful than what could have been, rather than the disappointment it turned out to be.

this is an ugly feeling and it's all tied together, the abandonment of photography and music and the lack of confidence to re-learn what, at one time, seemed to come so easy and my father's death and the endless parade of shitty jobs and academic failures. i feel my throat tighten when i think about it. so i am taking a break to take a breath, step outside, let the tears come if they're coming, and that's all i can do. the three year mark of his death comes after the first week of march, and sometimes i still have to remember to be gentle with myself. the pain may have subsided, but the broken parts still swell sometimes.

although generally things are good, i still feel like i'm in the aftermath of this (and without health insurance plus having my hours at work dropped drastically, there's little to no help to be had). i've said it before and i'll say it again: i'd trade the uncertainty of youth for lines on my face any day. i know that this is wasted on me and i should appreciate what i have while it's here, but sometimes i wish i could just fast forward to a time when things will make more sense. when all the work i'm doing now will actually lead somewhere, and when that feeling of forever spinning my wheels without moving even an inch forward will dissipate.

goddamnit, i hate moving.

blossom tea

once again, it's raining in the magical realm of oaklandia.

delicious.

Untitled [You did say, need me less and I'll want you more]

Marilyn Hacker

You did say, need me less and I'll want you more.
I'm still shell-shocked at needing anyone,
used to being used to it on my own.
It won't be me out on the tiles till four-
thirty, while you're in bed, willing the door
open with your need. You wanted her then,
more. Because you need to, I woke alone
in what's not yet our room, strewn, though, with your
guitar, shoes, notebook, socks, trousers enjambed
with mine. Half the world was sleeping it off
in every other bed under my roof.
I wish I had a roof over my bed
to pull down on my head when I feel damned
by wanting you so much it looks like need.

Grief, and I want to take it up in you;
joy, and I want to spend it all inside
you; fear, and you are the place I can hide.
Courage is what leaves me brave enough to
turn you around and tell you what to do
to me, after. Rivers, and downstream glide
I; we breathe together. You look, or I'd
get scared, but you're watching while you take me through
the deep part, where I find you, where you need
to know I do know where, know how to drive
the point home. Wit: you get the point and flat
statement of a gift of tongues. I get
up, and you get me down, get lost, you lead
me home, or I take you, and we both arrive.

How can you love me with the things I feel
that scare me crashing on the window glass?
How can you love me when I'm such an ass-
hole (sometimes) I can't take hold of what's real-
ly there and use it, let you take the wheel
and put my head back as the truck-stops pass?
Where would we go that morning? Would the grass
beside the highway mount to granite, steel
and rubber take us far enough that I
could pull my ghosts out of my guts and cry
for them, with you behind me, on some high
stone place, where water breaks from underground
arteries with hard breaths, that would sound
like mine, letting them go, saying goodbye?

over the tastebuds, through the stomach and into your heart

Me, in my happy place.

For those of you that don't know, I love baking. In fact, I used to have a (now defunct) so-called cooking blog (that was really a baking blog) that eventually degenerated into the Tumblr trap of reposting a bunch of stuff that no one cares about. Point is: Baking is the best! The rhythm of it is therapeutic, it makes home feel comforting and cozy, and most importantly, I love how happy other people are when you offer them something you made from scratch (especially when you're offering a treat!).

Although typically I focus on breads and pies, I've recently been into baking cupcakes. I've been buying individual cupcake tins and then earlier today, I finally invested in one of these babies:

Cupcake pan!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Any bakers out there with tips for high quality cupcakes, or links to good cupcake recipes? Share the goods! (Amanda C, you know I'm lookinatchyu!)

reverberate

February Prompt - One month into 2011, what question(s) are you living? Are there any prompts/questions that arose during #reverb10 that are still resonating in your life? Are you living new questions?

Much to my chagrin, I think the primary thing I'm still living in from December is that I am sick yet again. I was sick twice in December (once toward the beginning, then again during the holidays), again in January when I quit smoking (my sinuses became so infected that I got pink eye--yes, really), and now, once more, in February. WILL IT EVER END? I miss being able to breathe out of my nose on a regular basis. The irony? I've been healthier in the past few months than I have been in years. Like I said, I quit smoking! I've been eating healthy! Going to yoga regularly and trying to overcome the deepseated, irrational rush of hatred that seeps through my being every time I try to go running. Ugh!

One of the wonderful things about Reverb10 is that it actually encouraged me to acknowledge and release a lot of the subjects that came up. There were people and experiences I talked about during the course of R10 that I've since released. At the very least: I let go of the negativity. The anger, the hurt, the rejection, the loss (the smoking! I still cave occasionally, but generally speaking). All that want from last year? I managed to let that want out with the cat.

Also, as the third anniversary of my father's death approaches, I continue to live the healing that came to me last year. I'm going on the wagon again come March 1st, and I'm looking forward to it. I'm also moving in March to my own studio, and I'm looking forward to pulling out the dishes he left me. I plan to use them, despite being desperately afraid of them breaking. What's the point in having nice things if you don't use them? I don't want them to sit in a box forever. These are things. Part of healing is letting go of the fear. I'm ready.

As much as I bitched about the R10 prompts, when I look back on them I'm glad that I participated, and I'm proud for sticking with it and completing all of them (even if I was a curmudgeon about it). I'm so inspired by the people that I met (and have stayed in touch with), and I'm inspired to blog more than I have before. What is more: it has given me the confidence and encouragement to keep writing, even when I am afraid.

The new questions I'm living: How is this year going to be better than before? How am I going to build on all those lessons learned? Where am I going to go this year that's going to change me? How can I maintain the community I've built and continue to develop it? How can I carve out the time and courage to use this gift to its fullest? What experiences can I create so that I, someday, can answer this question?

We'll see.

This blog post is my contribution to Reverb, an online initiative to reflect on the past and manifest the future.

trippin'. literally.

Now that I'm back on a somewhat normal schedule, I've been waking up at around 7:30 every morning, pleased as punch to be alive. The sun shines through the windows in my room as I roll myself out of bed and start boiling water for tea, usually planning my day ahead. Today started no differently, although the items on the agenda seemed even more exciting than usual: there was an open house for my DREAM APARTMENT, and I planned to be the first there!

I prefer to start my day in a leisurely, comfortable way--when I was living in Santa Barbara, I learned that I enjoy getting up and having a good half an hour of quiet time to check my email and drink some tea before showering or getting into the hustle of my day. I made myself a little breakfast burrito (with a bowl of blueberries on the side--YUM), and turned on my "2011 Slow Jams Mix #2" that came in the mail from the most generous person I know. Then, I took my glasses off, tied my hair up with a scarf, and hopped into the shower.

Now see, without my glasses, my vision is clear for the six or so inches in front of my face. After that, things start to get fuzzy, and my ability to identify what I'm looking at is watered down to deciphering colors and basic shapes. Usually, in the shower, this is not such an issue; I know what I look like naked, and the shower tiles aren't typically offering stimulating entertainment. Oh-ho-ho, so I thought!

Suddenly, today, there was something moving on the shower wall.

What is that?

or maybe more like

(...Ok, ok, maybe it was more like this, but whatever.)

Suddenly, I found myself letting loose a blood-curdling scream, tripping over my feet and the edge of the shower as I stepped away, and falling backward into the shower curtain (and taking part of the shower curtain out with me).

Sigh.

I think this might have been a bad omen. And the dream apartment didn't turn out to be so great either.


Stupid spider.

***UPDATE***

My reaction suddenly seems totally reasonable. Look at what could've happened to me!!!!

night to day

oh, and in other news, i recently went from

to

it's a brighter world.

auditory delight

I recommend taking this one in with some kitchen dancing (and dramatic lip syncing, if you know the words!).

brought to you by sunsets, sleeping, and sam cooke.

while the snowpocalpse (or whatever it is that we're calling this crazy thing) rages on elsewhere, it has been bright and sunny in the magical realm of oaklandia. i've taken advantage of this weather by donning a flowered sundress, strappy sandals, and a big, floppy sunhat. now all i need is a mojito!

in all seriousness, though, there have been lots of changes and lessons since i last updated. sometimes i'm truly amazed at the pace of life! things seem to click and change so quickly and i always feel like i'm tripping over my feet as i try to catch up. i keep reminding myself to take deep breaths, drink some tea, and take my time. to make time for myself to not feel rushed. i'm not a person that is inherently organized and put together (god, i wish i was!), and learning to create some of that organization and planning (and then committing to it!) has been vital to regaining my sanity. although i'm still struggling with this, it's gotten better already, in a very short period of time, and i can't tell you how grateful i am for that.

in the week following this mess, a bunch of other lousy things followed, and i was absolutely overwhelmed. although i've been fortunate enough to have a bunch of people come out of the woodwork in support, i also managed to get kicked (hard) while i was down. lessons, lessons.

see, i don't know about y'all, but i have this funny thing about believing love and admiration need to be deserved and worked for. meaning that if i do xyz for you and do it SO well, better than anyone, EVER, you will automatically love me and cherish me, right?!!??

well, no. it doesn't exactly work that way.

i also will be the first to admit that i'm a bit needy for admiration and validation. i want compliments! tell me how wonderful i am! especially when i'm working so hard! tell me i'm great! AM I DOING EVERYTHING CORRECTLY? CAN I FIX SOMETHING TO BE MORE PERFECT? OH MY GOD, THEY DIDN'T GUSH ENOUGH!!!! MAYBE THEY HATE ME AFTER ALL!!!!!!

i recognize this as utterly irrational, silly, and frankly, insecure. yuck. part of the price of having a perfectionist mother, i think. of course, i'm sure i don't need to tell you that this sets me up for oodles of failure. i end up working myself to the point of exhaustion (mentally, physically, emotionally--take your pick), and then falling apart because even after all that work, i've been kicked to the curb (or at least, relegated to the backyard). newsflash to self: most people don't give a shit about what you're doing as long as you're not fucking it up.

what a depressing revelation! all that energy expended is rendered utterly useless. whenever this has occurred to me, i've thought to myself that all that work is just the spinning of my wheels, and a total waste. getting nowhere, going nowhere, and what's the point of going above and beyond? get in, get out, and do what little you need to do to get yours.

that mindset grosses me out. i don't want to settle for the bare minimum--not from anyone, least of all myself! over the past few weeks, i've considered: how can i continue to use all my bright energy for its worth while keeping the ominous, hateful feeling of impotency at bay? how can i continue forward with my relationships and my life in a way that i'm proud of when i can't seem to find the approval, the validation, the "yes, you are doing well, and yeah, you are a bad ass! keep going!"? or worse yet, when i find myself being metaphorically kicked in the head after having fallen down the stairs?

it's not just me. i see this in many of the people that i love. it seems to be a common problem.

the answer came to me this morning, and it is so obvious that i feel like a fool. i decided that i would keep pushing myself to deliver the highest quality of intelligence, compassion, and hard work in all aspects of my life (as much as i'm capable of, anyway). i'm going to keep grinding myself down, and keeping myself doing the absolute best that i possibly can. this time, though, i'm doing it for myself. (did you just groan at the cheesefactor, there? i did, a little.)

i'm serious, though. and i encourage you to do the same.

i've reframed this all to make some sense of everything, and i've concluded a few things:

i am my own authority.

what does that mean? clearly, there are people out there who have technical talents and skills that i can't even imagine possessing, much less consider myself an authority on! and clearly, i'm not an authority on life at this ripe, young, silly age! furthermore, i'm not running any shows! (not yet, anyway--just you wait!) so what am i talking about?

i am the authority on myself.

nobody knows how hard i'm working at whatever it is i'm working on, be it a relationships or a project or a job. except me. nobody knows how much i've invested myself into this or that thing. except me. nobody can tell me whether i'm trying my hardest and using every source in my arsenal to make my shit happen. except me.

obviously, there are usually cues that allow other people to pick up on the fact that i'm doing all of those things, but no one really knows. no one except the authority. once again, in case you missed it: that would be me. or in the case of you, that authority is YOU.

there are always going to be people that are faster, better, stronger, smarter, etc. there are always going to times that we fall short of the expectations of others, and the expectations of ourselves. success is not a product of trying and working really really hard, although that definitely can help. and frankly, no one is going to pat you (by you, i really mean me) on the head and say, "hey buddy, good work!" so stop expecting it. pat your own self on the head. do the good shit because you know it's right and do it for its own sake. there isn't any long term gratification found in petty pointlessness.

i'll be the first to admit that it's a real bummer to remain unacknowledged, or even more, to be discarded by those you were hoping to impress, but let it go. more to me, than to you: let it go! it's not doing anyone any favors to get swept up in the approval of others. it's one of my radical self-love goals, and i welcome you to join me. let's all be absolutely amazing just because we can.