Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: dreams, journal, random, thoughts, writing
This morning’s drink: chamomile tea.
I don’t recall ever asking for journals, but I do know that I’ve always received them. Christmas, birthdays, Valentine’s Day — family and friends alike have gifted me with journals since I can remember. And I’ve loved it — I’ve always loved it. I have stacks of ravaged journals and almost equal numbers that are dying to be filled.
One journal in particular came to me a few years ago with a matching photo album. Printed all over them in cursive and gold script are the words “Dream Journal.”
I don’t use this journal as my dream journal — or maybe I do. My confusion comes from the way people use the word ‘dreams’ to describe both the crazy things that go through their head at night, and the hopeful ambitions they cling to throughout the day.
Who ever made that connection? I’ve never had a night dream that encapsulated a fantastic job or a perfect mate. In fact, when I’m not dreaming about totally benign things like rearranging furniture or working, I’m fleeing from murderers in impossible alleyways or finding illogical solutions to riddles that don’t make sense.
Even when I’ve taken my dreams and tried to “read” them for their symbolism, they “tell” me things that a drunk person could probably elucidate with more elegance.
For this reason, I can’t think of the things I actually want to do in life as ‘dreams.’ Dreams are uncomfortable and confusing. Ambitions are optimistic and encouraging.
Which is why I get a slight feeling of uneasiness when I read Anais Nin’s quote, also scrawled on my journal’s hardcover:
“Dreams are necessary to life.”
Either I’m missing something in life, or I’m missing something in my dreams.
Filed under: On the House | Tags: anais nin, arizona, ernest hemmingway, henry miller, random, reflecting, sedona, thoughts
This morning’s drink: chamomile tea.
I should not be writing this right now. It’s almost 7 a.m. and writing for pleasure should be strictly relegated to pre-dawn and post-sunset hours. The sunrise knows this and it’s hunting me down. Creeping into alleys, spotlighting certain buildings and gradually making it’s way to my southern-facing windows.
I should also not be writing because I’ve been reading young Hemmingway. Like Henry Miller and Anais Nin, Hemmingway puts me in this crazy, liquid writing state where every color is saturated and every emotion more dense. I like writing this way, but it’s made up of pieces that I’ve already digested. Which, in turn, makes it rather unappetizing to anyone else.
Still, I am writing this, and I’m mentally reclined in thoughts of Sedona. I took my one and only trip to Sedona about four years ago, and I’ve never been able to reclaim the part of myself I left there. The red rocks of sandstone cut so much against the sky that it seemed like a movie set, and in the back of my mind it was a scene that had been cut from Willy Wonka. I imagined I could swipe my hand along the side of those bluffs and return with cinnamon-spiced chocolate. I would imagine all the things the indigenous folks used to use it for.
But I’m not in Sedona — not even a little bit. My neighbors are audibly showering and I’m running out of tea. When the sun reaches my window it will already be hot, and the spider in my pane will have caught another fly.
Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: bums, laundromat, life, men, observations, prostitution, random
Last night’s drink: Vampire Merlot
I’ve been aching to write about an experience I had at the laundromat last week.
At 7 p.m., it was already dark out, but the inside of the place was brighter than day; florescent lights, white washers, beige floor and dryers made of glass and steel. The hardware gleamed brighter than my whites. The space beyond the windows looked like the backside of theater curtains.
I was one of three people in the place, all stationed at different folding tables, silently piling their faded clothes and bedding. I was wrestling, as I always do, with a fitted sheet, when a gruff man and a stick-thin woman in men’s clothing walked in. They moved in awkward stutters and half-weaves, but were having an active and animated conversation over the rustling of a plastic bag of Chinese take-out.
I dismissed it as bum drivel until I noticed that the man seemed relatively well-kempt. He began to unpack the food before them, using the small magazine table as a dining area. The man was pleased with himself, and kept commenting on the generous portion sizes before them. The woman seemed conflicted, and kept fidgeting in her chair. A shotglass laced onto a cord around her neck waved back and forth on her flat chest.
Man: I want you to eat something.
Woman: I’m not really that hungry.
M: I want to make sure that..
W: You know I pray every day? I pray for theweriwn… iweonodg.. eijgo…
M: Eat! Look at all this good food.
W: Let’s just go back and look at it and do this.
M: I want to make sure you aren’t using the money to shoot up or something. I want you to feed yourself.
W: Let’s just go do it. F*** all these people. I pray every day. F*** them.
The conversation went on like this; the woman cursing the rest of us, who were now folding as quickly as we could. At the time, I was pissed about something totally unrelated, so I missed that this crude scene was actually sort of a touching one. These two were about to engage in prostitution, but this man wanted more than just sex. He wanted to feel like a man, too.
Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: eating, flowers, frivolity, life, lunch, observations, people, random, relief, tension, thoughts
Tonight’s drink: Oak Creek Cabernet
There’s something similar about the tensions of a twelve o’clock lunch crowd, and a row of closed daisies, waiting to bloom. You can see that both are queuing for something; there is a restlessness in their still focus on the present.
Then, when the diners have their meals and sit at the groups of tables outside, there is a rhythm to the eating, the drinking and the pausing. Just as the first rays of sun start to warm the outsides of the petals, each bit of nourishment soaks their insides; the hydraulic-like depression pulls the tensions away, and blooms ensue.
The diners sit back in their chairs and begin to carry on conversations again, their quirks and distinguishing marks making them individuals. The flowers, too, are suddenly unique characters, where they were once simply a mark in a carpet of flower beds. The bees take time with each one.
Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: career women, life, networking, professional women, random, relationships, thoughts, women
This morning’s drink: Peet’s Italian Roast
Growing up, I never considered myself to be a tomboy, though I played sports, took auto shop and graduated from sports bras to real bras in high school. But I always felt like I was different from other girls. I didn’t really care about makeup or expensive underwear, but I sort of felt like I was missing something as a result; that I was lacking an important point of bonding with other girls.
It made my relationships with other girls sort of complicated and mysterious. I felt like I didn’t know how to approach my own gender. I even questioned whether or not I was a lesbian, though I’d never been attracted to women. But I was getting that same apprehensive feeling about talking to women that I was about talking to men that I was attracted to. I’d sort of already assumed they had an upper hand – I guess because they had the girl thing down.
I’m still not really into makeup or expensive underwear, but I’ve realized that it doesn’t make me less of a woman, just a different sort. It’s actually helped me to appreciate all women more, which is part of the reason why I had such a great time at the eWomen Network lunch yesterday. I walked into a group of women who spanned the gamut of demographics and social tiers, and found that I already sort of belonged due to the sheer fact that I am a “career” woman. I didn’t have to justify why I was there, which gave me the freedom to interact and network without feeling like I was hitting on someone. Sort of ironic, in a way – the thing that used to hold me back has suddenly liberated me.
While I’ve been a professional woman of sorts for a few years now, I feel like I’ve just discovered this part of myself, and the opportunities for me therein.
Now just throw a little wine in the mix and we may have something here.
Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: charity, expectations, fantasy, homeless, homelessness, life, people, random, thoughts
This morning’s drink: more Starbucks.. I’m buying new coffee TONIGHT!
I think one of the insider things about being a resident of San Diego – particularly Uptown or Downtown – is that you sort of get to know the homeless people in your area. You don’t necessarily get to know them in a way that you’d call them a friend, or even an acquaintance. But you start to recognize their faces, their habits, their quirks, and learn to smile and/or avoid them as comfort levels require.
There is one homeless women on the walk home from work who I really like. It actually makes me smile to see her. She’s a large, black woman, with hair wrapped in a thin black sheet, and piled in an upward angle from the back of her head like a voluminous, charcoal beehive. She looks to be in her late 30s, but she could be much younger. She wears layer upon layer of black coats, pants, skirts and robes, so that her dress almost looks to be from the costume room of Labyrinth. She sits or sleeps on the same bus bench around 5 p.m. every evening, with large, black hefty bags, and usually a magazine or something to read. And she always has a kind, mellow look of contentment about her. Every day.
I’ve never spoken to her, for two very flimsy reasons:
1. I always want to give her food, and I never have any.
2. I don’t want to ruin the illusion that she is sweet, complacent and wise; and that she speaks with a Southern accent.
My relationship with homeless people has evolved tremendously over the years. When I used to smoke, I’d give them cigarettes. When I used to wash my clothes at the laundromat on Washington, I’d buy them tacos when they asked for money. One of the more frequent taco/cigarette customers used to think I was going to law school, no matter how often I told him I wasn’t. Everytime he saw me (and he recognized me no matter what), he would ask me when I was going to pass the bar so I could get his uncle’s money back from his evil widow, who apparently screwed the whole family over after his death.
One night, as I was walking into Henry’s, a new homeless man asked me for money for food. As always, I told him I would buy him a sandwich, but no money. This offer is usually met with a disgusted grunt, but he eagerly accepted, and began to follow me into the store. Uneasy from the frantic look in his face, I asked him to wait outside, then carefully picked out a sandwich, chips, a protein bar, some vitamin-enriched juice, and a bottle of water. When I presented him with the package, he didn’t even look inside – he just thanked me, set it down, and continued to beg with the wild look in his eyes.
I was immediately soured, and almost went so far as to take the bag back. Obviously I didn’t – I had to ask myself what I was expecting from the whole thing. Elation, satisfaction, relief – for both of us? Obviously, a tall order from a homeless man, or a junkie, or both. But I don’t even offer food anymore – now I start telling people the intersections for soup kitchens downtown.
I guess that’s what happens when you tuck expectations into sub sandwiches — they get eaten.
Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: happiness, life, love, random, relationships, thoughts
This morning’s drink: a blend of coffee grounds past.
I was supposed to get up for a run this morning, but I couldn’t.
Not so much because I was tired, or remembering the second glass of wine from last night. Or because Josh and I cruised up and down the Wild Animal Park yesterday for three hours while the lions lazed in our faces. Not even because the sheets are new, the bed is warm and it’s just now starting to cool off at night. I couldn’t get out of bed because I woke up and Josh was holding my hand in his sleep.
I am such a fatalist, because I keep trying to figure out what’s wrong with Josh and I. Even though I’m somewhat stoic as a single girl, I’m a classic lover of love. I know infatuation almost as if it were a dance routine I’d practiced and performed for years. Like the one throwback song you play really well on the guitar. Even love was starting to feel that way – like I was figuring out the chords and memorizing the changes.
But this love is totally different – it doesn’t feel like I’m in love with love. Rather, it feels like a natural side effect of something totally normal. Like, getting warm when you put sweats on; or feeling satisfied after a nice meal.
Every action has an equal or lesser reaction. So maybe our love is just naturally so.
Nothing wrong with that.
Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: books, characters, fiction, life, random, reading, thoughts, writing
This morning’s drink: Starbucks Sumatra
Karaoke and writing converge in my mind in one very basic way: I believe that everyone’s a singer, and everyone’s a writer. You don’t have to be good at something to be a something-”er”, you just have to do it. In a more existential way, maybe even the potential to do something is enough to make someone an “er.” Even kinetic energy gets factored into the equation.
So, like everyone, I’ve always considered writing a book. I’ve dabbled in some really bad short stories in the past, and always come full circle to a kaleidescope of frustrations: one dimensional characters, a plot that never blips above a flatline, lack of inspiration, and a wavering perseverance to get past all of the above. Almost out of nowhere, however, I ran into a character that I am starting to really enjoy. And she’s standing on a city corner, bathed in a streetlight, dressed sort of like Carmen Sandiego, looking straight at me, and pointing in the direction of a storyline.
She’s been doing this for a couple of weeks now, and I don’t even know her name. Feeling unprepared to go, however, I went to the library and picked up some books on writing fiction, and character development. I’m already halfway through Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, which is really very good, whether or not you are a writer.
It used to REALLY bother me when fiction writers would talk about their characters as if they were real people. That they’d worked with these people for years; that they’d really started to love them, and care for them; that they protected them… all of these things used to just seem creepy, and psychotic. And yet, here I am, inspired by a character, and practically aching to barf her out of my head.
And at this point, that’s really what it is. I’m not trying to quit my day job, or become famous and revered. I just want to write this – create something good – get it all out.
Cue Rockapella.
Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: Buddhism, Catholicism, Christianity, faith, life, prayer, random, religion, science, thoughts
This morning’s drink: Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf Genmaicha Green Tea
On Tuesday, I was gripped by a force as I was getting ready to leave for work. I lotioned my arms, put on my watch, clipped in my earrings, and turned to leave, but something stopped me before I reached my bedroom door.
My body followed as I turned my eyes back to rest upon the jewelry box sitting on the dresser. Nut-brown and worn, each drawer is filled with trinkets I rarely wear anymore, or even think about. Yet, instinctively, I reached for the left wing that opens like a door, and holds a small series of gold chains. On the far left is a roped one, with a delicate gold crucifix looped on. As if I’d done this every day, I unlatched it and put it on, then grabbed my things and locked the door.
That evening, as Big Josh and I drove to American Shooting Center to look at 9mm’s, I told him he was driving me to prayer. He laughed before he apologized, but I can understand a little as to why he would. We haven’t talked about religion much since we started seeing eachother – though we have had somewhat extensive conversations about faith. It’d be a lie for me to suddenly say that I’ve held on to my relationship with God all my life; the mismatched background almost by default lends itself to comedy.
Still, in times of need, I find myself drawn back into the religions I’ve known. Then, almost as quickly I find myself alienated all over again. The Protestant faith I celebrated in Sunday school seems too flaky, the Adventist faith too cultish, the Catholic faith too intangible and the Buddhist faith too self-centered. Obviously, I haven’t tried them all, but I find myself wishing for someone to simply give me the raw materials of faith so that I can cut through the middle man.
Some of them are easy enough to pick out; in Protestant Faith and Catholicism, many of the Ten Commandments:
4. Honor your elders
5. Thou shall not kill
6. Thou shall not commit adultery
7. Thou shall not steal
8. Thou shall not bear false witness
9 & 10. Thou shall not covet
These seem pretty safe as basic premises of not being a jerkface, and a generally unpleasant person. And let’s face it – some of us actually need rules in order to achieve this.
I also like the objective outlook and logic of responsibility in Buddhism’s law of dependent origination, which basically mimics Newton’s 3rd Law of mechanics – every action has an equal and/or opposite reaction, or do unto others as you would have done unto you. When science and faith collide, I’m pretty much sold.
Finally, despite the crazy childhood experiences I had in the Seventh-Day Adventist school, I have grown to appreciate the tenets of the faith that are flexible with the times (i.e., a rather liberal view on abortion) and yet maintain that a simple life is the best way to celebrate living. Plus, they extol the benefits of eating crickets and grasshoppers, and they argue that Saturday is holier than Sunday, so someone over there has got a sense of humor. Also important for faith.
So I suppose I’ve got a decent sense for what my ideal faith teaches and believes, but if I’ve created a faith, who do I pray to?
When I pray now, I imagine that I’m talking to God, and I haven’t been struck by lightning yet. And, really, I never pray with the expectation that I’m going to get what I ask for – it’s more to achieve that sort of relieving release that I imagine Victorian doctors proffered in the practice of leeching.
It’s amazing what happens when you simply get things out of your head.
Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: exorcise, family, life, malaise, mental, random, running, thoughts
This morning’s drink: Tazo Zen green tea.
I am not an athlete, nor have I ever been mistaken for one. But I have always been a jogger to some extent – almost in the same way that I’m a smoker or a wino. Each have their place in combating the part of me than can turn into a head-case.
A lot of the distinction has depended on age, priorities and mental health. When I was in high school, I couldn’t buy cigarettes or alcohol, so I jogged around my neighborhood when I started to feel cloudy. When I started college, I began smoking more.. I think that just happens in college. But I noticed that it inhibited my running, so it never turned into a full-fledged habit. When I became of age, I actually started keeping alcohol in the house, but I didn’t like the smell of vodka in my sweat on morning runs. It never got out of control until I started dating more, and I finally went through a breakup that broke me down. But my age is reminding me that health insurance only covers so much, so I’m back to running, and I’m glad.
This holiday weekend, I had an unusual experience, though, that reminded me of my first bad breakup at the age of 18. I had been with him for a couple of years, and we had talked about marriage, etc. after college. But, of course, we grew apart, and it killed me. I started running A LOT. By the river, along Jackson Street, all over town, and in the gym. I was sort of like Forrest Gump – if I wasn’t waiting tables, I was running.
This one morning, I was all in my head, and I felt like I couldn’t get out. I couldn’t get hot enough, tired enough, sweaty enough, sore enough – I cranked the treadmill up as high as I could stand and screamed through my last mile until I couldn’t breath. As I walked it out, a fellow gym rat came up and just said, “Whatever it is, you aren’t going to outrun it.” All I could think was that I didn’t know it was so obvious.
This weekend, on the plane to Sacramento, I felt that suffocating headspace consume me. I was completely out of it the entire time – in line, on the plane, waiting for my father, on the drive home. Even though I hadn’t been working out very hard lately, if at all, I felt like I needed to go to the gym. I needed my brain to seep out of my pores along with the sweat, worry, embarrassment, frustration, loneliness and defeat. My dad set me loose, I made a bee-line to the gym, and ran for an hour straight for the first time in years. I just couldn’t stop running – I couldn’t get tired enough, sore enough, hot enough to burn it all out of me. Today is the third day in a row that I’ve tried to exorcise through exercise, but to no avail. I can’t put my finger on it, but like a cranial rum cake, something is soaking deep into my brain.
My life is better than it’s ever been, my siblings are finally getting their shit together, my parents understand what it means to eat healthy, and I have a tan. Yet all I can think is that I want out of this body. What the hell is wrong with me.
