Always Almost

test

2011-06-25T22:10:00.001-05:00

Writing About Writer's Block

2010-01-28T18:24:00.005-06:00

No, I haven't forgotten you.

I visit you, almost daily. But nothing gets finished. Nothing gets started. Nothing pleases me.

For the first time in my life, the creative juices have stopped. The words have left me, the images have blurred. The language has fallen from the tree, swollen and rotted on the ground, unused.

Writer's block. Such a trite term for a disease of the soul.

Losing my words is like walking into a pitch black room, waiting, KNOWING that from somewhere, a wall is rising up to strike you full body. You almost crave the pain of the collision, because then at least you will know where you stand.

Sitting with a blank page is like taking a drink, expecting champagne, and swallowing milk. It's a disgust. An affront to your senses and expectations.

And now I don't know how to finish you. Is such histrionics appropriate? Are you worthy of being shared? Am I just trying too hard?

I want to run to Key West, drink rum, live among six toed cats, and share a typewriter with Papa Hemmingway. I want to sit at the Algonquin Hotel, sip a martini, and trade witticisms with Dorothy Parker and the gang. I want to be cynical with Oscar Wilde, fall in love with Jane Austen, sharpen my quill with Shakespeare, hide in the hills with David the psalmist, exile myself with James Joyce, live the questions with Rainer Maria Rilke.

I'm terrified my job has infiltrated my talent. Could it be that I'm no longer a writer... and only an editor?

My Goodbye

2009-09-21T13:21:00.001-05:00

I lay in the cocoon of my bedroom. I’d prefer darkness, but the bathroom light is on. The distance to turn it off seems insurmountable. I am aware of a world outside – I can hear Jonathan playing the Beatles out on the patio, I hear a cat crying for attention. But I just want darkness.

I’m walking into the second week of my life without a grandfather. Mine passed away on September 11th, overtaken by an aggressive form of lung cancer. He was the only grandfather I’ve ever known. Nana and Pops will just be Nana. There will always be an empty seat, silence where a sarcastic comment should be made. No one will cheer for the Buffalo Bills at our house any more.

Every death I face, I deal with all the deaths in my past. I am not good at grieving. I do not let go. I am slow to move on. My grandfather was a soldier. He fought in Korea, in Vietnam. Where I am weak, he was strong. I was unable to attend his funeral. I missed the folding of the flag, the 21 gun salute. I’ll always wish I had been able to attend. But I watched Caddyshack with him in the last weeks of his life. He reached from his armchair to mine, took my hand, and smiled at me. We said our real goodbye then, silently.

But nothing will ever be the same.

My Own Personal Tyler Durden

2009-08-10T12:31:00.001-05:00

“If you meet Tyler Durden on the plane, I’m having you committed.”
“I couldn’t meet Tyler. I’m a girl, so my Tyler Durden would actually be Marla Singer.”
*Blank stare*
“Wow.”

*****

I rest my head against the airplane window and watch the runway rush by. Concrete gives way to country nearly as lush as Ireland itself. As we climb higher, I watch the ground form itself into a green patchwork quilt of farm land, and my heart breaks for what I leave behind. On the ascent, clouds blur - then block - my view. Finally, I look away from the window, willing back the tears.

“Leaving or going home?”
I try to smile socially at the lady in the seat next to mine. “Going,” I respond. “You?”
“The same. I’ve been in Buffalo on business.”
“Really. What do you do?”
“I make soap and…”
“I’m sorry… you make SOAP?”
“Yes…”
The flight attendant interrupts. “Drink?”
“YES.”

*****

Sooo… just slide, people.

The Purpose

2009-08-05T12:55:00.003-05:00

I have been contemplating the meaning of life versus the purpose of life. The meaning of life is a universal statement. It may change for each person who voices it, but it is a blanket concept for all mankind. Love. Worship. Joy. 42 (sorry, I had to).

But the purpose of life is different. It is a personal concept. We are each created for a purpose. The maps are all different, the destinations are all unique, but the goal is the same. Discover your purpose and fulfill it. I have added this to my list of things I worry about. I suspect I know my purpose… and I am suspect in doing so little to have developed it.

After Becka died, I found myself repeating, “but… she was so talented!”, as if talent can protect from pain, from death. But it is the waste of talent that is so painful. The poem that will never get finished. The painting that will never be completed. The song without the completed chorus. The joke that will never be told to cause the smile that could light up the day.

I suspect one day we will have to answer for wasted talent. Did we fail to sing enough? Did we teach, write, draw, dance, encourage enough? Whatever we were given – did we use it?

Will I use it?

***

As a side note, I leave tomorrow to fly to New York. The doctor has told my grandfather he only has a few weeks left, so the family is flying up to be with him and my Nana. This will be a very difficult trip for me… a serious stretch of my underdeveloped coping skills. Thoughts and prayers are so appreciated!

When Sorrow Envelopes

2009-08-03T12:38:00.002-05:00

Jonathan lost his job on Friday. My grandfather is losing his battle with cancer. My friends are struggling with losses of their own - miscarriage, divorce, broken relationships, poor health, mental exhaustion, financial problems.

My world seems inundated with struggle and heartache. What do you do when peace is less a river and more a central Texas drought?

Ruminations Upon Turning 26

2009-07-01T13:09:00.004-05:00

Ruminations:
You can never have too much knowledge, self-control or lipstick.

You will have good times and hard times. Both are a blessing.

Gossip is wasteful, useless and hurtful. It can also be a lot of fun. Use sparingly.

Always bring a pair of flip flops - no matter how gorgeous the stilettos are, you will hate them by the end of the evening.

The best therapy is a night out with your girlfriends.

Sometimes, the realization that you would look really bad in an orange jumpsuit is the only thing that will keep you from hurting someone. That’s probably bad, but I understand.

Everyone will hurt you sometime, let you down occasionally, and will leave you eventually (one way or another). In the end, it's just you and Jesus, so it's a good idea to get to know him now.

There is balance between being yourself and being a couple. That balance brings personal peace and relational harmony.

Life always looks brighter with the windows rolled down and the radio up – except when it’s raining, of course.

What makes you different is what makes you beautiful.

Some books can't be read enough.

You can not rush time. A minute is sixty seconds. And hour is sixty minutes. A day is twenty-four hours. Try to enjoy the minutes you have while you’re having them. Everything will come in time.

Wearing head-to-toe black is perfectly acceptable, and not just for Halloween.

However, sparkles make everything better.

If they don’t love you for you, don’t love them.

Question everything. Always.

Promises:
I will write more often.

I will choose laughter over tears whenever possible.

I will only buy shoes that actually fit (unless they are the last pair and I really, really need them).

I will learn from the past and plan for the future - but I will live in the present.

I will learn to be comfortable with myself.

I will remember to write thank you notes.

I will sing out loud.

What I Want

2009-06-30T21:09:00.001-05:00

I have to say I really hate Houston. You know... that 'I'm-going-to-vomit-if-I-have-to-inhale-one-more-lung-clogging-breath-while-sitting-in-two-hour-traffic' kind of hate.

One day, someday, eventually... I want to escape off to the Hill Country. I want a little tin roof house on a hill beside the Guadalupe River. I want to sit out on my porch at night and breath, really breathe, just because I can. I want to look up at the stars, and actually see them.

When I wanted a taste of the city, I could drive to Austin. If I wanted some history, or some good country music, I could meet friends in Greune. And when I wanted to hide from it all, I could put up a tent underneath an ancient tree at the edge of the river.

I want to spend my days writing, my evenings dreaming and my nights loving.

I want to go down to the river with my love, and look into his sweet face. I want to watch the sunlight stream through the tree-canopied water as evening sets and the fireflys come out. I want to laugh and splash and climb up on his back to escape the freezing water.

Is it possible to be homesick for a place you've never lived?

The Opera

2009-06-28T15:15:00.002-05:00

Her voice fills my coffin with Italian roses
my soul opens
and I breathe again.

A honeyed knife stabs
requesting funding
from listeners like me.

Again I become
a corpse among corpses
hurriedly decomposing.

25 Random Thing About Me

2009-02-01T19:46:00.000-06:00

1. I am obsessive compulsive about toothbrushes. My toothbrush must be completely fortified and protected from any potential germ contact and if I feel it has been infiltrated or if it is one day past needing to be replaced I am unable to brush my teeth without vomiting.

2. I prefer yellow toothbrushes with a medium bristle.

3. I am obsessed with pin up, burlesque and steampunk fashion – basically, anything retro.

4. I have severe ichthyophobia. We’re talking goldfish, guppies, everything. Finding Nemo makes me uncomfortable.

5. However, I feel most at home near water. Near – not in. In is very stressful.

6. I cannot watch CNN, FOX or any other show with a ticker on the bottom. If I see words, I am compulsed to read them.

7. My official political standing is ‘apathetic anarchist’. Unfortunately, no one ever runs on that ticket. Actually, there isn’t even a ticket. It’s mostly just me.

8. I am so full of useless knowledge that most of the useful stuff gets pushed right back out.

9. My family would call me a procrastinator. I prefer to call it ‘strategic planning’ – I PLANNED to do it at the last possible second, and I succeeded. What’s your point?

10. Modern Saturday morning cartoons make me furious. Whatever happened to all the awesome cartoons we grew up with? And when did Strawberry Shortcake start wear blue jeans?!?

11. I am defectively empathetic. I absorb other people’s moods until I feel certain emotions and I have no idea why.

12. Nothing makes me happier than a new book but I never get rid of old books. I read them all over and over… even the ones I didn’t like that much.

13. My books are segregated –Shakespeare, Hemmingway and other such literature on certain shelves, J.D. Robb, chick lit and other such garbage on others. My books are such snobs.

14. Writing makes me happy. It’s basically the only thing in the world that I’m both good at AND passionate about. I just can’t force myself to do it.

15. I was born an insomniac. I didn’t sleep as a baby, as a toddler, as a child, as a teen and I still don’t sleep now (except with pharmaceutical assistance). So new moms? When everyone reassures you that eventually your children will settle into a stable sleeping pattern… think of my poor parents and tremble.

16. I have a non-biological twin (love you Devvie!) and like my non-biological twin, I read serial killer case files for fun.

17. I have two tattoos – both of which I want to get removed. I have about twenty more tattoos that I want to replace them with.

18. I am terrified of mirrors in dark rooms. Seriously creepy, people.

19. Shoes, purses, perfume, makeup.

20. My husband and my best friend have turned me into an even bigger nerd than I was three years ago. I can now name all the major Transformers, discuss my favorite comic book movies and intelligently argue whether Marvel or DC is preferable (MARVEL, BABY!).

21. I have the best friends ever. Seriously. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for these people – even though I don’t see them nearly often enough.

22. I met my husband because I was bored.

23. Sometimes, I get on my own nerves.

24. Tarnation. Hehe.

25. All you have to do to be my friend is be able to make me laugh. And don’t be a jerk. And be willing to bail me out of jail and/or hide the body better next time.

Ike.Hurricane IKE. Got it.

2009-01-13T12:26:00.002-06:00

Recently, I was called upon to contribute to a conversation about the hurricane that hit Houston about four months ago. You may remember the hurricane in question: the third most destructive hurricane to hit the United States? The one that still has thousands of people displaced from their homes? The one that caused millions of windows throughout the Houston area and my apartment’s security gate to still be down today?

Yeah. That hurricane. The one that I COULD NOT REMEMBER THE NAME OF.

Never mind that I was glued to the TV for a week as the storm approached, watching in terror as it grew bigger and bigger and headed directly for Houston. Never mind that I spent the night of the storm simpering in fear (HATE storms). Never mind that ‘Hurricane Ike’ still features prominently on almost every newscast and newspaper edition even now.

Apparently, the only thing that stuck from that whole stupid event is a pathological hatred of the phrase “hunker down”.

Seriously, people.

Vision

2009-01-07T13:15:00.000-06:00

Diplopia caused by Esotropia. Sounds major, but all it means is that the inner eye muscles are too short, causing an inward turn to the eye and thus, double vision. And there it is – a diagnosis that included my migraines, my fatigue and even my clumsiness… and even better, it offered a cure.

In a fifteen-minute surgery, my doctor snipped a single muscle in the corner of my right eye and promised a resolution to some of the health issues I’ve struggled with my whole life. Today is the one-month mark since the surgery. My vision is still somewhat impaired, but I’ve been assured that the cause is more mental than physical and should continue to clear up.

The problem is, my brain has been working overtime for 25 years to force the double image that my eye sees into a single picture for my mind to interpret. Turns out that it’s hard to let something like that go. My brain has been rejecting the correct image that it now receives. It WANTS to work harder than it has too. It WANTS to struggle with a burden. It rejects that which is too easy and makes like more complicated in the process by over-focusing and causing the exact thing it is fighting against… a double image.

Seems like my brain and my psyche have more in common than I’d ever realized.

Optimism has never really been my game. I more closely ascribe to the idea that if you can remain calm while those around you panic; you may not have a firm grasp on what is going on. I suppose to call a spade a spade; I would have to say I’m a hard-core negativist although (of course) I prefer the term ‘realist’.

In my mind, if you prepare for and expect doom and gloom – anything other is a pleasant surprise. But I’m starting to wonder if that isn’t simply a coward’s excuse. Perhaps by refusing to anticipate the idea of positive, my mind rejects it when it arrives. Perhaps my psyche has worked so long and hard deny pleasant anticipation, I have lost sight of what it looks like at all.

And to be honest, it’s exhausting. Sleepless nights and long hours of lone strategic meetings where I list all the ins and outs and bullet point all the potential faults of every thought, plan and idea. Perhaps just letting it all surprise me… okay, that’s a really scary thought.

Diplopia and negativity. One a fault of my eye, the other a fault of my soul. Both things that I see with heightened clarity these days, and both things that I intend to work on this coming year. Neither will be easy to rectify. 25 years is a long time to learn a bad habit. But they say awareness is the first step. And the rest, I assume, comes with patience and practice and prayer.

Happy 2009 everybody. May it bless you beyond your wildest dreams.

Thank You, Thank You, Thank You

2008-11-11T21:54:00.003-06:00

Because, regardless of politics, we owe them our lives.

Credit to Mary Beth Ellis, for writing what my heart says:

You are lions to little me, and what’s more, you never thought of yourselves as such.
You stood in straight lines at attention where my legs buckle with fear, with fatigue, with laziness.
You stayed kept your politics to yourself so that I might speak of reality television and infomercials.
You bent with the weight of heavy gear and heavy responsibility so that I could stand impatiently in amusement park ride lines, cell phone in one hand, cold drink in the other.
Your family followed you without complaint so that I can lay my head down at night without any real concern as to whether or not mine is safe.
You drank dirty, warm water so that I could have my choice of bottled Perrier in the endless aisles of a well-swept grocery store.
You submitted to the orders of others so that I can pick up and lay down work at will.
You stayed up all night, watching, so that I could sleep in and roll my eyes at the cost of a Frappuccino.
You missed the birth of your first child so that I could weep over not having had a vacation in the past year.
You put your entire career on hold so that I could fret over the low pay for freelance writers these days.
You endured desert heat so that I could smack at the thermostat and make a single phone call to fix it.
You live in assigned quarters, tents even, so that I could complain about property taxes.
You took hauled crates of humanitarian aid into Jeeps so that I could tap the softness of my arms and complain about the terrible shape I was in–how fat, how underdeveloped.
You drove tanks into sniper fire so that I could look around the quiet streets of my small suburb and say, “There’s nothing going on around here.”
You put off higher education so that I could gnash my teeth over my alma mater’s poor football showing.
You shivered in driving rains so that I could tell everyone from my heated home that I was having trouble adjusting to these terrible Virginia winters after five years in Florida.
You climbed into fighter jets so that I could balk at the poor customer service of the airlines.
You read technical manuals so that I could kill twenty minutes with a gardening magazine.
You deferred credit to others when I said, “Why aren’t I famous yet?”
You ate another MRE so I could sigh over microwaved leftovers from a bulging refrigerator.
You said, “Give me a gun,” when I said, “But a rerun of Golden Girls is on.”
You said, “I’ll go,” when I said, “I’m too important here.”
You said, “Send me,” when I said, “I’m afraid to die.”
You said, “For others,” when I said, “For me.”
And I thank you.

All Roads

2008-11-01T19:42:00.001-05:00

We all fall down…
So the state of our economy and a heavy dose of office politics have caught up with me. Friday afternoon, (yes, just like ‘Office Space’) I was laid off from my job. So now I’m torn between conflicting emotions – relieved to have escaped a job that bored me with a poorly managed company under the oppressive thumb of a bitter and angry self-appointed ‘supervisor’ even as I panic about the upcoming, soul sapping search for my next position. Hopeful about the potential to use this time to realize my dreams while simultaneously terror stricken about finances and economic realities. I’m breathing a sigh of relief even as my lungs clamp down in panic.
I know all roads lead to God’s road. Now I look to Him to walk beside me as I navigate this nerve-racking path. From my friends, from my family - I seek prayers for peace, for relief, for wisdom and above all, guidance. So. Here we go…

Princess Prozac

2008-10-28T18:47:00.001-05:00

My forehead hits the desk.
“I’m so… depressed.” She stares at me.
“What are you going to do about it?”

Silence.

Then, “I’m going to go shopping.”
“For what?”
“Boots. I need boots. Shiny black ones.”
“You need boots for your depression.”
“Yes. Knee-high ones. With stiletto heels.”
“Mmhmm.” She thinks it over. “And how are these boots going to actually solve your problem?”
“They’ll make me feel better. And when it comes back, I can kick it really hard.”
“But not hard enough to scuff the boots.”
“Now you’re getting it.”

The Days I Love

2008-10-18T18:43:00.004-05:00

Golden sunlight filtering through ancient limbs, the last rays catching tiny ripples in a rock strewn pool. A fierce game of catch is in process, with two balls already floating in the icy water. “Daddy!” A small voice demands attention.
Two perfectly marinated ribeyes begin to sizzle on the grill while I put some sweet potatoes and fresh bread in to cook. I close my eyes and listen to the alt country thumping out radio and listen to the stream trickle over the waterfall.
A breeze blows my ponytail. Rather than an evening grilling in my parent’s backyard, I can imagine a free weekend spent out on a little bend of the Guadalupe River, full of tents and parties and inner tubes floating.
“SERVE!” My vision is interrupted by a hot pink ball whizzing wildly past my ear, sent from a wayward throw while Jonathan shows LJ how a volleyball is served. Two blondes glanced around, all faux innocence. I correct my vision. There is nowhere else this could be and nowhere else I’d want to be.

Missing You

2008-08-17T22:48:00.001-05:00

I log on. I scroll down, click on your name. I open your journal, your poetry. Your heart opened and bleeding out on the internet. Every time I open your page, I catch myself hoping for an update. Praying for a new poem, fresh words. The sadness I feel when I realize my mistake is crushing. One day it may be too much. One day I may stop opening the link. I pray I'm stronger than that. I wonder if anyone else stops by. I wonder who knows this page exists. I want to protect your words, always afraid of a critical eye passing through, minimizing what I breathe. Silly, I know. Especially considering your talent. Especially considering how poorly I protected you. I miss you. Every day, I think about you. They say time heals all wounds. Perhaps it forgot this one. Perhaps I wanted it to. Perhaps I hold on, to remember. To improve. To punish. Perhaps because the pain is the last thing I have to hold on to. Everything sad makes me long for your understanding. Everything joyful reminds me of what I can't share with you. Life is hard, but happy. Heartbreaking, but beautiful. I wish you were here.

God Bless the American Public. Really.

2008-07-16T22:42:00.004-05:00

Ah. Even for a person who inherently dislikes and distrusts the American government (actually, ANY government for that matter) - I LIKE THIS. Government forced education. “We won’t make the decision for you, but you WILL be educated when you make it yourself”. Beautiful. And yet… seriously? COMPLAINING about KNOWLEDGE? Are you under the impression that KNOWING how many calories an item contains will increase your chance of gaining weight than if you ate it blind??? Oh. Forcible accountability. Yuck. 9 syllables that turn into a four letter word. How dare they? What kind of government would try and take away your freedom to not know any better? What’s next? 'Mein Kamph?' Internment camps? Suicide bombers? WHAT ABOUT THE… uh… THE... Psst - which amendment covers our constitutional right to be idiots? Keep on moving. Evolution doesn't go backwards, people. Just keep on moving.

Every So Often

2007-10-18T22:40:00.001-05:00

Life seems so divided lately. On one side, golden, new and full of promises. Kisses and snuggles, faraway dreams of a whole house of our own, even more distant (remote, far-away and indistinct) future dreams of an angel with dark curls like mine and eyes as bright and colorful as the Aegean like her daddy's. No more doubt and fear whether this man will leave me, that he'll think I'm not pretty enough, smart enough or witty enough. Never again (God willing) to fear being alone on a desperately dark night or hear a song and have to wish for a dance partner.
And yet other than love and all its power, I feel as if I'm floating – unprepared, without sure direction. Drifting with the whims of strangers and even those who wish me harm. "Get away," he told me, "before it affects you – the way you see yourself." I wasn't fast enough. All has been siphoned away – some by force, some I just handed over (not so much willingly, I just didn't know how to fight for it). I look in the mirror and see a sad, divided character. A woman with overflowing wells of love and affection, but draught of confidence and personal dreams.
___________________________________________________________________

I haven't written anything much of my own free will since I left you. Certainly nothing since you died. My camera has mostly collected dust since that day at the railroad tracks. Know that I don't blame any of it on you. I have ideas now and then. Some that flood up, some that take me by the head and insist on being brought to life. But then I hear the voices, low and discouraging. The most hateful one, my own. You knew that, you suffered with it. You were maybe the only one I spoke about it with. A fear of dreams – failure and success, equally frightening.
"The grief is up already. It is an early riser, waiting with its gummy arms wrapped around my neck, its hot, sour breath in my ear." -Lolly Winston
Today, and for days before now, I keep remembering a bird cage. Bent, and constructed from something sensible and sterile into an exotic iron gate of twists, turns and spirals. At the bottom, a long yellow feather and a snippet of exposed roll of film. I had watched you construct it, and it's the last thing I saw when I walked out of our apartment without a goodbye. I wish you were here to explain it to me. Instead, all I have left is missing, memories and mysteries of one gone too soon.
___________________________________________________________________

All my life, God and I have had an agreement. He recognizes the stubbornness of my heart that is certainly nurture and most likely nature as well. When He needs to reroute my direction, He knows better than to send a damp sheep's wool over my door. He brings in a hungry, indiscriminate fish and knocks my shaky ground from beneath me. I, in my end of our understanding, do the only thing I can – hang on for the ride and see where I'll end up being spit out. Yes, this has made for a rocky reality and hard earned lessons, and I indeed look forward to the day when I can see the signs before the walls of reality crumble.
But still, I'm no smarter or easier to turn than the thirsty mule that sees water ahead.
The scariest of all prayers – "Thy will be done." Through my many years in Christian schools, I remember often mouthing that line during morning chapel. I don't mind seeking forgiveness, most of the time I don't even mind offering it. Daily bread? All for it. But how can I pray a prayer so open ended? Who knows what door He might open once I unlock it?
And yet it itches there, from my belly to my throat to the tip of my tongue. Perhaps the first step should be to pray for strength to pray. All I ask God is that I not stay on this vine and wither. Refresh me with confidence and dreams, love and (above all) faith.

A Beautiful Forever

2006-11-26T22:31:00.000-06:00

It was late. 11:30, maybe closer to midnight. I'd tell you what time it was exactly but my knee was pressed against the clock, low on the center of the dashboard. We had arrived at the Dallas airport hours after dark, and the night had progressed by the time we had rented the car, grabbed a bite, and pointed the rental towards Houston. We sang along to the radio. They were playing a good mix of country - old, bluegrass and Texas. The kind of music Houston only plays on one station, one night a week. Somewhere outside of Corsicana I undid my seatbelt and slipped over into the center seat. I was practically sitting in his lap, and we wondered if driving like that wasn't illegal in Texas, but it was nice to be close to him. Brad Paisley stated serenading us with his song She's Everything. He looked at me and smiled, nodding in agreement with the lyrics. I ran my fingers through that precious white blond, dandelion fluff hair of his and saw the light catch on my ring. I knew then, as I've known all along, that this is my beautiful forever.