Phew… That Was a Doozy, All Right.

It's January 17th already, and another round of holidays have come, and thankfully have gone. I don't want to sound ungrateful, or like I didn't appreciate being with my family and seeing some old friends. Because I did. Parts of it were lovely. It's just that 2013 was exhausting. And the holidays aways amplify what ever you felt throughout the year. Have a great year? Celebration abound. Have a shit year? You're on your third martini singing "I'll Have a Blue Christmas" while watching the most horrible of Christmas movies on the Hallmark Channel. Of course there were some good moments in 2013, for sure. Some small and important victories. But it seems the bad times were really bad. Like almost 2008/2009 bad. Or could have been. And if anyone in my family can remember, that time frame was devastating. 

And so, I made an interesting observation while driving back to the beach for the first time in 2014, that I felt notable enough to share. Now, let me back track and tell you that I refer to I-40 and US-1 as "death row" and "death alley" because there are so many animals that simply get pummeled daily. Most likely because there aren't any damn street lights on the roadways here. Shit, I even collided with a deer on a very dark, and rainy trip back to the beach. It's bizarre. Especially US-1. I mean, it was so bad at one point that I swore the zombie apocalypse was going to begin right there in the middle of rural North Carolina, and all of the deer, raccoons, squirrels, dogs and "unidentifiables" would just one day rise up and wreak havoc on the human population. It's fairly unnerving to see. And highly possible if you ask me. Add in the "walkers", the nuclear site and the ominous river ways along US-1 and you have yourself an excellent creepy zombie series for the Animal Channel. What's a "walker"? It's exactly what it might sound like. Humans walking. It is nuts how many people walk along the highways here. Some stepping right out of the woods, some hitch-hiking with huge backpacks, some just wandering in an obvious, chemically-induced stupor. I'm not even kidding. Walkers are a "thing" here. One morning during rush hour, a guy was walking in and out of traffic at the friggin' I-40/US-1interchange. He was shirtless and very angry. Best you can do is avoid eye contact, sip your coffee and hope the cops come before he hurts himself. But I digress. Getting back to my observation… 

On my way to the beach for the first time in 2014 I saw life. I saw a few deer pop out from the woods, run a little ways, then turn to head back in. I saw two dogs running and laughing in the grass along the highway like they had just made the grandest of escapes ever, and I prayed they made it to their getaway car without being hit by it. I saw birds and tiny things that were not dead. Surely this must be a good sign of things to come. I'm not big on "signs" like I was when I was a girl. Sometimes I think looking for them suggests we're not confident in our decisions. Or we're looking for false hope out of the need for comfort. But perhaps I'm wrong. I just have to believe this year will be a better one than last. And that life will have more, well, life in it. And good life in it at that. Good energy. Progress. Forgiveness. New opportunities. Love. Yeah, definitely love. And growth. 

Some things need to change. And perhaps this will be the year they will for the better. My only resolution this year is to let go of 2013 completely. You can't move forward if you're holding on to something behind you. Try holding on to a doorknob and walking through the doorway. You won't make it out if you don't let it go. 

Happy new year, everyone. Cheers to a healthy, prosperous, safe, loving and down right AMAZING 2014. 

And then The Existentialist tried to speak poetically.

I just watched some raw video of a friend's son and his buddy playing an impromptu song in the front seat of a jeep. One on the guitar and singing, the other using the dash as drums. It's quite brilliant in its simplicity. Your heart swells because you can feel their struggle. Not to play music. That's the easy part. They are young. And everything is so difficult. Discovery of the self, talents, acceptance. And direction. New bodies to learn what to do with. To know what we can get through with… This life-thing is rough.

Being alive is tough. Our instincts and needs and fears all stored chaotically in a package of nerves and skin and bones…. all fighting to feel and breathe and survive. I see young people in their awkwardness, then look in the mirror at my own. It's cyclical, the growing pains. We're all the same, you see. Just in different packages. Just in different stages. Stages of growth. Stages of damage. And we really are all damaged in some way…or another. Because being alive is tough. I used to get mad at it. "It" referring to the living, the fight, the struggle. I mean, I never asked to be born. I didn't volunteer for it. We didn't draw straws. No one stood in line for it. We were just plucked from our wherevers, thrown bare-assed into the world by our whoevers and expected to figure it out however. Yeah. Whatever. I'm trying to believe we're the lucky ones, perhaps even chosen ones. But then I see how much more damage has been done... to others, just struggling like you and me, when all they really want is to just feel good, like you and me. How is that even ok, the extra damaged cells, nerves, limbs, and heads… It is not ok with me. This life is tough enough. It's rough. 

I have a scar on the side of my forehead above my temple, #2 of 4. I was about 6 and we were playing on a tractor. I fell off the seat and cracked my head open on the tow-hitch. A lot of blood, 5 stitches and a giant ice cream cone later and I was right back out there playing. Some will struggle harder, I know. But some of us never stop.

I like to ask people if they have scars on their skin, their bones...Their shell. I like to hear their stories. It really is just a giant battlefield out there, and we? Courageous warriors. 

Because Like Oxygen, Music is Necessary for Breathing.

A couple of months ago I went to see a band called Enter the Haggis with my best friend. It's an Irish band. Well, a Canadian band playing Irish music. I did this reluctantly mind you, because I had listened to their new music online and I was like, oy… so too tired for this one. But she was all, "You're going to have 13 cats and die alone if you don't go.." or something like that. And I was all, "Yikes, I don't even want 13 cats". I get it. She was trying to get me out of the house and away from The Monkey's for a night. So I went. And was glad I did. I have to say, the band was friggin' great. So much better live than recorded. I mean, their chemistry was amazing. They engage with the crowd, are funny, and just ridiculously talented. I realize this sounds like a band review for The Westword or The Independent, but there was so much layering to it musically, that one can't help but try to grasp it all as it's happening. The oldest dude played the harmonica, a clarinet, the bagpipes, and the flute. (um, hi. The. Bagpipes.) And then one of the lead singers played the electric guitar, fiddle and keyboards… the other lead singer played two different acoustic guitars and an electric guitar… The bass player was friggin' killer, and the drummer could shake the rattle-sounding thing and still keep drumming with his left hand while doing so. Lord almighty. There are reasons women love band members so much, I tell you what. And we all have our favorites too. I have a friend who loves bass players. Even blurted out she plays bass too, just for the opportunity to talk to one once. She doesn't actually play the bass… I have a friend who loves drummers so much the lead character in one of her books is one. My sister and I love lead singers. We always want the lead singer to be singing directly to us, and only us. I have had lead singers sing to me before. It is no joke. To be singled out in front of a crowd like that? Heaven. Nothing beats that shit. Actually, I'm partial to drummers too. The skill and coordination and rhythm alone can drive a girl crazy to watch. Especially because they usually take their shirt off at some point during the night. All of which creates quite a visual of what the drummer might be like in other, um, circumstances. But that's for a totally different kind of blog. *wink*

But the coolest thing about this band is that all their songs tell a story. And when I listen to music, it's the lyrics I pay most attention to first, then how the melody supports it. i guess it's because I can't articulate how I feel about stuff like life and the world around us. I mean, I can, you're reading it, but it's not as brief-but-powerful as a song is. I've written tons of poetry and prose, and when I'm into the groove of writing I can be descriptive, and sometimes even move a reader. But my words are nothing like the lyrics I have heard. I actually think people should have their own soundtracks on a daily basis. Like, for different points of the day, there's a song representing it in the background. And at some point, perhaps even some back up singers (she said… back-up singers, doo-whop doo-whop-she-bop) … And I think everyone has a song. Perhaps more than one, that kinda fits who they are. I always thought if I could have a song played at my funeral it would be "Guaranteed" by Eddie Vedder. I mean, Eddie Vedder is a poet to me. His lyrics are always thought-provoking, story-telling, and lately, just simply poetic. The lyrics to Guaranteed are more self-describing for him I think. Fairly simple. I identify with them. And of course it has a beautiful melody with an acoustic guitar to just make it a perfect little song. It's hard for me to tell people why I move around so much. Aside from the searching thing, it's just the "free" in me I guess, and this song is about just that.

Through the years I've asked the musicians I know, which comes first, the music or the lyrics. And the answer is usually both. Meaning, sometimes it's a guitar riff in the head that turns into the music/melody and the lyrics come after. Sometimes it's lyrics which can create their own melody for them. Sometimes it's both relatively at the same time. Makes sense to me. I have no idea what it takes to write music. That is SUCH an amazing gift and talent. I can't get my head around it to be honest. But I have written a lot of words. I've realized one of the reasons I identify with the Counting Crows so much is because my writing style is so very similar to the way Adam Duritz writes his lyrics. They're almost conversational at times. Or at least the older stuff was. 

So, tell me… What's your song? and why? What song would you want played at your funeral? I'm so totally interested in hearing. Music is so personal. I don't know a single person who doesn't love music. Or who doesn't use or need music. I listen to it when I work, paint, run and especially when I drive. I have to drive fairly far to work a few days a week, and then back to the beach every weekend, so I use that time to listen. I mean really listen. Sometimes I'll even hit replay to one song that I am particularly connecting with at that moment. One song for an hour or more, straight. This week's power-replay song was "Civilian" by Wye Oak. And today in particular it was "Disparate Youth" by Santigold. Sometimes you have to listen to a song like 80 times to get it out of your system. Until the next time you hear it, of course.

What was the first song you learned to sing? Mine was "Bobby McGee" written by Kris Kristofferson and Fred Foster, but most notoriously sung by Janis Joplin. I was probably four years old when my Mom taught me that song. It's been our song since. She paved the road for most of my musical tastes growing up and I'm so thankful for that. I remember one time when I was a teenager, my Mom and I were out shopping and we picked up a copy of Janis's greatest hits and played it when we got home in the living room. A bit loudly. And two minutes into it "Turn that shit off!" comes wafting from the other room from my Father. We turned it down and kept right on singing. 

Lastly, if there was ever anything I wished I could do well, it would be to sing. I can carry a limited tune, but I mean, I wish I could really sing… I sing in the car all the time, and even tried singing Bobby McGee at karaoke once. It was an utter nightmare. Main reason being that I have a hard time with crowds and talking to people I don't know, so getting in front of them pushed me too far out of my comfort zone. Once I got up there, I wanted to die. So, I just did what every other self-respecting introvert would do in that situation. I turned my back to the crowd, shut my eyes and sang my heart out.

Home, By Definition, is Many a Thing

Noun.

1. the place in which one's domestic affections are centered.

2. an institution for people needing care or supervision.

Verb.

1. (of an animal) return by instinct to its territory after leaving it.

All valid. All true. I've mentioned the word "home" a few times since I've started my blog. It's a word that keeps resurfacing, usually in conjunction with mini-epiphanies that occur in my everyday. So the definition is slowly revealing itself to me. Or definitions, I should say. What is "home". Home is Where The Heart Is is cross-stitched and hung on people's walls. Motley Crue sang Home Sweet Home. "There's no place like home", Dorothy repeated, clicking her heels three times to get back there…click click click... Lots of cliches out there using the word "home", created by people who obviously know something that I don't, or haven't… until now. I'm not saying I know what it is, because I'm totally not there yet. But I'm getting closer.

When I finished graduate school, I needed to leave. I mean, actually leave the state of New York. I hated where I grew up. High School sucked. Bunch of horrible people with bad intention, who picked on whatever made them uncomfortable. I think I've mentioned in a previous entry how I was affected by it all. Yeah, it sucked all right. So when I had opportunities to leave for college, then leave the state after college, I totally took them. And I haven't been back since. Well, not so much to live anyway. Just for holidays, and an 8-month stretch when my Mom had major surgery. I had been living in Denver under the most awkward of arrangements at the time, so coming back for a bit while she healed made sense. But even then, my aversion for the place reappeared, and after 8 months I was off again. And searching. In hindsight, I shouldn't have left. But that's another entry, for another day.

What is it that we search for, anyway? Surely we can't know what we want when we're in our 20's. Can we? Or are we influenced by our surroundings? Our family members? When I was growing up, I remember my Dad would sit at the kitchen table and stare out the window for long periods of time, thinking about God knows what. I feel like that happened a lot in the winter time, and I now imagine the thought in his head was something like "fucking snow… more fucking snow". The look on his face so melancholic at times. Eventually, I would find myself thinking the same thing. Staring out the same window. But I never really understood that because I don't really hate snow. It's actually quite lovely. Most of the time.

So, I have been searching for a feeling, I guess. The feeling I'm convinced I would get if I happened upon my definition of home. And I think my definition of home is the feeling of belonging. Belonging somewhere. Belonging with, and to someone. And familiarity. Surrounding yourself with things that are familiar. Familiar, familia, famille…family. It's something that I have yet to find since I set out searching in 1993. I just haven't felt I belonged in any of the cities I've lived in… Ft. Lauderdale, Atlanta, Denver, Raleigh, Carolina Beach… All beautiful. And I love my friends who are dispersed throughout all of them. I've witnessed home and family and belonging… while with so many of them. Like my best friend's family who I've been lucky enough to spend time with every week for the past 6 months. I love this family as if it was my own. But it's not. I guess i just simply want my own.

You all know from my ramblings and blah blah blah-ging that I've started reevaluating my life. It is, after all, kinda the very definition of a mid-life crisis, which I am now fully floundering around in, by the way. And in the middle of all the reevaluating, I went to visit my family twice in the last four months. And both times, saw something new. Something I've never seen before, and that I can't exactly put my finger on, but it was beautiful. So, it has been slowly occurring to me that I actually might have a place that feels like "home". Where I kinda belong. Where things are familiar. And perhaps it's really been there all along, just waiting me me to figure it out. Isn't that funny? The very place I couldn't wait to leave. Who knew. Did I mention that I don't hate snow? It is rather lovely.

I wonder if it's because I have been gone for so long that I see it with new eyes. I mean, not just figuratively, but literally. So much has changed there. Or maybe it's because I'm on the verge of a friggin' break down and just want to shut down for awhile. Hide in my sister's room for a month. Just like that scene in St. Elmo's Fire where Jules locks herself in her room because she thinks she's a fuck-up and is having a meltdown. Then Billy comes in to talk her into coming out of the room. He tells her the story of St. Elmo's fire as he holds a lighter to a can of hairspray… Poof! …i don't know. For whatever the reason, I feel it deserves further consideration and exploration. And I shall give it just that. I'm tired. Tired of searching. I need a break. And a nap.

So, what do I do now? You know, I ask myself that daily. I have no idea. I just want to find where I belong. My home. The beach is so very beautiful. It's healing. And I am in love with it. But much like being in a love that isn't reciprocated, it can be a pretty lonely place. At any rate, I'm just waiting for some clarity. Or maybe a sign that will tell me which direction I should head in that will get me even closer.

Or, at the very least, a pair of very shiny, ruby slippers … click, click, click.

To be continued.





*Disclaimer: Image is not mine… and is not being used with ill intent or money…. it's just the only kind of ruby slippers I would ever wear.

It's Like Puberty... Only not.

It's interesting the way we all interpret what we see, what we read, what we hear so differently. There was a person at work who I swear to God, was hearing a completely different language when ever I spoke to her. I could tell her on a sunny day that the sky was blue and I liked her skirt, and she would hear that I was panicking yelling, "It's RAINING! It's RAINING!". And that her skirt was the most hideous in all the land. For the life of me, I couldn't understand. Still can't. Thank God she doesn't work there anymore. It's draining. Why is it that we see, read and hear so differently? It can't always be about tone and delivery, can it? I mean, people are quick to blame the person delivering, but isn't it possible that someone is simply hearing/reading/seeing something out of context depending on their own current mood and experience?

Since I've started writing this blog I'm gaining more readers. Which is so, so cool. But with that comes more analysis/interpretation. Now, I understand that a lot of my entries are obviously not written by Pollyanna Sunshine. I mean, it is about the beach and all, and the beach is a happy place. But it's written by a 44-year-old single woman who's having a mid-life crisis for crying out loud. I'm figuring my shit out. It's not going to be a ray of sunshine all the time. I'm like Grumpy Cat. Only not as furry. And I'm human.

The other day I had an old high school friend tell me how much he enjoys reading my entries (thank you for that, by the way) but that he wondered if I was ok. I was a little surprised by that. My first reaction was "Um, of course I'm ok". But I realized it's because he really doesn't know me as an adult. And reading some of these entries without knowing me, might come off as depressed or "not ok". I am ok. Really. 

When I think of all this stuff in the middle of the night, like now for example (it's 4:16 am) I'm not exactly listening to show tunes and smiling to myself. Because that would just be weird. Not the show tunes part, because who doesn't like a show tune, but the smiling part. I don't usually sit around smiling to myself in the middle of the night. I cannot stress enough, daily, as in every DAY, that just because I'm not smiling, doesn't mean I'm not happy. It means I'm thoughtful. Or reflective. Or just. Not. Smiling. Same goes for my writing. I'm thinking and reflecting and my fingers are delivering the news, and if they could smile while pounding away at the keys perhaps they would. What would that look like anyway? HI! how are you? I am doing GREAT! SUCH a lovely night out there! The problem with that is if you do know me, and I started using exclamation points and large letters and even saying smiley things, it might come across as sarcastic and insincere. It's just not who I am. Am I capable of lovely, loving, soft, caring and heart-felt, happy writing? Absolutely. Of course. And I do when I'm writing TO someone or when I feel like gushing. But I don't do it often publicly anymore and I'll tell you why. It's private to me. And showing that kind of deeper emotion is personal. It's really intimate in my opinion. More intimate than talking about a creative block or my introversion. When I was younger I was teased for showing too much emotion. Dramatic, I was called even. Ridiculed by my peers for displaying such happiness and sadness and everything in-between. Kinda sucked. I do show those things amidst people I'm close to or am comfortable with. But I also find myself settling into a kind of stoicism as I continue to age, and when I write. And that might be what's coming through. I dunno.  I'm a friggin' 44-year old single woman who's having a mid-life crisis. I can't be held accountable for some of the things I do. haha

Anyway, I just wanted to take a moment to assure the masses that I'm just fine. We'll all go through it eventually, if we haven't already, the mid-life thing. Perhaps you won't even recognize it (or didn't) perhaps it won't be as painful (or it was). Or perhaps reading my crap will change the way you'll go through yours when it happens, (or make you remember and embrace yours when it did)? I want you to know it is totally ok to laugh at my awkward and clumsy moments. I mean, this whole stage I'm going through is the adult version of puberty. It's a growth spurt. One. Big. Long. Tantrum. I don't fit in my own skin and am clumsy in this new shell I'm in. And I still think like a 16-, 22- and 35-year-old respectively, depending on the situation I'm in. Some of what I say should be respected and taken seriously. But, most of it should really be taken lightly as it's just the musings of a 44-year-old kid at the beach, metamorphosing into God knows what.

It's all good. I promise.

Finding Your Person.

"Wuvvv…. twue wuvvv, will follow youuu... foweverrrrr…"

I tried to insert the sound bite in there, but I don't know how to. If you've seen the movie, you know what it is.

I just finished watching The Princess Bride, for the gazillionth time. In case you haven't seen it (and I recommend you do) it's about the "True Love" that exists between Westley and Buttercup. And I always have to question when finished, is there really such a thing? Or is it just for story books.

Love is a touchy subject for me. I've spent the majority of my adult life not really believing in it, outside of the love I have for my family and friends. I grew up in a generation where Mother's promised their little girls they would meet their prince charming, and live happily ever after. I too, have heard a variation when I was a little girl. I know now it was most likely to protect us from the reality that might come later. Because after high school it was "you'll meet someone in college"… and then after college it was "you'll meet someone at work like I did"… and now it's just "stop being so picky". Here I am at 44, single and a "never-been-er" (as I've explained in Birth of The Beach Chronicles). Which is what's triggering the question now: such a thing? or story books. 

Buttercup: "I fear I'll never see you again…"

Westly: "Of course you will."

BC: "What if something happens to you?"

W: "Hear this now…I will always come for you."

PBC: "But how can you be sure?"

W: "This is true love. Think this happens everyday?"

Maybe story books. Don't get me wrong, I've been in love before. Thought I was, an embarrassing number of times, too. And oh, how awful the broken hearts were when I was young, even with the "I-thought-I-loved" ones. Just ask my girlfriends who've had to witness them. We lost at least 3 phones during our sophomore year in college because of broken hearted [ego] tantrums. Right out the window. Literally. But as I got older I think I just realized love isn't something that just happens every day. I believe it's quite rare. So, there might not actually be a "prince" coming my way any time soon. At least not by my Mom's standards as they were when I was little. Then again, maybe there is.

I'm not sure how I feel about that to be honest. I live very strictly to the rule that I'd rather be alone for the right reasons, than with someone for the wrong reasons. And if that qualifies me as picky, then so be it. I know that's hard for people who care about me to understand sometimes. I remember when my beautiful Aunt passed away. She actually had a pretty heartbreaking life. So, she loved her daily martinis. She earned them. Unfortunately they, and smoking caught up with her and heart disease ensued, then heart surgery. Then afterwards, a stroke from which she never recovered. Man, I loved that woman fiercely. I miss her and her laugh. She had the greatest laugh. I was living in Atlanta when I found out she had the stroke, and I quite literally jumped in my car and drove down to Tampa. Six and a half hours was all I needed. I was a few hours too late. By the time I got there she was in a coma. My Dad went in with me to talk to her with the hope that she would hear me tell her I loved her. As a side note I've never been really good at telling people that. As an adult anyway. He was my rock that day. But as we told her how much we loved her, he put his arm around me and told me I shouldn't be so selective. I think he even said something like, "You'll never find someone who isn't an asshole at least once in awhile…" haha… I got it. He doesn't want me to end up like she did. Meaning, sad and alone. I can't promise I won't be alone, but I can promise there will be a martini or 2 in my future *wink* … Joking aside, I understand the concern, really I do. And it truly was a lovely moment between my Dad and I. But I'm holding out.  

I'm sure my definition of "true love" (if it is "such a thing") is going to sound unrealistic, but it's mine so don't judge. And I'm not so unrealistic as to think it would come without issues, or won't require hard work, or it won't face hardship. It does. And will. I know this. So here it goes: I define it as constant. And unconditional. It has really long legs that can stride across long distances. And chemistry. Man, it has chemistry. You look at the person and are utterly "gaga" (as I like to call it) over them, and not just physically. You can turn around and 30 years have gone by, yet you still love like the very first day you realized you did. And because of that longevity, even the worst of shit can't break it. As if the roots are so firmly established that regardless of the storm, they/you will still be standing when it's over. And maybe, just maybe, you genuinely don't want to be with anyone else, ever again. I know, I know, you're all shaking your heads with an "Oh, Wendy… bless your heart…" But I don't care. I'm sticking with it. I've felt it. I've seen it. I'm not dreaming of a prince. I'm waiting for my person. He'll show up. Asshole-moments, issues, hard work, hardships and all.

If I had to give a number to the times I believe I have felt real love (at varying degrees mind you) I'd say 4 maybe 5 times. And if I have felt some level of love 4 to 5 times in my life, I would say one of them was "true love". Maybe two, but I'm pushing it with the second one. And if I dig through the idealism and the memories and crap that kept me hanging on white-knuckled to those two, the hope for another chance, or what ever it is that we can't let go of when it's gone, I can narrow it down even further to say I really only felt that for one of them. One. Still do today. And I always will. Perhaps that's why I've been so "picky".

But love is really friggin' difficult, man. Which is why it's so rare. Too easy to give up on apparently if we look at divorce or infidelity statistics. I look at all the couples on the beach and wonder what their fate is. I have to say, I think the worst of it is not being able to be with the person you love. Whether it's because they are no longer alive, or they're over seas, or they're just simply unavailable or don't love you back. It happens. A lot. We can't help who we love though, you know? It's painful. And confusing. I guess the reality is that some things don't always end up the way we want them to. See? Story books. 

For anyone reading this, if you have found your person, I mean really found your person, I would really like to hear about it, genuinely. Tell me your story in the comments below. And hold on tight. Tell them you love them often. Be kind to each other. It's rare. And this life is short.

So what do I believe. Story books? or such a thing. Who the ef knows. Half of you reading this will read it as I'm cynical. The other half will read it as I'm a hopeless romantic, especially based on comments I've made in previous posts. Time will tell. What I do know is that this was a horribly mushy tangent I just went off on, wasn't it? Guess I must be softening. The Princess Bride will do that to you… So I'll just leave you with the following quote from it (with a slight modification):

"I do not envy you the headache you will have when you finish reading this entry. But in the meantime, rest well and dream of large women…"

*Smile*

What Did One Monkey Say to the Other?

A lot, apparently.

I currently have Deer-in-the-Headlights Syndrome. Again. And when that happens, I can't write, I can't paint and I can't really say much, if put on the spot. I stare longingly at my ginormous jar of bottle caps, waiting for them to tell me where they belong…. in a painting? a table top? speak louder my little colorful ones. I can't hear you. I even periodically walk into the closet that holds all of my art supplies, thinking something in there will wave wildly for my attention. I mean, I'm not kidding. I go in there at least a couple of times a day. Nothing. It's a block. An effing giant creative block by it's most annoying definition. 

I never remember how I snap out of it either. Sometimes it's a matter of just forcing myself to do something creative and it becomes a trigger for something bigger. Sometimes it's a cause, like a charity event, that I always enthusiastically sign up for block or not, and end up not completing until the last minute, and hating it. Actually, the hating it thing also happens when I try to force a painting, just to trigger something bigger. Reminds of this thing I found about a year ago, while researching art on Pintrest (for inspiration, ironically enough). It's from a creative person named Natalya Lobanova. You might even recognize it, or have seen something similar. I call her a "creative person" because well, she is, but also I don't know how to describe what she does. This is what it is/says... And I totally get it:

Her blog is really interesting. It's a tumblr account and it's happy2bsad.tumblr.com. I completely recommend you check her out. She has some cool things to show you. 

So getting back to the block, I'm sure you're all aware of the Meeting of the Monkeys that happens every night. (I've mentioned it on Facebook quite a bit.) If you aren't, it's how I refer to my insomnia. When I was living in Denver, I had a Native American massage therapist refer to the noise in your head that keeps you awake (hence the insomnia) as "Monkey Talk". For me, it occurs between 2 and 5am, most of the time. Sometimes it happens before I even try to fall asleep. Like tonight. Which I think is totally rude of them. Anyway, I'm realizing THEY are the block. They are the friggin block. They're the ones with the headlights into which I am staring blindly right now. And it's because they won't shut up. It happens when they have too much to say and can't sort through it calmly enough to articulate any of it. I picture them creating their own little pyramid wall blocking the view like water-skiing monkeys in formation. You know, like standing on each other's shoulders and shit. Crazy little bastards. All their talk about cancer and botched surgeries and shitty jobs and how helpless they feel that they can't heal the people they love, much less be with any of them to try.… Fucking monkeys. Just breathe already. Take a break. Shut up for 5 minutes, for crying out loud. You might hear/see things a little clearer. Sigh.

All of that said, I'm really sorry for this non-entry today. There's just too many of them this week for me to sort through the things I want to discuss. But they did remind me that new blogs need new entries semi-regularly so that people will keep reading. And I do so hope you keep reading. The ever elusive "they" say that it's always darkest before the dawn, so there's hope for a clearing soon. It's pretty damn dark in here right now, that's for sure.

Stay tuned. Thoughts on home. Thoughts on love. Coming soon. 

A Glimpse of a Person.

I'm awkward. Really. Frigging. Awkward. 

In my own skin, and around people. And it's odd, I know. 

But I stand behind that awkwardness because it makes me who I am.

I'm clumsy. Oh, so very clumsy.

I trip over shit that doesn't exist and I talk too much when I'm nervous. 

But so what. So did Bridget Jones.

and I stand behind it because it makes people laugh. Makes me laugh even. 

And laughter can inspire creativity. 

I paint.

I write. 

and I can play Yankee Doodle on the guitar. Sort of. 

And although I may not be a genius at any of it, 

and can offend others with the content, 

I stand behind my creativity because it's moving me forward.

I'm a doer. Everything is possible. 

And I'm passionate. When I feel something I do so intensely. Like love.

For better or for worse.

And I stand behind all of it because

The awkwardness, 

The lack of grace, 

The creativity and intensity… 

All indicate that I am alive, and surviving. 

Like everyone else, I'm just living life.

Perhaps even successfully.

That's my response to those who question who I am. Or question the "why's" of me. Why I say stupid things when I'm nervous. Why I apologize all the time (I even apologize to chairs when I run into them). Why I'm hard on myself. Why I don't own a toaster or a microwave (you would not believe how often this is questioned).

But then I think, why should I explain myself? I mean, those kind of things are just a part of stuff. Side affects. 

I realize the above doesn't explain why I don't have a toaster or a microwave. But it should give you an idea of who I am.