maybe geniuses :)
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
lulls
last week i went out at courts. the winds were up and there were long lulls in between sets.
it wasn't the best day for surfing, but still it felt good to be out in the water. sitting. floating. with no other agenda, than waiting for the right wave, and hoping i'd get it.
i'm not the best at catching waves, and often, i let many go by because i'm not fast enough, not ready, or because i lack the confidence to be like eddie and just go. or sometimes i'm just plain scared. that being said, for as many waves that pass me by, there's always a few that seem to come my way, and there are those moments when it feels like the particular wave i'm lining up for, came just for me.
i love that feeling.
but back to lulls...
currently life feels like a big lull. i'm not sure where i'm going or what i'm doing. i feel like i'm floating. which doesn't feel bad, but i have a sense of anticipation stirring in my soul. as if there's something up ahead. i feel myself readying. and both fear and excitement softly murmur, though i silence them each time, because waiting for the unknown is like all things unknown. confusing and hard to rely on.
but i do get that sense that something's about to come my way. what it is, i have no idea. but it'll bring change. i can feel that much in my bones. a change i might fear, but need nonetheless.
when i surf, i don't always have the reflex and courage to catch the waves that follow the lull. often i get timid. shy. hesitant.
i surf the way i live life. clumsy, and without coordination. wanting something, but backing down. then wishing i had gone. then promising the next time. and so on.
maybe this feeling is just a feeling. a nothing that i'm making something out of. soon to pass and be forgotten. but maybe it's a premonition. and if so, i'm hoping i'll have the courage to grab it, the coordination to ride it and the appreciation that always brings a big smile to face, whenever i'm falling into/riding whatever it is that life brings my way and feels especially meant for me.
it wasn't the best day for surfing, but still it felt good to be out in the water. sitting. floating. with no other agenda, than waiting for the right wave, and hoping i'd get it.
i'm not the best at catching waves, and often, i let many go by because i'm not fast enough, not ready, or because i lack the confidence to be like eddie and just go. or sometimes i'm just plain scared. that being said, for as many waves that pass me by, there's always a few that seem to come my way, and there are those moments when it feels like the particular wave i'm lining up for, came just for me.
i love that feeling.
but back to lulls...
currently life feels like a big lull. i'm not sure where i'm going or what i'm doing. i feel like i'm floating. which doesn't feel bad, but i have a sense of anticipation stirring in my soul. as if there's something up ahead. i feel myself readying. and both fear and excitement softly murmur, though i silence them each time, because waiting for the unknown is like all things unknown. confusing and hard to rely on.
but i do get that sense that something's about to come my way. what it is, i have no idea. but it'll bring change. i can feel that much in my bones. a change i might fear, but need nonetheless.
when i surf, i don't always have the reflex and courage to catch the waves that follow the lull. often i get timid. shy. hesitant.
i surf the way i live life. clumsy, and without coordination. wanting something, but backing down. then wishing i had gone. then promising the next time. and so on.
maybe this feeling is just a feeling. a nothing that i'm making something out of. soon to pass and be forgotten. but maybe it's a premonition. and if so, i'm hoping i'll have the courage to grab it, the coordination to ride it and the appreciation that always brings a big smile to face, whenever i'm falling into/riding whatever it is that life brings my way and feels especially meant for me.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
What Goes Up Must Come Down- A lesson in Chinese Porn
There's a line in the song Roller Coaster by Kimya Dawson that goes - "My mom says I hope someday you get paid for being Kimya Dawson."
My mom has never told me that, but it's something I often wish. That I could just get paid for being me. Or more specifically, that I could get paid for writing what I write- these whimsical, poorly edited, self exposing blogs. Like Martin Luther King Jr, I have a dream, perhaps not as noble of a dream, but it's a secret dream that one day people somewhere out there might happen across my blogs, ignore the grammar issues and the fact that most of this stuff is not final draft quality, and like what I write. Really like it. Like it so much, they say
More! More! Just as you are. No need to market yourself, no need to learn how to refine your writing; just write! All we want is for you to write, and if you do that, we'll tell you we like it, and we'll even pay you.
The dream actually goes further than my need for money and daily ego strokes. In that dream, there will be something in my words that these people connect to, that feeds them. Food for the soul. Food for the tortured, lost, but hopeful soul perhaps- and those that have an appreciation for that type of soul. In this particular dream of mine, my writing will bring to others that very same indescribable feeling that I feel when I read something catches me in some form or fashion.
And so, to get back to the title of this blog, I was beginning to feel that maybe (a long shot maybe, but still a maybe) the dream was beginning. In the past few months, I've had a new audience of Chinese readers leaving cryptic comments, mostly in Chinese characters followed by way too many ellipses. At first I ignored them, but then I got curious and began google translating their words, which were often proverbial in nature- We're too old too fast, but smart too late.....................; Smiling and happy every day..................; Bless you popular not diminished.....................
I found their comments confusing but I figured it might be a cultural thing and so, I deemed myself not quite smart enough to comprehend, but certainly grateful enough to appreciate their attention. And in reading their comments, I found my spirits going up, my ego nicely stroked and that feeling of "they like me, they like my writing!" coming forward and wondering if maybe the Chinese people really get me.
That was of course until I received a comment that was a direct link to Chinese porn. And suddenly it clicked that maybe there was something fishy about all these other Chinese comments. And so, I googled "Chinese comments on blogger," and found that the extended ellipses at the end of each comment was not just a fondness for that certain punctuation, but rather a hidden link to even more Chinese porn.
Bah!
So while pervy Chinese porn lovers' libidos go up, down goes my inflated ego and the feeling of a dream being fulfilled.
I suppose it's for the best. While I've always loved the Chinese for their culinary-able-to-eat-anything skills, there is so much I don't know about them, and I'm sure sooner or later I would have done something culturally offensive, possibly been black-listed and maybe perhaps even sought out by the Chinese mafia (if there is a Chinese mafia). I suppose it's safer this way.
So the dream lives on. And on. And on.................................................................
My mom has never told me that, but it's something I often wish. That I could just get paid for being me. Or more specifically, that I could get paid for writing what I write- these whimsical, poorly edited, self exposing blogs. Like Martin Luther King Jr, I have a dream, perhaps not as noble of a dream, but it's a secret dream that one day people somewhere out there might happen across my blogs, ignore the grammar issues and the fact that most of this stuff is not final draft quality, and like what I write. Really like it. Like it so much, they say
More! More! Just as you are. No need to market yourself, no need to learn how to refine your writing; just write! All we want is for you to write, and if you do that, we'll tell you we like it, and we'll even pay you.
The dream actually goes further than my need for money and daily ego strokes. In that dream, there will be something in my words that these people connect to, that feeds them. Food for the soul. Food for the tortured, lost, but hopeful soul perhaps- and those that have an appreciation for that type of soul. In this particular dream of mine, my writing will bring to others that very same indescribable feeling that I feel when I read something catches me in some form or fashion.
And so, to get back to the title of this blog, I was beginning to feel that maybe (a long shot maybe, but still a maybe) the dream was beginning. In the past few months, I've had a new audience of Chinese readers leaving cryptic comments, mostly in Chinese characters followed by way too many ellipses. At first I ignored them, but then I got curious and began google translating their words, which were often proverbial in nature- We're too old too fast, but smart too late.....................; Smiling and happy every day..................; Bless you popular not diminished.....................
I found their comments confusing but I figured it might be a cultural thing and so, I deemed myself not quite smart enough to comprehend, but certainly grateful enough to appreciate their attention. And in reading their comments, I found my spirits going up, my ego nicely stroked and that feeling of "they like me, they like my writing!" coming forward and wondering if maybe the Chinese people really get me.
That was of course until I received a comment that was a direct link to Chinese porn. And suddenly it clicked that maybe there was something fishy about all these other Chinese comments. And so, I googled "Chinese comments on blogger," and found that the extended ellipses at the end of each comment was not just a fondness for that certain punctuation, but rather a hidden link to even more Chinese porn.
Bah!
So while pervy Chinese porn lovers' libidos go up, down goes my inflated ego and the feeling of a dream being fulfilled.
I suppose it's for the best. While I've always loved the Chinese for their culinary-able-to-eat-anything skills, there is so much I don't know about them, and I'm sure sooner or later I would have done something culturally offensive, possibly been black-listed and maybe perhaps even sought out by the Chinese mafia (if there is a Chinese mafia). I suppose it's safer this way.
So the dream lives on. And on. And on.................................................................
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Crutches
I remember once consoling a friend who had made her decision to end her marriage. She told me she didn't feel she had the right to be sad, as she was the one who left. I supportively argued back that she had every right to be sad, for no matter who holds the knife, when two people cut away from each other, they both bleed.
I also remember my dad, once comparing my mom to his arm. She had been away on a trip and he was having trouble sleeping without her. He told me that my mom was like a limb, and that when she was gone, he felt her presence missing, not just in the house, but in his own body. He seemed, almost to ache as he said it.
And finally, I remember my brother, once injuring his leg. It wasn't any type of injury that required an amputation, but it was enough to wind him up in crutches for a period of time. Causing him to need something to lean on and support himself while his limbs healed up.
I think often, once a relationship ends, it may feel as if something's been amputated, or at very least, badly injured, and many of us may feel the need for a crutch. Something to hold onto. Something to hold us up. It's not to say we wouldn't be able to get along without it, it's just to say there'd be a whole lot more wobbling without it, and more periods of noticeable acute pain. With a crutch, the pain still exists, the lack of mobility is still there, it's just slightly less bad.
Some of us find these crutches in vices and distractions. In spending one's self. This may include going out every night and tossing back a few that equal to several. Filling every moment of space with busyness. Going, going, going and trying not to stop, or even slow down, as to keep the mind and aching heart distracted.
Others of us find these crutches in people. Often finding a temporary somebody to fill a space they cannot possibly fill, but in which we'll try to fill them with nonetheless. Because even if it's not enough to stop the heartache, it's something. And there is comfort in having someone to lay down with. In having someone who's beating heart can be felt, when our own hearts have ceased to know how to go on. I think often, we may not even be aware that we use these people for such reasons, we just know we need someone near and grab hold to what we can.
I have in the past used both types of crutches. Something I'm not proud of, but not necessarily ashamed of either.
And sometimes, I've forgone the crutch to find myself bedridden. Trapped under covers. Hiding out from the pain of a love, like, lust, whatever that once was, and became no more.
But somewhere along my need for crutches, I've found one I hope to never give up. Somewhere through the trials and tribulations of living life. Of falling, again and again; I turned to writing to hold me together and help me get through the pain. And once I started, I couldn't seem to stop. Every heart pang I felt went down in words. In poems or blogs. Writing was something I didn't sleep with, but rather that came to me in my dreams, woke me in the middle of the night and called to me. Something that made me throw myself, my feelings, my experiences on to paper or computer screen. Somehow it made the pain into something, even if ugly and raw, almost pretty in the right light.
I think some crutches can turn into prosthetics... No longer merely metal and rubber to grab onto each time we rise, but rather something we strap to us and wear, not to take off unless to swim, shower or sleep. The drinking at the bar each night becomes an addiction, a way of life. The bed buddy we used to soften the blow of our latest fall becomes less buddy and instead, turns into a boyfriend or girlfriend.
And I think some prosthetics turn into those titanium limbs... the ones that screw into your leg, fuse to the bone, and become inseparable. Become a part of you that will not be removed, unless of course, ripped savagely from the body or surgically abstracted.
Some crutches, grow into us. Become a part of us.
And though I write less than I used to, I would like to hope that writing is to me like titanium is to bone. Fused. A part of me. No longer there to ease my aches, but rather, just there.
I also remember my dad, once comparing my mom to his arm. She had been away on a trip and he was having trouble sleeping without her. He told me that my mom was like a limb, and that when she was gone, he felt her presence missing, not just in the house, but in his own body. He seemed, almost to ache as he said it.
And finally, I remember my brother, once injuring his leg. It wasn't any type of injury that required an amputation, but it was enough to wind him up in crutches for a period of time. Causing him to need something to lean on and support himself while his limbs healed up.
I think often, once a relationship ends, it may feel as if something's been amputated, or at very least, badly injured, and many of us may feel the need for a crutch. Something to hold onto. Something to hold us up. It's not to say we wouldn't be able to get along without it, it's just to say there'd be a whole lot more wobbling without it, and more periods of noticeable acute pain. With a crutch, the pain still exists, the lack of mobility is still there, it's just slightly less bad.
Some of us find these crutches in vices and distractions. In spending one's self. This may include going out every night and tossing back a few that equal to several. Filling every moment of space with busyness. Going, going, going and trying not to stop, or even slow down, as to keep the mind and aching heart distracted.
Others of us find these crutches in people. Often finding a temporary somebody to fill a space they cannot possibly fill, but in which we'll try to fill them with nonetheless. Because even if it's not enough to stop the heartache, it's something. And there is comfort in having someone to lay down with. In having someone who's beating heart can be felt, when our own hearts have ceased to know how to go on. I think often, we may not even be aware that we use these people for such reasons, we just know we need someone near and grab hold to what we can.
I have in the past used both types of crutches. Something I'm not proud of, but not necessarily ashamed of either.
And sometimes, I've forgone the crutch to find myself bedridden. Trapped under covers. Hiding out from the pain of a love, like, lust, whatever that once was, and became no more.
But somewhere along my need for crutches, I've found one I hope to never give up. Somewhere through the trials and tribulations of living life. Of falling, again and again; I turned to writing to hold me together and help me get through the pain. And once I started, I couldn't seem to stop. Every heart pang I felt went down in words. In poems or blogs. Writing was something I didn't sleep with, but rather that came to me in my dreams, woke me in the middle of the night and called to me. Something that made me throw myself, my feelings, my experiences on to paper or computer screen. Somehow it made the pain into something, even if ugly and raw, almost pretty in the right light.
I think some crutches can turn into prosthetics... No longer merely metal and rubber to grab onto each time we rise, but rather something we strap to us and wear, not to take off unless to swim, shower or sleep. The drinking at the bar each night becomes an addiction, a way of life. The bed buddy we used to soften the blow of our latest fall becomes less buddy and instead, turns into a boyfriend or girlfriend.
And I think some prosthetics turn into those titanium limbs... the ones that screw into your leg, fuse to the bone, and become inseparable. Become a part of you that will not be removed, unless of course, ripped savagely from the body or surgically abstracted.
Some crutches, grow into us. Become a part of us.
And though I write less than I used to, I would like to hope that writing is to me like titanium is to bone. Fused. A part of me. No longer there to ease my aches, but rather, just there.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
crazy
Sometimes crazy sneaks in.
Like a thief in the night.
Like roaches that scurry away on your kitchen floor.
Like cancer. Infection. Disease.
It takes over. And you.
You.
The person who once was sane, becomes consumed.
And despite what pretty poems one can write; there’s no cleaning up crazy. No darling bow. No fancy dress.
Last night crazy struck at 6:02pm in downtown Honolulu. It wasn't pretty, but the destruction was minimal and there were no fatalities.
I hate suffering the crazies.
For those of you who read my blog, you've probably realized that I have issues. I'd like to think we've all got issues, we're all crazy in some mean or form, but that could just be me trying to make myself feel better.
I remember working with my first paranoid schizophrenic client. I was an undergrad in Greeley, Colorado, tender age of 20. I was on an acute residential psych facility. These kinds of places see your schizophrenics and schizoaffectives, major depression disorders, bipolars, meth addicts in psychosis and several others. Each of these disorders is a person, with a family of origin and many times with a family of their making. Each person lives a life. Each individual who comes through the door is labeled and put into a category describing their type of crazy. Many came already labeled. Already through the door several times before, wherever these doors exist.
My door belonged on the corner of a quiet suburb neighborhood.
I was a psychology major in the last year of my studies and doing my field experience.
The first client I worked with was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. He was older. Had white hair. For some reason, I've always had an affinity for older grandpa like men. He looked the part with his hair, wrinkly skin and physical stature, but his suspicious, angry eyes gave him away. Made him un-grandpa like. I remember before meeting with him, catching a glimpse of him through the window, my heart felt pity, it felt sad. But then, when I walked through the door and caught eyes with him, the pity faded to the background and fear jumped up and lodged itself in my throat.
He told me he was a vet from the war. He told me he couldn't trust me and that the room was bugged. I told him it wasn't and he could trust me. My heart beat rapidly in my chest, and the fear still lodged, now pulsated. I stammered that I was here to help. He told me no. Demanded that the room was bugged and eyed me suspiciously. I told him it wasn't. He said it was. I started to repeat myself again but then stopped, because it suddenly dawned on me that there's no arguing with crazy. And then a sense of calm came.
If I was going to be in here with him, I needed to be with him.
And so I asked him where? And he pointed out the spots. I suggested we problem solve. I knew I had to complete an interview with him and get some information, but I understood his concerns. I wouldn't want to talk in a bugged room either.
And so, we moved our chairs to the other side of the room. We pushed the table against the bugged wall and we spoke in whispers.
It was an interesting and exhilarating experience. Sad too. I felt for him. I felt for everyone that walked through that door.
I can't imagine what life would be like with that type of crazy, and so I suppose I should be grateful with my level. I think it's higher than the norm, but not on the smallest end of the far right bell curve.
Like a thief in the night.
Like roaches that scurry away on your kitchen floor.
Like cancer. Infection. Disease.
It takes over. And you.
You.
The person who once was sane, becomes consumed.
And despite what pretty poems one can write; there’s no cleaning up crazy. No darling bow. No fancy dress.
Nothing.
Last night crazy struck at 6:02pm in downtown Honolulu. It wasn't pretty, but the destruction was minimal and there were no fatalities.
I hate suffering the crazies.
For those of you who read my blog, you've probably realized that I have issues. I'd like to think we've all got issues, we're all crazy in some mean or form, but that could just be me trying to make myself feel better.
I remember working with my first paranoid schizophrenic client. I was an undergrad in Greeley, Colorado, tender age of 20. I was on an acute residential psych facility. These kinds of places see your schizophrenics and schizoaffectives, major depression disorders, bipolars, meth addicts in psychosis and several others. Each of these disorders is a person, with a family of origin and many times with a family of their making. Each person lives a life. Each individual who comes through the door is labeled and put into a category describing their type of crazy. Many came already labeled. Already through the door several times before, wherever these doors exist.
My door belonged on the corner of a quiet suburb neighborhood.
I was a psychology major in the last year of my studies and doing my field experience.
The first client I worked with was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. He was older. Had white hair. For some reason, I've always had an affinity for older grandpa like men. He looked the part with his hair, wrinkly skin and physical stature, but his suspicious, angry eyes gave him away. Made him un-grandpa like. I remember before meeting with him, catching a glimpse of him through the window, my heart felt pity, it felt sad. But then, when I walked through the door and caught eyes with him, the pity faded to the background and fear jumped up and lodged itself in my throat.
He told me he was a vet from the war. He told me he couldn't trust me and that the room was bugged. I told him it wasn't and he could trust me. My heart beat rapidly in my chest, and the fear still lodged, now pulsated. I stammered that I was here to help. He told me no. Demanded that the room was bugged and eyed me suspiciously. I told him it wasn't. He said it was. I started to repeat myself again but then stopped, because it suddenly dawned on me that there's no arguing with crazy. And then a sense of calm came.
If I was going to be in here with him, I needed to be with him.
And so I asked him where? And he pointed out the spots. I suggested we problem solve. I knew I had to complete an interview with him and get some information, but I understood his concerns. I wouldn't want to talk in a bugged room either.
And so, we moved our chairs to the other side of the room. We pushed the table against the bugged wall and we spoke in whispers.
It was an interesting and exhilarating experience. Sad too. I felt for him. I felt for everyone that walked through that door.
I can't imagine what life would be like with that type of crazy, and so I suppose I should be grateful with my level. I think it's higher than the norm, but not on the smallest end of the far right bell curve.
My crazy. I'm not sure where it comes from exactly. Perhaps in my emotions. That they're so close to the skin, so easily activated and that they run so deep. For years and years I tried to numb myself. Teach myself not to feel. It didn't work, so then I ran in the other direction. The acceptance direction.
I came to terms with the fact that I am emo. I am sensitive. I am questioning and often anxiety ridden. I am a complete contradiction. Cynical and optimistic. A woman who refers to herself as a girl. A girl who searches for doom while at the same time believing in blissfully happy endings.
Just like my client from long ago, sometimes there is no arguing with me. It is the way it is, and even if all logical sense can tell me otherwise, it still doesn't matter.
My friend Brendt can attest to this. Half our encounters entail arguments. Playful arguments, but arguments nonetheless. Brendt is not crazy. He's the opposite. He's logical, practical. Analytical and goal oriented. He leads with his head. I lead with my feelings. And so, we often end up head against emotions, on some subject in which he feeds me logic and I reject it with feelings.
At the end, he always surrenders. Because you can't argue with crazy. He'll agree to disagree and let me hold to my faith, not because it makes sense, but because it's just the way I feel.
I don't know when I started letting my freak flag fly. When I came out of the closet and declared that I was in fact not completely sane and I wasn't going to hide it anymore. But it was a relief, and in it, I've connected with other fellow crazies. The ones who bank on things they cannot guarantee even exist, the ones who torture themselves needlessly and ask unanswerable questions about life.
Last night at 6:02pm the crazies struck. I found myself overwhelmed with questions about life and love. Once again fear lodged itself in my throat, and pulsated, begging me for an unanswerable answer to calm my nerves. I was desperate to know what my future will be and whether or not I'm making the right decisions now.
I was fortunate enough to find myself in the company of friends. Who listened and watched as I wrestled myself. The self that so often seems to get in the way of... not happiness- I've been accused of being afraid of happiness, of not wanting to be happy, and that's not true. Happiness is easy. It's there every day of my life. In my morning cup of coffee, in my interactions with others, by watching the sunset, seeing a rainbow in the sky, or riding down a sloping wave or steep hill. Happiness isn't my problem. The part I wrestle with, the part I can't seem to settle into is contentment.
And so, on a bar on Hotel St. as I poured out my fears and concerns, and wrestled myself to the ground. While my friends watched and did one of two things one should always do when they're confronted with crazy. (They didn't leave, which would be number one.) They did two. Stayed. Held the space. Were there for me. And even though they could have told me I was being irrational, that life will unfold as it will and that I needn't know all the answers right now, they didn't. They let me have my fears, they pushed the table against the metaphorical bugged wall, moved their chairs in closer, and convinced the bartendar to buy me a shot.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
build up
i want to drop my head
my arms
my shoulders
breathe in deeply
exhale
and then just shake.
shake it all out of me.
my arms
my shoulders
breathe in deeply
exhale
and then just shake.
shake it all out of me.
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