The Heart of Life

We all have bad, or off days.
Days when life's constant tug of war wears the enamel right off of us.
Sure the exterior layer which keeps us feeling strong, safe and confident-and worthy of good and abundance- grows back in time. Maybe the enamel doesn't come back for a day, a year, or until you take a vacation or fall in love with an idea, but it always comes back.
We always get bored with feeling bad, just like we all get bored with feeling well.

I have been feeling run-down, and fought a sick-bug during, and now past the weekend. I have been emotional, and vulnerable. I went to work at the bar feeling this way- and suffered the consequences. It's reallllly baaaaaad policy to be a mopey bartender. The customers HATE you for it.

Sometimes, the reassurance of the people around us, the kisses and worried looks from the dogs named Maggie are all that it takes to get through the rough stuff and into the next marvelous adventure, but when it's not enough, there's always the music, for me. There's always the powerful, meaningful, mysterious elixir that is music- medicine taken through the ears and soul.
The song "Silver Lining" reminds me of how my Mother and Papa bear talk to me. How much they hate to see me cry, but love me all the more for my tenderness.




This song, Careful Where You Stand, seems to be a good consonance to the images whirling around in my head lately.
"I feel safe, I feel strong, when I'm with you can I do no wrong
I am cured, when I'm by your side"
That puts a person in a pretty dependent position.
To get a feeling like safety, like "cured" from a person, is like being able to run to a drug to feel "alright".
I am feeling this 'be careful" for someone at this time. I am failing miserably at the "no. no. no...maybe." philosophy I so whole-heartedly embraced at the beginning of my singledom.

The entire time I have been complaining about not being "seen" in the "Casteneda sense of the word", he was not only there seeing me, he was moved in an excited- smitten, if you will, way.
He has been reading my diary through my eyes and adoring every "word" of it since he first watched me futz around, trying to entertain myself- he was there, confusing me and testing my boundaries.
Now, my boundaries against him have crumbled, and I am being altered in the way that only four letter words can seem to alter a person.

But I don't want to be altered.
I don't like the way I feel and act when I feel safe and warm by anyone's side- the way I become a leech. The way I become a big crying, pouting, spoiled child.
Possessively, obsessively devoted to someone is a dangerous thing.
But it seems to the the kind of illogical, passionate, impulsive kind of bullshit that keeps the world spinning 'round. Do I follow Mom's advice here, and just be still- let myself be loved? Do I surrender to what life has to offer, and just pray that he will be better for my untamed heart than the others have been?

I have to remind myself to follow through with things like having patience for the times things don't go my way, like trusting that things from the past won't always repeat themselves in the future.
I really do seem to fall in love every chance I get. At least I tend to learn a lot from being changed and moved by love. One of these days I'll learn my final lesson.

No it won't all go the way it should, but I know the heart of life is good.

Aint There Nothin I Can Take?

I woke up this morning knowing that I was the One who handed a hangover to a few pewny feeling individuals. It was weird. I love the way that behind the bar, more or less completely sober, the crowd is not scary- I don't have panic attacks, I don't feel like I am completely out of place, or ridiculous for being there. I feel confident, and glad to have so much to focus on when things get busy. In fact last night, I felt important; when my supervision was behind the bar with me, it felt like I was some kind of parent- tending to a group of hysterical, sugar high children. "But mo-om! Dad said I could!" and vise-versa. So far, he still does the disciplining. I am working on honing my drunk people instincts so I know when to cut them off and how- after all, I am going to have to be alone in there eventually.

I'm glad the children don't call me in the morning, screaming "DOCTOR! IS THERE NOTHING I CAN TAKE TO RELIEVE THIS BELLY ACHE?" They tipped me really well, so I guess it's the least I can do to answer the phone if they do. I would say, take something to make you sleepy after your drink a gallon of water &/or ginger root, or mint tea and a multi vitimin. I would say take a long nap, and call me in the morning, but not until then! and drink less poison next time you just want to get your buzz and let loose a little.

Watching people's behavior around booze makes me realize that fine line I've been oblivious to- that line between having a good time and taking or doing too much. When under the influence of any drug, be it a noxious substance, a powerful emotion or brain chemical response (like adrenaline), people tend to believe that more is better. We know there is a line, but we don't care, or we want to believe that we can feel better than we already do if we take more.
This makes me appreciate the old school teachings about moderation.

I've been told as often as I am out in public lately, how very "European" I look. One splendid individual even called me "that Russian looking bitch".
I wish someone would enlighten me on how different, visually, people are based on ethnic origins. I mean, I'm not color blind, but all pasty white folks look the same to me.
The Russian reference makes me think of the Baba Yaga stories from Clarissa Estes's Women Who Run With The Wolves, but I assume that not all Russian women look like the beautiful child devouring, cauldron riding, house with chicken legs living in old Crone. Do you see the resemblance?

Anyway, speaking of cauldrons, today I craved beef so I put a chuck roast in the 200 degree oven before coffee shop work.
Threw in bay leaves, a splash of apple cider vinegar, some wine, some various spices, carrot, onion and pepper.
It was delicious and falling apart by four thirty, and there was a flavorful broth in the dish. I can't pass up an opportunity to make several meals from one, so I let the roast cool and ripped off a chunk for stroganoff tomorrow, and chopped up the rest for soup tonight.
Into the broth and beef I added some bean and lentil mix, vegetable juice, some more carrot and onion, some broken up linguine, and I couldn't bring myself to throw away the beautiful carrot tops, so I chopped them up and threw them in! Dried onion, ground mustard, and a smoked chipotle chilli powder seasoned my soup.
The bread is getting stale so I'll enjoy ripping off large chunks and dipping in tonight!
Note: I shouldn't have used dried (unsoaked) beans. I know better. Now I should wait to eat till they are cooked, but there's just no way I'm coming home from cat sitting Willie Nelson and chasing Maggie all over that compound in Oysterville without a ravenous appetite.

And I will leave you with this fun song. A new find and Fave!

Eyes. Diamond Eyes- Doofus!

Cobain wrote "don't read my diary when I'm gone", then he wrote on the same page, below those words "please read my diary." He pleads in messy scrawls, "look through my things, and figure me out."

I don't know why I write, other than that I can relate to that scribble.
I don't know why I write in this format, instead of in a diary, under lock and key, hidden in the laundry pile.

The book "Cobain Unseen" by Charles Cross was at the book shop, as if waiting just for me, when I came back from Olympia. It belonged to a brilliant woman from Oysterville who recently lost her wealth of brains to the un treated damages of multiple strokes. She knew and liked Cross, and collected his every title. I don't really think she cracked this book open at all though. Or maybe she did and the weight of it's contents drove her bonkers. I hope that when I "lose it", my friends and family give my books away too, to book shops and stuffy literature snobs who need to read Hitch Hiker's Guide. I hope they give Winter's Bone to a spoiled brat like I was as a teen, who thinks life is so sad. I hope they give my copy of Island of the Secret Love Nun to a religious Puritan, as sexually frustrated as it's broken manhood-ed main character. I love my books.
I don't love your books, I love my books. I want walls and walls of books- but for them to be mine, I must read them- touch every page, get katsup on some of them, ruin the corners. I hate e-books, oh I loathe Kindle. But if that's for you, that's for you. NBD.
I am terribly off-track.
What was it I was going toward?



The theme of being seen and seeing other people, and what that means to me pops up a lot in my writing lately. The title ,"Unseen", grabbed me by the belly button, and the work of beautiful musings for and about Cobain hasn't let me go since I got back home, to the cold sun on the back porch- I got my tan sitting and reading and looking at the photos in this cool book. Cross wrote that Cobain left his diaries out on coffee tables and sofas. That he often read aloud from them, and encouraged his acquaintances to read from them. He was a collector of the obscure, appreciative and hungry for the constant reminder that things are always a little bit twisted, a little more dark and fucked up than all the good ol' folks around want to admit out loud, hear about or recognize in art, music, writing, etc. I have the sneaking suspicion that Cobain was lovely and fragile like so many of us are- but he grew to hate it more than I care to.



Sure I resent the fragile loveliness I see in myself and others, but I'd rather work hard to keep those parts alive and soft than do nothing about the process of getting hard, and letting the loveliness die. You'd end up soulless, with a chip on your shoulder and nothing interesting to say or do, but always with something to say or do. Hah. You'd be just like Fred.

I was thinking yesterday: when did I become such a sucker for bad love? Was it the separation of my parents? Is it just the fact that I haven't been able to see and handle the anger and frustration of life in general, and it comes out sideways in the form of the people I choose to become attached to, and why.
From the twenty four year old when I was seventeen, whom I got my early puppy-dog eyed training from, or the unattainable spawn of my bookstore friend- the idea of whom is my absolute Dream Boat, the thing I should probably "hold out" for, but what do I know- he has no clue and probably won't ever snuggle up close enough for me to find out, it's all unhealthy, pining and complaining. EMT Boy/Toy, is muuuuuch younger than any guy I've ever accidentally grown accustomed to, and he still got me to assume the pining puppy dog position in an instant! Maybe he didn't mean to, but that has sure my reaction. What a tell.
With Fred, I spent a lot of time looking for reasons to pout, and with him the effing space was overflowing with them- now, did I ever look at that and decide all those reasons to pout may be a sign that this is bad love? Hell no.

My Albanian tongued boss is more sweet to me than Boat even was, and he was the most polite and sweet person with a hose in his pants that I think I have ever met, besides my brother- who is the sultan of sweet.
BUUUt, The word boss, combined with my past all-or-nothing messy way of reacting to outside of the family sweetness from males, combined with some kind of gut feeling that I don't want to all-or-nothing anymore, and I have to break the habit, just makes me want to turn away from the whole concept of partnering up any more, ever, ever again, with anyone until I have known them for twenty years first.

Okay, that was a smidge mellow-drama.

Last night was interesting.
The boys were fun and didn't make me feel uncomfortable at all, which I truly appreciate. Maybe it was just disappointing that we didn't get to see boobies with Frank for his birthday, and had to get pushed around the pool table by Canadians all night at a no-boobies allowed type bar instead, but my mood was not cool, and I growled and scowled all the way home.
I had to try really hard to keep up the appearance that I was not miserable (not due to company! I probably would have been cranky even if I was hanging out with jolly saint effing Nicholas last night, with the toxic black goo for thoughts that I was having)  to the people around me, I'm pretty sure that it had nothing to do with boobies.
It's my expectations, my bad habits when it comes to men, how I "get my kicks", and apparently, also my expectations and misunderstandings involving even little-boy-wanna-be men. Who I truly thought I wouldn't become attached to.

Today is a day for hanging out with maggs, drinking sleep time tea, taking a break from ciggarettes, binge eating a little, and reading a few pages of my beloved books. Today is not a day for being lonely.
Today is my day to exist for myself, and let those wanting to follow do so. But today is not for pining.
Not for feeling shameful.
Not for being judgmental, or for burrowing into my idea of how things are.
Today is for letting things be what they are. I'm remembering the concept of surrender, and my visual is that of  a giant wave covering me in life as I just stand on the beach and surrender.



Please, read my blog.
Go through my things, and figure me out.
Reprogram my brain and make me less lovely,
So that when it doesn't work out, I won't feel enough to care.

Diamond Somehing or Other

After tonight, I miss Dream Boat like I missed my dog and apartment when I was in Olympia.
I am homesick for a Boat I don't even truly know.

I want his small town understanding mixed with his city love for Seattle.
I want his appreciation for the Deftones, and Maynard and music period. Music, not just rap all the damn time or popular radio station country/western, or wtf they call it..
I want his broken heart for his dead father, and I want to know what his father's favorite book is so that I can read it, and understand the quote from it Boat had tattood to his arm.
I want his balld head, atop his tall skinny-but-not-too-skinny body. The way my hands shake when I see him, the way my guts tangle up when I hear a voice mail from him. Just the way I honestly wouldn't change a thing about him is a strange and weird sensation to my critical, defensive/scaredy cat mentality.
I want his intelligence and maturity mixed with his easy going sense of humor in my life.
I want his eyes locked into mine like they were when we shared a chaise and faced each other, cross-legged and squinting past the sun and discussed expression itself.
I want him to see me, in the Don Juan, Casteneda sense of the word.
I want to see him, in any sense of  the word.

I wish my desperation for this practical stranger was anything but desperate.

I feel ashamed for feeling these un-reciprocated things.
But I know that I would always ask of the people around me to feel what they feel- do what's in their hearts to do. Even if that means making ridiculous gifts for people, and bringing cabbage rolls to your boss because if you hadn't, you'd be too embarrassed and ashamed to show up for work after your Jack Daniels shenanigans...
I wish that 20 year old EMT/firefighter stayed the hell out of my life, and I never saw him again after my time with him two exes ago, and all I had to agonize over at this time was Boat and maybe my boss.
But, life goes on, and adds to the complications every other day- so don't blink.

Boat is miles and miles and hours upon hours away.
With no preconceived intentions of ever seeing or speaking to me. Yet, I see his mother everyday that I work at Adelaide's and I think of him every other time I see her. She loves to talk about him.
His intelligence and creativity and artistic craziness keep him far far away, as his social smarts keep him from me when he is here visiting.

I get attention all the time from old timers, but they wouldn't be able to keep up with me, and I need something to look at besides my own birthday suit. There are people like my puppy dog trainer who are sweet at first, but get bored eventually and show that they are too stupid to love me. There are pretty little young things around all the time, but they are looking for the younger chicks, or boys, or tonka trucks, or whatever it is they do these days and wouldn't give me the time of day. There are also one or two males in my life with evident little crushes for me and I don't know what to do with it, nothing about it is tugging my the button like it has before.

Meanwhile, here I am, sea sick, stuck on my Boat.

South of Somewhere

It's just north of July in a sacred place, surrounded in solitude.
It's beauty like the scary starkness of a long dead desert at dusk.
It's lonely and heart break, but it's the sustenance that brings you to another day, which might be different.

Felt good to get home.
Felt good to feel slightly less alone, even if it's just the Ocean keeping me.

Mom says to be still and let myself be loved. I think it's the best advice I've heard in my life, for anyone, anywhere.

Haven't really talked to my left shoulder angel in almost a week, but I'm not taking it personally. There are many things needing painted and photographed, and I am neither.

Saturday morning I awoke with a revelation, "I need to get a bar gig, a server gig. Something that's not in the garden, in the mud, something that's not so lonesome."
A few days of July rain will make folks psychotic faster than four months of February around here.
We are greedy with our sun.
Personally, coming home from the busy city to quiet rain felt just right, thank you!
The creative static from the summer rain made the perfume of ocean park at night amplified, and the compulsion to communicate with living and breathing people overwhelmed and compelled me.
To be seen, to see, to chat with a lonely old stranger at a quiet bar and to reacquaint myself with the bartender there, an old friend- she once told me to stop being such a stranger in my own town, that she would be happy spending time with me even if it meant just watching me knit!
I talked about my plans to take on a few more hours, possibly behind a bar someplace, and what-d-ya know, by early Sunday morning, I had the promise to start training behind his bar this Tuesday!
Early Sunday morning was also filled with the bizzarre sensation of wanting my lonely bed back. I have a terrible weakness for EMT/Firefighters who want to protect me from the big mean DUI writing policemen. This one is ten years younger than the men I've been acquainted with, and knew much more about pouring concrete than acquainting himself with a woman, if you know what I mean.
It wasn't lonely.

It wasn't anywhere near that fantasy of being adored and talked to for months before being worshiped in naked glory like I will always hope for, but it wasn't lonely, and it wasn't not-fun, so that's good.

And I've secured another job, possibly with fantastic tips, and I'm pretty sure the bar will be around a while longer than my beloved Adelaide's.

This Little Room

There is a root, an anchoring force attached to me, when I am in this little room in this little town.

There are people in my life, in this building, due to random events in general- who are so incredibly comforting to be around, who are there because they know me and we want to be connected. My family are incredibly comforting as well, and not because it has always been that way- because we sincerely, love and understand one another. My family sees me more completely than anyone alive. They have not known my best and worst in the way that lovers have, but they have known me to my core, and they love me passionately. and now they are living in a town not so far away, with a lot of neighbors.
If I ever feel completely rootless in this world, I know that within their hearts where ever that is, a strong feeling comes around with thought of me, and that is what makes sense to me in this world, what I crave like water.

This is what makes sense to me.
But my slice of this exists in this place, at this time. It will change.
Nothing matters as much to me as the roles I play in the lives of others and the experience, opportunities, and contentedness that is organic, true connections, but these things always change!
During the past seven years- maggie's life time at least, of my 23 years, I have sheltered this growing root in my personality under romantic relationships, the fragmented and mended relationships with my family, and the phenomenon that is a stranger looking at you long enough, until they say that they know you.

The phenomenon, of becoming connected to a co-worker, a friend of a friend, a fellow hobby-ist, over time without rush, as apparently for the socially stupid, is a painstakingly long journey nearly void of instant gratification. Don't get me wrong, it is also a great many wonderful things, which I love. This phenomena is like water to my root. But it's an over-sheltered, naive, drama queen of a cactus root, and makes due with what she gets. I am comfortable with the pace here. I am attached, I guess, in the worst way.

I think of moving to the place I just ran from, at 60mph most of the way, in terms of some possible love affair.
But my first exposure as a naked faced lone wolf in the Voyeur was cruelly realistic.
The traffic, the sheer number of people, the ego, the importance, the pace- it's just so different, and from this first glance, I am surprised that I am not as evolved, and cool as I thought I was!

Thinking, this must be one of those things that you can't force- you don't just move to a place, no job, no rent.
I need to make a strong, stable, comfortable contact. A job opportunity with housing-? I don't know.
But jumping into the city, not having a friend to behold, thinking that people see and want to see- people just want to be seen, and usually they bring a chosen audience, I had no business being there, it was not the place I belong at all. For now I think the place I belong really is here, in this apartment. With maggie, the stressed out terrier. GEez, she's been through a whole bunch in her lifetime for a house pet.

Something tells me I'm just due to surrender to the disconnected, no-place-in-the-universe-for-me attitude, and be alive here, now, and stop being so intent on why and how and where I make a living.
I just need to focus on being alive. At 23 I've been through a lot, and there's a ways ahead of me, so I think I'm due for a little unglamorous, small time, single life. For the rest of the summer, then I'll know more people, have more money, have more of a sense of how to be a provider.
This tiny ocean village can be my lonely love affair. For now.  

My Little Part

This blog is some kind of little, tiny shadow in the google world.
I know that the few can directly access it.
I know it's little.

May I draw a cave here?
May I say my love died last month?
Here, I can tell you.

Everything I see I see with him in the memory, and in the hope of the future.
I thought I understood, by now, at the depths of me, that it is over and done with, forever, and that its a good thing.
But I still dream every night with his face, or hands, or grasp somehow involved. He is everywhere out of perhaps nothing more than habit, as far as I can tell, and this was only one year spent of how many in a lifetime?

I experience a new kind of cry, this night. It's the fountain from my youth but there is no snot or screaming or choking.

I forced myself out, into public tonight. By two p.m., halfway through my shift, I was sick of being sad, mad about it. I fought back tears for three hours today at the coffee shop, the likes of which I haven't experienced since during my year of strong, bad love with the man in the long black coat.
I forced myself to the booze which I thought was too strong for me, had to much power over me, but I found that weakness is not my excuse- there is no excuse,. I had the control to order drinks slowly, to drink plenty of water, to be composed- completely. I was myself, and everything went great, I am surprised; before, during, and after the drunk wore off.
I was even cool enough to decide at a still half-to-midnight to continue my water binge and excuse myself on-a-count-a I know my limits, and John's cousins came in to the establishment. (They use to be my nemesis, kind of.)
Fucking de ja fuckin something.
I forced myself into social uncertainty. I made a few friends, which I only have that one bar in common with...so...yeah. But I did the social thing just fine. I knew a few of the same people as the other people, I was enchanting, and met everyone in the room. None of it triggered war visions.
This I found to be satisfying as on my way home, from oh-so-far away in the middle of the night, the police officers pulled over, and ticketed several not me people, and I got home, safe and sobbing to my beautiful, amazing, kissy MAGGIE DOG.

Get off This!

My little tinker toy brain is skipping like a record!
The pattern of the mood swing/ war flashback starts with a trigger and ends with an ah-ha moment.
In between, there is a frantic desire to rip off my skin and run away from it, and just be nasty and raw for a while.
He's gone, and I still have this nasty pattern in my life! I wish people could be warned, that they could
understand how careful they need to be about who they spend their time with. Granted, we grow up in family units comprised of folks who may not be the most healthy individuals for our development, and we can't do a damn thing about it. That doesn't mean we have to put anyone in our lives, just because they are pretty, and sound good when they speak.
It looked so good on paper.

Past few days, I've been obsessing about my cursed fourth of july habit.
I wrote Boat an email out of my embarrassment, out of my craving for positive attention- oh won't someone tell me I'm not the SCUM I think I am! I also asked about this and that, informed him that I'd be visiting my folks near his town, so he should probably hide behind a thick sturdy door. He never did respond, and I wish he would, if for no reason other than to be acknowledged.
I liked that he called at three am, just to be polite.
Now, he's too freaked out, bored, busy, or uninterested to respond. That's okay- I do know that it's not his responsibility to acknowledge me, to fluff me up. That's the whole point, I crave fluffment more than a grown ass woman ought to.

Maybe I should send my nemises a care package of spagetti-os.
Maybe I should just learn to live with the fact that maybe I really won't function properly because I'm not enough like her. Find a way to enjoy my crooked edges, and hide under rocks instead of venture out to where she or fred might be. Woo-hoo, fuck.
Not

Charity and Minus

When Minus becomes awake once again, early, in the morning-most hours, you would think him a cyborg.
He seems programmed for awakeness, for success and composure!
He is drawn from the bed as a four year old is drawn to a half melted waffle cone, two scoops!
According to Minus, coffee is welcomed, though not necessarily required, and he enjoyed a light snack in between waking up time and the next thing. Some days, Minus even took off without the need for fuel at all! The fullness in being alive, awake! took him from start to the end, of the day and everything there is to say about him, and usually at a decent time!

Charity, however, keeps his eyes closed well after he has lost that long black veil of sleep, and prays that it will come back. There is always a responsible reason to egg him out of bed, though. And he does comply.

Every step is labored, every thought drenched in fifteen different facets of query and perception, intentions and reactions, lessons learning, lessons learned- test! Always a test, everyday a test, to Charity. The following day being the grade, but also, another test. Maybe it was karma, or maybe he was as neurotic as a Woody Allen character- but Charity noticed the way things balanced out. He paid note to the connections between his actions and the circumstances he navigated.
Coffee is welcomed, and requested. Then again, so are so many things, for Charity is never satisfied.




I want to get to know people, be a round peg in a round hole, and belong with a crowd brought together in a socially organic manner while still being and independent and confident member of society? What is it like to feel like you have done that right?
Like, all right. With a circle around it...
Don't get me wrong, I have my moments, but they shatter.
How do people keep control of that good moment-mode, knowing that they are important and interesting and insignificant at the same time with out anyone expressing it (unless they want to get laid) and still keep a straight face?

People rarely speak directly about what is or is not significant.
Why things are or are not what they may or may not seem to be.
We don't express ourselves fully, due to some kind of commitment to propriety, or acceptability- or just because folks have to behave a certain way in order to attract one another or not.
Just another biological brain fart from the heavens.

I listened to my self sing and play the guitar on a recording which was made a few days ago in the coffee shop. I was surprised at how different my voice sounded on the recording than it does in my head.
I can already see parts I need to re learn and I understand how I will need to improve, now that I have listened to it from a different perspective.
Something tells me that this will be an ongoing, long term hobby!
Hearing my singing was strange, but hearing my speech was bizarre! The phrasing I use, the tones, the rhythm, everything is weirdly not what I hear in my head. I sounded so proper, so fragile and lovely.
For the first time I realized since sis coined the term that I don't know if I want people to know about that.
Maybe I should work on changing my speech voice too. Even the way I speak is unsure, powerless, fragile, and lovely.
I don't like it.

I bet people don't talk about what's really significant because they have no fucking clue, and there are some who are interested in wondering, and those who are interested in adapting, screwing and evolving through this biological chemical reaction that is the Sick Significant ride we call Life.
(as in get a life, or live life to the fullest.)
 

Family Recipe

Yesterday Maggie and I drove home in the morning sun from a very peaceful fourth of July in Naselle.

The time spent with my sister was much needed, and I felt like running there after work instead of driving!
She is so good to me, and good for me to be around.

When we reached the windy peninsula, a thought occurred to me: Cook!
So I wandered into the store for supplies and it also occurred to me that at nine a.m. the obnoxious Fourth Crazies were already taking off, and good riddance!

I discovered that it is perfectly acceptable to cook up a rich, soupy sauce and dump it in a casserole of uncooked pasta, and bake it! So, I decided to give it a try. I used white sauce and accidentally bought quick cook pasta, I don't know which was the culprit but the dish turned out a little gummy, but still perfectly acceptable!

I have been craving apricots like crazy, as well as Aunt's Rhubarb bars, but missed out on the rhubarb, so I decided to make an apricot and apple tart with the recipe- I found out that I do not own measuring cups anymore. Guess I lost them in the divorce. Ha-ha.

This is my view of Maggie in the morning, from my bed. It is a cheerful sight, to wake up, and see her flat on her back, enjoying the sofa!
I woke up, vainly wishing for the feel of skin instead of sheets for the Nth time since the world ended.
It is an interesting emotion. It's a little creepy, a little sad, but there's something good in it- like I know I'm still alive. There is so much to look forward to.
My sister tells me that I shouldn't say mean things about myself, I am not in the wrong, and that I am fragile and lovely. This makes me feel good- reminds me that I will of course, bump into love again, that it will be good. It will happen when I am glowing and happy and it will SHINE!
And it will beat the pants off fancy linen sheets.
Until then, I am saving up for a set!

There's an Angel just over my left shoulder

These photos were taken by a very good friend of mine.
It's art- and it's ME!

Sometimes we all need to be reminded that we are ART!
Unlike photographic art however, we are rarely ever stationary, and never complete!

I Wish your Mother

That stupid boat of dreams.
What a Joke!

I wish His mother could anonymously receive a recording of the evening!

I wish I could, too.

What the fucking FUCK happened?

I left. That's for sure.

My Nemesis showed up at my TEST hang out with dream boat, and I effing left, after three or so hours, thank you very MUCH.
and then came back because I left my goddamn phone!
But I'm not dead, even though I feel like I should be, once a fuggin'gain.

I swear, to this second, I swear- she is a fugging wonderful person and exceptionally socially appropriate, and female- ary - domesticat-ical...
BWAHAHAHHA.

Sorry.... I can't help it... I CANT TAKE HER SERIOUSLY
 I can't make her make sense- I can't make this socially condensed situation make sense and it drives me nuts!

Pick it up, and start again, I suppose.

P.s. I made poached eggs over fried ham and flat bread for breakfast today, covered in homemade cream-of-asparagus soup from my co-worker, and it was FABULOUS!

So was my walk with maggie, when I had to un-tie the plastic bag and pick up  a second poop, because she has been too terrified to poop normally.
Thanks, Tourists!!

She Can Not Live in The Grove of Ancient Cedars

Papa Bear kayaked my ass across the willapa, to the Island where whe ancient cedars grow, maybe, two summers ago. The air was hot and sweet on the island. There was no road-noise, or drunk squealing ladies, no bass tudding through the floor boards of any P.O.S. automobiles and/or houses.
Things left evidence of their presence- big, beautiful, scary things- like bears clawing the fine bark from the trunks of young cedars and pine, like big cats shedding their fur and leaving it in clumps.
Giant bull elk are so graceful despite their size, as they bend long strong necks to drink from the clean body of water. So much is left in it's right state around the protected cedars.

Lately I've been fighting with myself about the idea of relationships. It seems that in an intimate, romantic relationship, the pretense of social behavior sort of drops out, and the people involved relax and feel more like they can be themselves. At least I do.
In social situations, I just try to be polite. That's what I know how to do.
Reading queues, joining in on that 'giving you a hard time' catty banter- both fly right over my damn head.
I want to live in the special place in someone's heart, where things are untouched like on the island, by social stratus. But, I simply can not. There is no relationship worth climbing into that is not built on friendship, which is a bloody stupid social condition.
It is strange, that a person would have so much more difficulty developing social relationships than developing romantic ones, seeing as how there is always so very much more at stake in the later.

So-and-so is in town visiting, and I requested of him that I be allowed to pick his brain. (what a disgusting expression, by the way.) There is this chaotic flapping of bird wings going on inside of me, he is too good looking and talented, and experienced in some interesting things for me to not wake up in a cold sweat some mornings when I've let my brain wander- or have a fit of shaky-hands when I see him. But I assure myself, this is a social affair. His good-lookin makes things more difficult, but not impossible.
It's like a placement test, can I read the queues, be polite, and involved enough to interact with this tall, square jawed dream-boat?
So far, I have sent him text messages when I probably shouldn't- but I'm not too worried about it, they didn't say anything particularly bizarre or desperate, but that's about it. I'm keeping my mouth shut and expectations-if not low, as minimal as I possibly can. I figure, the dude is cool, I know his mother, we are bound to run into each other or meet again in the fall/winter when I wander toward the Puget Sound area, but if not, there are plenty of fishes for me to school with in that River.

P.S. The 'sort' of folks who come to this beautiful, magical, amazing wonderland of sand and pine- to litter it, to get and stay drunk all week so they can squeal, laugh, yell useless bullshit into the windows of my apartment, to blow up the sky till four in the morning- these people- SCUM OF THE EARTH. and I hope they all die in some horrific traffic accident on their way back to where they came from.
Don't mind the door hitting ya on yer way out!

Ouroboros

The ouroboros is one of those symbols of some concept which is relevant to humankind in different times, and countries. India, Mexico, Greece, Egypt all have a version of the serpent eating it's tail.
The concept is the hungry nature of life- that creative cycle we can not escape.

Three or four days have gone down the drain under a cloud of despair. That familiar feeling, I've known since childhood. It's never so acute as to be able to name it, other than despair.
There is no I feel sad "because", or I would feel better "if"- when this creeps in, it creeps back out on it's own watch. Generally, there is some reinvention happening in the deepest currents of my consciousness, and I am aware of it only at the tail end of the ordeal, when there is a break in the clouds- a very definite "ah-ha" moment happens.
Whether it's an insignificant whiff of honeysuckle and roses caught heavy on the breeze, or a clear idea, concept, answer! The break in the clouds comes, with or with out trigger, and if a person's breathing could be emotionalized, then that would be the closest thing I can compare it to:
i can breathe again.
The despair comes in dressed in shadow, holds my head under the surface of the River, till I think I'll never make it back out, then is gone so fast as to make me think it was all in my damn head.

I'm trying to listen to my gut.
I think it's telling me to figure out how important it is that I meander and wander, alone- not lonely.
There is another leg of the individuation process underway, and I know better than to whine about the unpleasant feelings it tends to stir.

The Ouroboros and it's hunger for it's own existence, it's cyclic nature- just makes so much sense out of many angles of this life.
With every day lived, another goes toward the grave.
The nourishment of our bodies paves the way to the death of our souls.
Our nature is to dwell on the parts of our selves which we feel should be changed, while the parts which are changed all the time tend to go unnoticed.

My romantic relationships, and friendships, have had a bit of Ouroboros about them.
Usually the things I want so badly in the beginning of a relationship, like provocative conversation, intimate awareness, touch, laughter, support- falter in and out of the relationship like the sub-particles which make up matter flash in and out of existence, and this has not bothered me so much as it does now.
I have compromised the quality of the relationship, because I have been too grateful to have the relationship.
I need to understand the importance of calling things by their real names.
I need to start figuring out how to get to know people slowly, let time build the relationships of my life, instead of my dumb young ass.
The relationship is there, but to let it go on living in the toxicity of the unquenchable hunger for more, is to let the fucking thing just rot. There is nothing wrong with knowing when the relationship isn't what we'd hoped, our thought, knowing when to walk away, let go, keep on.
Life is too short, to be touched without emotion being expressed, to be conversed with but not heard, to laugh without smiling.
   

Same Damn Thing, Different Weather

So, there's the River that is the physical, powerful body of life and the universe and everything.
Within and around that river, there are biological beings- plants, fishes, slimy salamanders, birdieses, and of course all manner of exo-skeletal-ed bug/craw fish type gizmos- these are "us" as well as "them".
Well, on top of  and all around and in between, there is the Weather, the emotional/spiritual/energizing invisible but very affecting and utterly non-controllable spin that is put on things in and around the River.

You feed yourself the good, right stuff, you take yourself out for exercise, and you give yourself plenty of sleep, and you should, in theory, grow up to be a big beautiful...something.
However, some time's of the "year" in and around the River, the weather is not, shall we say, the very most conducive to pretty little poppies or begonias. The weather can be devastating, and if you aren't resistant, if you are not adaptable- if you do not figure out a way to store water for the dry, windy days, and hunker down and hold on to something during the flood days, you will be gone in the blink of an eye, absorbed into the scenery- made use of in some other way.

I've been feeling the weather.
Some storm is raging somewhere, I just know it. Hopefully it's not one of those internal storms when left un tended leaves a big mess which comes out sideways later. I've been trying to accept the internal atmospheric fluctuations of life on the River. I find it is easier to accept early on and ask questions later.
I scowl sometimes while I walk Maggs, thinking about "okay, well, that didn't kill me. In fact, its been good." But scowl on, "What now?"

This, that, the other aren't making sense, aren't "clicking", such and such just doesn't feel right- something over there is coming up and I don't understand just what the flying fuck I'm suppose to do other than stand around with a shovel/trowel/cup-o-joe/broom in my hands till I can't not react to it.

In nature, the hawk swoops, kills, eats, preens, poops, preens.
In the River, human interaction is clumsy, slow- clueless even to the best of us.
The thing that never changes is the fact that nobody can know another's heart. We just have to focus on the changes in our own, prepare for foul weather, enjoy the breaks in the rain.
Try and share our own truth, it's the only way we will truly know if anyone out there understands or appreciates "it", or a similar analogy to our truth.
We can not peer deeply or patiently enough, into the River, to find the answers to the questions which come from our hearts.
Sometimes we attract sturdy old beach pines to shelter us, rattly snakes to hide in our bushy twigs, and we aren't as vulnerable to the storms, or at least, we aren't alone in our awkward vulnerability.

Bookie

I've been reading this book, Female Chauvinist Pigs by Ariel Levy, and let me tell you!

"Women and the rise of raunch culture" pretty much sums it up, only there's so much I want to say about it!

The feminist movement was about equality in colleges, the work place, society- but for me, it's also about underlining the powerful truths that are the differences between men and women, that they make women not less, but greater in suffrage, in the responsibility to give birth, along with our equal if not greater ability to achieve the same professional, academic goals as our male counterparts. Feminism to me, was/is about our right to individualism as human beings, not individual as only women, separate from the rest of society.

This book so far (I"m in 93 pages of 200) is rubbing our noses in the spectacle of raunch culture, and the so called feminists who've spawned it in the name of women!
There are women out there claiming full-heartedly that women choosing to strip, be involved in porn, live "male-ishly promiscuous" lifestyles, do so in the name of feminism. Somehow, we've taken a concept like the right for women to be taken seriously as human beings with our male peers, and turned it into some sexual revolution. Be aware, as Susan Brownmiller is quoted, "you think you are being brave, you think you are being sexy, you think you are transcending feminism. But that's bullshit."
Just because it's our idea to objectify ourselves, it's okay?
REALLY?
Shame on you, I say!

I am realizing that my role as a woman has been bashed and bent by a male's idea since I was sixteen, wanting nothing more, or less, than a marriage like relationship to be part of.
I am living a more developmentally appropriate lifestyle than I have, EVER. I am probably feeling so damn good, because I am not going against the grain of who I really know I am, have always known. I am not staring agape at some male counterpart, ready to be made whole. I am looking at ME, at all I've been through, and I am taking myself seriously for the first time.
My desire to be the sexual plaything of my male peers has come from something so not sexual, and I can only hope that my female peers find this out for themselves sooner than later.
 

The You Set Me on Fire Blues

Things have been really good.
Really Really good.

I had been noticing that feeling of looking over one's shoulder, waiting for the shoe to drop, so to speak- things have been going so well.
I've felt like that person I knew I was supposed to love and appreciate, but didn't feel authentically enough like to truly adore. There she is, I keep saying.

But what was I thinking, for so long, so dearly, so truly loving that man? What business did I ever think I had in his life?
I must remind myself, it all started the night he shoved my feelings under the rug he shagged braceface on- last fourth of july. Every female friend he had either gave him money/work, or at one time was his fun bag.
The chip on that guy's shoulder was monumental.
He was monumental, to me, for whatever reason- I can't recall at this time.
At this time, I see clearly a flood of the way he really was, how toxic he was for me- his little pals were never so invested and hopelessly devoted to him to get to see it, and I can't help but see these deep character flaws in my own self for having been so devoted.
Having been so very, very weak- so self destructive, that I was so ready and willing to murder myself for not living up to his expectations of  not even what I should be, but even worse, that I should be this generic box definition of what a good woman should be.
I thought I was fighting for a relationship, a lasting love- but now I see more clearly every damn day, I was fighting him, just him. He was good for fighting with, I loved so dearly, to hate him, and to belittle myself next to him.

I shudder.
I'm glad he publicly demoralized me that night at the bar with his dear friends, and came home to cut me loose.
I am glad it didn't drag on any longer.
I am glad the people he associates with, the ones who judge, the ones who follow in shallow single dimensional-ism, believe his crude A.D.D. illusions about human behavior, my behavior. I am glad that they listen to him- this way, I can hope, they won't touch me with a ten foot pole.
It's a good way to weed out the vampires.

Meaning Without Belief

I have spent many a day, of the admittedly few "under my belt", studying and trying to live the lifestyle of several different religious type "walks". The structure, and community of such organizations becomes the whole point of the thing before too  long, and the doctrine, the teachings, the wisdom which the congregation exists to pay attention to becomes some white elephant in the room.
That's the right expression, isn't it? The big, huge deal- which we all try not to notice.
I usually go to a sermon or whatever they call it in whichever church or gathering place, seeking something spiritual, something wise and old and huge like a blanket which drapes over generation and culture- wind up leaving, feeling nasty about the human race.

I also have to question my motives when my mind wanders toward the altar.
This time around, I think the appeal, as it was even when I was too young to have really ever done much to feel relatively repentant over, is a good guilt trip. I have always sought a good moral wringing out during times of discomfort and misunderstanding. I have always looked for an answer in the places which first require a person to prostrate themselves and bellow from deep down, I am wrong, I am bad, I am not okay as I am.
What a very powerful thing. and it does cover over generations, cultures- but is that the idea the belief, these practices really intend one to focus on?

Lately I've remembered kindly the sense of community, and the sense of betterment a choice few individuals within congregations. I look to the other side of the spectrum, and see tattooed, chewed up and spit out belief-less souls, and I still find congregation, community and a few choice individuals bent on being/getting better. I have been trying, and not noticing that the love I shared with somebody was not a big enough blanket to cover the complications and differences we brought together between us. I had prayed, meditated, wrote my wishes, feelings, confusions, admittedly messed up accusations onto paper and burned them, published them anonymously on the internet so strangers could critique them for me, buried them in jars of water and lilac in the dirt! All sorts of ritualistic devaluing of my being- my personal development, went into the relationship. So many things to try to make sense of, make excuses for, feel terribly about.

I could follow my old pattern and try relentlessly to string them all together with the needle of some God somewhere, some karmic past life direction, some sort of fate or destiny. But that shit is exhausting. There is never enough wisdom or knowledge in a single person, and when a person thinks they have done "right", there is always another person standing over them, criticizing, correcting or making suggestions.
Not that there is anything wrong with people thinking, or rather, knowing, they are wrong. Knock yourselves out. However, I think biologically, we have a natural tendency to contain a boundless intuition, which needs to be developed and trusted. In a natural state of balance to an individual's survival, there is contentment- there is peace. So often this search for peace rakes people over the coals of their own fear and hatred- leaves them a bit humbled but deeply ruined.

The Deftones "passenger" plays for me on jango. The music by the deftones is something I regularly visit, but have never really consistently explored. It's not happy, thoughful- it's mindbendingly thoughtful, and so brutally honest it's cruel, but somehow extravagantly beautiful to me.
A Perfect Circle, Nine Inch Nails, The Deftones. I like this kind of creative spark. This music is to aggressive to be pleasant, but it is incredibly inspiring and moving.
Dylan's voice is too coarse to be pretty, but it's beautiful just the same.

Early in the Morning

Little rooster crowing, must be something on his mind!

Since changing up my whole existence (okay that's an exaggeration and I know it!), I have been waking up at 6:40am despite how late I stay up, reading and watching movies, avoiding the lonesomeness of my new bed.
Maggie sure appreciates the early mornings, I like knowing that she is comfortably relieved even before I am awake enough to worry about it.
This little routine we are getting into suits me just fine. My fuzzy-wuzzy widdle girl dog likes her place in this world to be anywhere, so long as she is close to me and so far we have been able to do that.
She comes to work with me and is learning the rule about no doggies in the coffee part of the shop fairly quickly, however her terrier-ness invokes a bashful forgetfulness now and again, as she can't seem to help herself- she feels that she must greet and 'check out' the customers as they enter. Once things become too busy, we will have to start leaving her upstairs during my shift- I am nervous about that. This doggie throws a fit just about exactly the same way I do!

Yesterday was my 23rd birthday, the full moon, the fourth night on my own, the hopeful doc appointment, the yummy exotic dinner, and over all a very very good day.
I took my car to the shop after first pooping my dog at the brisk beach, in the brisk morning.
Found out that my Yoshi car needs a shoe replacement of some sort. The man at the shop is incredibly- I don't know, good. Good at his job, good at listening, good at communication. It will be affordable to fix, and he will have it fixed quickly. I wonder if he has daughters, the way he had dealt with me.
Then it was time to lay out an outfit for Indian food dinner with the Ya-ya's of Adelaide's, my bathing suit for the post yard labor-pre supper sauna and spa, maggie's away bag for her day with my lovely brother Allen- much preparation was required, much baggage was toted from stop to stop, but all was worth it in the end.

The doctor explained to me her experience with people whom are chemically imbalanced from the get go. As babies they tend to display depressed behavior, are particularly moody, as children they ditch their birthdays, as they become older they learn to cope but develop triggers and weak points, teens flake out, become bored with school- as young adults they struggle to keep focused on their life path, by the time they are in their mid twenties, they tend to begin to notice the patterns of ups and downs, the confusing clash of their good intentions and failures. Any how, for women, the hormonal chemicals associated with menstruation can be manipulated in such a way as to take the edge off of the up and down cycle, and more "naturally" encourage the chemicals in the brain to re-balance.
So today, I am going to fill a prescription for Seasonale and take my first dose this evening before bed, so that I do not have to deal with chemically induced morning sickness which will ensue until I adjust. Bleh.
But it is a new approach to the same old problem, and I am keeping an open mind, hopeful heart!

The yard work with Lenane was wonderful! I forgot which Fred how good I really am at it- not to his fault, it was just always a power struggle with him, or maybe I should just say it was more complicated to go out with him. Lenane and I get to have conversations with multidimensional undercurrents and understanding even when blissfully stirred by the gentle discombobulation of the herb.
In the spa afterward, the conversation became even more rich, but I noticed that unlike the time I've spent with women my age (and just fine and dandy, they have been) I didn't grow exhausted my her presence.
Dinner was a little exhausting as the underlying power struggle of folks around me makes no sense and crowds out the possibility for a simply good time, but none the less, the ya-yas behaved for the most part and we all left with smiles, kisses, hugs, and full bellies.
Astoria's waterfront marine drive got a little bare in the past few years. Shops emptied with the coming of the recession, so the bark windows between the few remaining shops made the street look like a toofless grin. Himani is a mother-and-sons owned restaurant- very beautifully decorated- especially when the young son is visible! I am very glad to see the shops start to fill back in.
Ethnic food, as I guess it can be referred as, Thai, Indian, Bosnian- are all so unbelievably flavorful without a lot of fat, or expensive ingredients. The food traditions have been developing for ages, practiced and perfected using the resources at hand through drought, famine, disease and are so unique to their own culture.
Reading Shantram piqued my interests about Indian cuisine, reading words like naan, masala, imagining how in the hell lentils and garbanzo beans could possibly be forced to be delicious.
How is it that you hardly see an obese indian person, though so much of their food is rich with butter, cream, carbohydrates?

This year I received a few cards, the cards from my grandmother are always elegantly beautiful- so I have one pretty card on my tv, surrounded by one on either side depicting funny babies. It's a good reminder of  how I am getting up there, have a couple decades under my belt, I am still very much an overgrown baby in the scheme of things. I feel as young as ever, maybe just a little more steady, a little more patient, a little less prone to cycle and circle pain and pleasure like I used to. But still very young, fearful and in awe of the big bad world "out there" but hungry for it, infatuated by the idea of it more and more so every day.

Shop Girl

I have moved my life into the apartment above Adelaide's, the 1800's built, historic Taylor House.

There is so much history here, if these walls could talk they would have so much to say.
I feel at home, at peace here.

The break from my lover has been a good thing.
I have never lived alone, felt the security and serenity of my own domain. I have never needed to reach out to non-romantic relationships for support. I have never had to only cook, clean, think, schedule for one.
I have never had to sleep in a place, far away from family or lover through the night without promise that eventually one would be there with me again. My moods have always received comments from the people I live with, and so often those comments are misunderstood, judgmental, though well meant.

The spikes of "happy chemicals" came from others, and I  have been shown a tendency of mine to leech, to depend on like nourishment these relationships for the balance of love and respect in my heart.
I have been shown that I am strong, and I am responsible for my moods, my actions, my inter-actions. That no other person should ever have the power to "make me feel" anything.
These things, as well as so many other intimately intertwined themes or truths of life, are things I have ran from. These lessons I have not learned, this responsibility I have not taken, manifests in mood swings, suicidal depression, hatred toward the person/people I some to rely on for so much, rage at my embarrassing moments and failures, at my short comings.
I am seeing a doc about these bad things, and the words I've heard from so many important people in my life keep ringing through my brain: "Ali, there's nothing wrong with you that you need medicine for, you just need to change your thinking, to change your behavior."
Mom and Papa Bear can tell you, have told me, that since I was able to express a bad attitude, I have.
Good attitudes too, but my spotted memory is refreshed when they talk about my high highs, and low lows, and how I go from one to another in the blip of a comment, gesture, or idea.
I have also been told that I am intelligent, loving, funny, and hard working (that last one has an on and off switch).
I have to consider the possibility that I was born, or was pre-disposed so from early on developed, imbalanced neuro-pathways, or chemical tides, or whatever they call them.
I know that this life change is for the best, and that I am on the right track.
However, as an insurance policy for the skin on my wrists, I am going to go on meds, so poo on you all who think that I just need to buck the heck up!
It will hopefully not take the five years docs and I spent on an unsuccessful voyage to find "the right one"  before my year and two months of this unmedicated horror movie to find something that works, and that I can afford.

Things in the not so far reaches of my mind include but are not limited to ;)
I become a student! (Imagine all of the people I can meet! Practice making and KEEPING friends!)
I save money to follow my family to Olympia!
Don't run back to Him- stay in the care of myself and my friends and my family until I have mastered responsibility, so I can repay someone for the pleasure I receive from having them in my life.

Things to force into the Front of my mind:
I have knitting fun with my sister, and make time to go to groups where knitters knit!
Sit in the Spa with Lenane!
Garden for fun and for money, now that I won't get to garden fun my own garden.
Take maggie for hikes in the hills, long long walks on the beach and in my cool new neighborhood.
MEET NEW PEOPLE.
Volunteer, help people- make time for this instead of drawing energy to cook, clean, resent, confuse, be ashamed.
Save money, now that I have learned how!
I won't be missing the family reunions this year, because I won't have to dance around the business of anyone else! And, I will have clear head space, a full heart, and attention to give to my family- which I have always wanted to do, but have been too distracted to take initiative and do!

I will need to start changing the way I cook, the way I think about cooking and shopping for groceries. But I know that I have fantastic resources in my family and friends to so that.
I will need to take care to stay busy- and when all else fails for entertainment, work= money and that's sure not bad!

Anyway, to my few followers, I just wanted to play on the computer and let you know about what's going on.
Sending love into the Web-
ALI

Crescent Waxing Moon

The Moon, and sun and our relationship to them have been obsessions to the human race since before the wonderings and findings could be painted on the walls of our first dwellings.
As a time obsessed culture, folks can now decipher and study the oldest studies and tell us the primitive conclusions and beliefs of our ancestors. Now-a-days, people can decipher more technologically advanced figures and findings about our planet, the moon and the sun.
Available to us are the exact exposure of the moon at any given time according to the earth, the axis of the earth and the moon, the approximate age of the sun, as well as the approximate outcome of the sun's ending life cycle and the impact it would have on the entire galaxy in which we exist.

As a woman, I can say that I have recognized the cyclical nature of my emotional/physical body as a monthly phenomenon. I have always been aware of the moon's monthly cycle, but gave it no mind until I experienced life with a fisherman, whose schedule hinged upon the mood swing of the moon through the sky.
I realized that the tides are affected by the angle of the moon in relationship to the sun, the earth.
I started reading about optimal planting times for seeds and tubers and starts and woody plants according to the phase of the moon. As this awareness grew, I noticed that certain patterns occurred during the month, concerning my vulnerability to the negatives in the day, more sensitive to the feelings and positions being expressed to me during the same times of, not the  month, but during certain times when the light of the moon is scarce.

This has been an interest of mine, but certainly not a definite belief or path.
But I have done some reading and talking, and after figuring out that the human brain is close to 80% water, that sex hormones are water soluble, and that the synthetic hormones in birth control inhibit ovulation and "fool" the brain into thinking it's body is pregnant, as the doctors say- I found that the body actually goes into a form of temporary menopause, where the moon is still affective, though in different way- I have come to pay attention to the moon, as it changes, so do I. And that is okay.

My cycle starts with the waxing moon. This is generally a time of tug of war between what I feel and what I want to be feeling.
Times of the full moon tend to be good times for revelation, clarity and confidence.
The waning moon reminds me that ovulation occurred, sometime, and I tend to feel run down and negative.
With the New moon, I tend to draw inward, become more contemplative and find it more necessary but less easy to spend time alone.

The crazy witch people- the pagans, have kept the primitive wonderings alive.
The waxing moon is associated with a Maiden Archetype,
The full moon is associated with the Mother Archetype,
The waning moon is associated with the Crone Archetype,
The full moon is associated with the Enchantress Archetype.

All very interesting.   

Maybe I have lived here for too long.
Yesterday, for four hours I was jumped by a throng of strangers, all so uninterested and needy, or interested yet plainly unaware of what is going on around them.
Vacationers, O I despise you.

You crowd my counter with your elbows and eyeballs, you dance from foot to foot as you impatiently wait for the string of five orders you bark at me, you glare at and judge the people in line with you, you feel entitled to more baristas in the room so that you don't have to live in the same sense of time as the "locals" here do.
You lean in close to my face as if I have any reason to give a good goddamn and say to me, enchanted with the sound of your own voice, make me a cappuccino, a little on the dry side.

The first wound comes when they frown at me and ask where Lenane is. Well, DitchWitch, she went home when my shift started. FOOOCK. Didn't their mothers or the bear whom they were raised by ever tell them how RUDE that is?

Anyway, yesterday I discovered that I genuinely hate people in general.
And sorry, but lofty pregnant bellies, or those mothers with squealers strapped to their bodies, always acting like I should greet the gremlin too, or comment on how cute it is are my absolute least favorite.
Well, no, I do not think it is cute- I think it is a mini you, entitled to all the consumption and pollution the world has to offer. Good for you, you got knocked up. I swear breeding has taken on a feel of fadishness now that we have so many fancy methods of contraception. Like it's some blessing in the eyes of anyone but the overproud mother when another child is pooped out... come on, we can be honest, its 2011.

Creeps.
My paycheck sucks whether I make more coffee or less coffee. You can shove your dirty mean tip money in your rear.
My boss loves them all like they are her children.
She told me how to educate and barrate them as they order, telling them a double americano is too weak for a 16 oz cup. Really yndy? You don't think these helpless morons have ever ordered coffee before? You don't think that they know what they like? Even if they don't know what they are doing, you really think they want to be pushed around like that?
Maybe there is some kind of upper hand to be had, and I have to be pushy, obnoxious and entertaining. Outgoing, I think they call it.
Ah fuck.
I make good espresso.
I am not Steve Martin, or Big Bird- I do not sing and dance, I do not want to know your favorite movie or your child's favorite color.
Just tell me how you like your coffee, if you like it where the sun don't shine, I'd be happy to make that happen for you.

I dreamed that Bones was being chased by a child on a four wheeler, cornered into tight places to be ran over. I tried to keep him inside. Fred doesn't seem to care that these aliens don't understand the concept of a loved, indoor-out door pet cat. They probably stole Tibbs, or ran him over, thinking these streets are paved just for their SUV.
My dogs don't listen to me, so I have to chase them down and drag them back home by their collars, forced to chit chat and fake smile at the part time neighbors. I hate that.
I would rather forage the beach approach for washed up seal ass than share a grocery store with these folk.

So here we are, it's almost six am.
If you know me, you know that the only reason I am ever alive this early lay in some form of emotional tempest. Now I get to spend an extra three hours dreading the noon hour, which will be the first time I have ever dreaded going to my new job. hmmm.

Writing it all down is perhaps therapeutic to me, I am sure it is lame and negative to anyone happening upon it.
But this is not one of the situations when I feel fire is necessary. (Times when I need to write secret or very personal things, I light a big fire and burn the writing, also therapeutic for moi.)
This is one of those times, I hope the wiser ones can look back on their past and laugh a little, and relate.
I also really really really hope that somebody stranger to me reads this and is offended, hurt and compelled by this, as would complete the cycle of feeling and saying and doing mean things. What?

Mean things are part of the balance. Some damn things are mean without ever suppose-to being mean in the first place... if you follow.
Variety is the spice, my loves.
When I am in the proximity and sort of relationship with a person, when I like a person, and they are honestly just good and pissed off- spewing negative vibes and all this- I am interested, I show that I care.
I'm not saying that it is something I can keep up with if someone I care about is always good and angry, but with a good mix of other such emotions, anger can draw from yourself- or the folks around you all sorts of reactions, gestures, an over all expansion of awareness and understanding.
I have to focus on keeping my mean within the bounds of a cycle, and not one of those slinky coil thinga-ma-bobs. A person has to be creative sometimes, in order to keep the variety of things well balanced.

It's kind of a big deal, for a person to hate their job, so I am going to really try to think about just how much energy I can put into it. If I can't do a really good job of hating my job, I have no business hating my job, and shall cease pouring energy down the toilet doing so.  and  I will need to learn how to leave my hating behind me when I come home, which is becoming more difficult to do as I begin to feel like I am growing younger by the years, instead of older.

There is room for all.
If my destiny is to be the uncivilized, socially awkward, baby hating shy ass-hole in the corner, so be it.
I will start my degree to become a teacher just as soon as I get fired.

Randomnesses

Themes of Life as of late:

Wake up slowly.
Wear soft, thick socks, or slippers when you go to pour your coffee and start the fire. Stare into the flames well after it has taken off, or at wall for a good ten minutes before you pay attention to the train cars of thought beginning to zoom through your waking brain.

Slow down, always, slow down.
Allow for slow processing time, the result will less stressful and more direct.

Take time off.
First day of the weekend, tell everyone you've made plans. Wear disguises in public if needed to keep people from distracting you from your meandering day. Stay in pajamas, or shower and dress elaborately in evening wear- spend as much time as you want doing what ever it is that you want. However, knowing yourself, you should do something.

Don't let old hippie guys flatter you, they just want to cop a feel.

Don't let it bother you when people tell you that you should go to college, have three jobs and contribute regularly to an IRA, most likely, they are barfing up sentimental hooey and understand that they like you just like you are, and they hate admitting to themselves that you, at your lowly post, can get along just frickin fine.

If happiness is something that is important to you, sort it out for yourself before you go looking for it in other people. People put this off into the wee hours of their years, for when they cash in the 401K and tend to become madly, madly cranky.

TV is greedy entertainment, books are active, mind expanding tools and they are entertaining. When you can't read, listen to the written word. Watch how your imagination grows and edits the archetypal stories for your own psyche.

You must water the garden, not just sow the seeds, in order for it to give you delicious and sustaining food.

Though so terribly often misunderstood, quiet, too is a virtue.

Laying down in a bed of manure

Mycelium running is a book in the store that i've been flipping through when I'm so bored, I willingly read books about how mushrooms save the world. Bradley's garden is as full of different kinds of mushrooms in the fall and winter as it is of flowers and herbs in the spring and summer: all thanks to the constant applications of horse shit his beds receive all year.
Over the past thirty some-days, I've gone from feeling confident and excited about my job to viewing it as a temporary gig as the shop is bleeding funds, and something that I feel bad for having, as I do more knitting on the clock than coffee girl stuff. I've gone from feeling grateful and blessed by new enthusiasm and understanding about my romantical relationship to wanting to run fast away from it, far enough to be gone by the time I come to my senses. I felt so content with my relationships with my family, so uplifted after seeing them all for mother's day, but now, I feel heart broken at the distance between us, the time between encounters.
To be honest, I don't know what it is, or was, that dumped a pile of poop on my parade.
I ducked out of the friday 13th open mic night, saying that my uterus was cramping my style- but really, I'm feeling like I Hate the sound of my own voice, and while the encouragement from lovelies all over was lovely- is lovely, I do not enjoy singing or pretending to want to be a musician as much as I just wanted to have a thing.
I just wanted to stick it in the earth like a compliment lightning rod, like a premade box so that I could be categorized by people more easily.

I feel a fight with 'red coming up. Its been building for a while as it tends to when I feel crampy and do not keep up on the dishes and entertaining him with compliments and attention. < a note here, how the eff do you people stay married for so long when everyone is constantly feeling either un appreciated, or like the work horse or like the maid?> He found my covert internet research on narcissistic emotional vampires, and how to love them. I think it hurt his feelings because he brought them back onto the browser and left them there for me to find.
My beautiful parents remember my remorse upon getting caught. I feel like hiding, but I don't know when he'll be home, so I could be in for a long, ridiculous crouch in the closet or car on the beach.
I don't even know how to have this conversation.
So I think you're in love with yourself. Maybe I'm inlove with Myself- and I'm just deflecting because I have nothing better to talk about and the sound of your voice all the time talking about your kickassness makes me feel threatened?
What do I look like, the goddamn wizard of Oz?

I listen to Cracker play Get Off This, and I have to say, what I just wrote about music is cranky and incomplete. I want to crawl into the fibers of music and live there. The world of sound is more real to me than the bed of manure I'm choosing to lie in now.

This too shall pass.
Even when it feels so familiar, and we get flashes of past failure in our intuition, this is a new moment.
I believe we live in many dimensions always weaving them together. I believe the work is made from the stuff of nature, which heals it's self, and which does not interfere with things like the freedom to choose. Our choices make dropped stitches, different patterns, new and unimaginable shapes. But the stuff of nature facilitates and inspires. Nature comes at you on it's own terms, and doesn't mind if you do not agree with it, but it will mend the work, and continue to keep the fabric alive even when you are not able to.
My cappuccino friend likes to speak of these things as one river, any time we start to get into the big ideas about life and all that shit, he grunts and huffs something about me being on a completely different parta' tha' river. "Yeeah". He gets my fiber analogy though.

Maybe Fred will someday look back and say, that chick had a point. And I now know how to better communicate my loving feelings toward my ladyfriend.
Maybe he will always refer to me as That crazy you-know-what, which I am sure is how most of my use to be's do.
Maybe we can shed our egos tonight and just be around each other like the old days.
I'm sure he will be tired and cranky as I am, as he was shoveling horse poo all day in the humid breeze-lessness.

Maggie has been ever so neglected lately, and staying home while we all leave to play. Maybe I will take advantage of our seasonally lingering afternoon glare, and take her for a little walk to the beach!

What would Larry do?

My kitten buddy, mouse/snake/bird-er (Big Mighty Hunter), cuddle toy, smile maker, bad day better-er, you get the point- my Cat, is GONE!

Of course I've been sobbing, and casting my stubborn, un-realistic terrible mood over my whole life and the whole world.
I've actually burned out sort of early. There is another thing to be said about getting older.
My patterns don't hold my interest for as long anymore.

Now, I am getting ready for the next part, what ever that is.

And tomorrow is my Saturday, and I got paid today.
So, life goes on and it is time yet again to create a masterpiece of a grocery list, one so strategic, Grandma will be proud.
Last time, I fed us with two hundred dollars worth of groceries for two weeks!

I have become obsessed with re purposing meals, or elements of them.
The last weeks have been full of revelations. I have always read that you should stock up on things like pasta and canned goods and dried beans when they are on sale or in bulk even if you don't think you need them, but this is just a darn inescapable truth on the way to thrifty home eating.

I made sure to budget in a whole chicken, a large beef roast, and a ham last time, which was a bulk of the bill, but those critter pieces and a chance tube of ground beef was the only meat I needed to buy, so I focused on the other elements of limitless possibilities.

We had a beef, mushroom and pea pie with a creamy gravy mixed in from that roast and little fried meat pies.
We had spaghetti and left over spaghetti fritatta for breakfast one day from on sale five lb ground beef, as well as hamburgers, and meatballs which I added sausage to. Also, tamale pie, a first time dish for me. So that's four meals from the five lbs.
The chicken was gone fast the day I roasted it, but I made stock from it for chicken and dumplings, and split pea soup which I made with the left over ham.
I made hash with the left overs from the ham and the last of the potatoes with our freaking awesome caste iron grinder.

Of all of my favorite things to cook, I think the weird ones I make up when I have lots of left overs at hand are IT!

Alas, where would I be without bulk pasta for lazy days of instant gratification when all you want is pasta covered in bacon fat,egg and cheese?
Or the can of condensed cream-of-something soup, generic brand is fine with me-?
And, we shan't forget the on sale bags of frozen peas- of which, I have a stock that would make Costco blush.

Tiberious

I'm going to be Quiet Today

Above the peninsula off of the south western most coast of Washington state, clouds pooled heavy in the atmosphere.
Days coped up in the little red house gives one a sense of comfort so soft it is stifling.
A sore throat, a slight concussion from ramming into a sharp cornered piece of furniture,
wrapped around in tight coils, directing the course of the meditation.

The days become weeks, marked by the short visit from a friend, the contemplative shower
in mid morning, the rush to gather up one's self a heft the groggy mass into the daylight.
Days weeks, moments days, without a care for the day's name as now there are so so many more to remember.

Friends become as estranged, distant family, forgot.
The lover you live with becomes as a close pal, living in a house just like yours.
Love isn't what you thought it would be, now.
Life, and it's so called time becomes too short, and fat with confusion.

They say open up, and life will too, like a flower open up to your senses.
They say, don't care so much about others and what they think, you will benefit.
They say production, education, moving and knowing the names and functions of all things you touch
are things so important, they define your name.

So my name then, is not the name I was given when I came into the world?
So my name is what I make it?
So I should have this power of creation and sight to become the energy I move?

So many enter my space and judge the energy there, as though they can hear my intentions spoken like words.
They coment and try to put my attention into place for me, with their supposed divine ability.
Always my throat aches with confusion for their well meant gesture for they are always far away from what is.
Or am I wrong then, and they know better about my life and how I should be, with their years and names and qualities they have evolved and created for themselves, and the world as they see it.
To open up, to share is futile. It's impossible to be seen in completion by anyone else, so to base anything on what is deciphered there, is foolish.

Wake up to the rain clouds, let them be, I say.
I can see what is a blessing in my life, I can see the fruitful essence of my little world.
I can feel also, the shadows and foolishly arranged battalions placed in ignorant strategy around my psyche.
There is a time for all things. The sort of dull roar of youth will pull at my insides till I am ripe with confidence, until then, sometimes ache will sound through any blessings presented.

I'm going to be quiet today.

Double Dark Americano, Hold the Spazz

Everyone familiar to me knows that given exposure to most mind altering substances, I am bound to give in, and partake.
As a barista by afternoon, every time the weather changes and every two hours, I check the grind. Which entails extracting the essence of espresso beans- not just pouring hot water onto ground coffee!

The rain comes, I check the grind.
The glorious sun comes out, I check the grind.
The breeze finds it's way into the joint, I check the grind.
Knock the grinds into the nice, dry portable in an even manner- make a big messy, heavy mound at the top. Tap everything in place, smooth it off even with the basket lip. Tamp the aromatic sand with thirty pounds of pressure, into a perfectly even cake. The gasket from steam to cake has to be at peak pressure and temperature, to that has to preheat.
Finally the time comes to push the button and count till the shot glass measures one ounce, but, first you bless it- you wipe it clean of any not compacted grind.
If the grind is just a hair too coarse or fine, the thing is shot. ha-ha.


So, being the coffee romantic I am, not a perfect drop goes to waste. The shabby ones I don't touch.
Today, the coffee was perfectly extracted after the shift change fiddling.
When Ben came to the shop with his Bishop, or Pastor, or Preacher- I actually forget the preferred term, the end of the day sun was heating up the place and every other customer was ordering the essence of the mind.
But the grind was off and I couldn't mend together the required kind of time for tweaking it.
Which chaps my ass.
Then, as is customary for some reason with Leigh's cappuccino, my foam started really lacking oomf and continued being pathetic or burnt.
Once Ben showed up.

I tell you what.
When I worked as a teller at the credit union ( I do not recommend it), my till was always off when Ben showed up. Whether it was at the beginning of the day or close to closing, my ability to count failed me as my heart bippity bopped and my cheeks felt sore from trying so hard all day to knock that doofy grin off. Many an embarrassed phone call from yours truly, to some poor credit union sod, explaining mu huge fuck up and manager fixing, when Ben was around. Not to say it was always and only when he was around, but this works for my story.
And I don't know why.
I don't think of naked things.
I don't think of grade school crush things, or any sort of crush things.
I don't think of much.

And oh holy shit, I think I would have made a better Breve blindfolded.
Poor lil guy.

All I can say is, he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, but not in a romatical way...
However, it's not like I shake uncontrollably and make terrible coffee in the presence of beautiful art, landscape, other abundantly gorgeous Suprunowskis or powerfully moving music. So maybe I was just over caffeinated and glad to see that he's up and around, after that nasty car accident.

There is probably no answer to why this happens.
I would call it a crush, but it is not that involved, emotionally.
Physically, I thought my face would fall off if I tried to stop grinning and blushing, and that I would surely have a fugging heart attack.

But, anyway, click on 'nasty car accident' up there and read about this dude.

I don't consider myself religious, or even interested in religious culture of any denomination or system, any more. I was hungry for it at one time, but it ran it's course and I am now more or less bumbling around Jung's idea of individuation, with a healthy dose of Zen in there somewhere.
Christianity is fascinating. Sociologically for one thing, how it is saturated in social involvement, socially accepted and socially dependent. Culturally, psychologically.

I'm sure Jesus loves everyone, but he loves Ben more, and that's just fine with me.

Story Telling

The truth is, nothing much matters to Rhododendrons.
In the experience of one Waxy Sullivan, the genus tend to have an awful lot to comment on, but truly don't care about much of anything.
Oh, sure, they will let you know if the weather is a bit out of their comfort zone. They shrivel up like over cooked sausage and drop their leaves like dramatic little starlets, heart broken at the end of the scene.
But, as Waxy came to know, they come back every year, with wry new branches needing a cutting!

In fact, a purple star trek Rhodie once gave tell of a 'dendron wide conspiracy when this little show goes on.
People might think the plants need to drop their leaves in order to conserve energy for the cold snap ahead, but oh, they are wrong.
Rhododendrons love being  nude.
Nude Rhododendrons without full, lush leaves and endless clusters of blossoms do not appeal to the human species during the growing season, but secretly indulgent, seemingly struggling nude rhodies in the winter tend to coax about a feeling of tenderness in a gardener. Come spring time, before they know it, Rhododendrons every where are snapped out of their hedonistic slumber with the warm touch of woolen gloves and cold, sharp steel.

Snip, squeak. Snip, snip-squeak, snip.She made note that her pruners needed a good oiling.
The thush of cracking dead wood and cool dry leaves made a new song of percussion each time she brought an armful of clipped Rhododendron to the wheel barrow.
The garden of the day for Waxy was on a property some hundred years civilized, on the bay of a puddle called The Willapa.
Oysterville was the place to be a gardener, it had all the necessities. Developed, mature gardens owned by financially developed, matured individuals. No business license required so long as nobody asks- think freelance with the weather. Think fifteen to thirty bucks an hour, depending on the job and tools required. Oysterville was a Rhodie mecca. Waxy finds the villagers endearing and generous, while the Rhododendrons tend to find them smug and dull.
Ever the Rhodie complaint about the lack of attention they received from their keepers.
"Generations of these movers, and ne'er a skilled or an intrested touch."
The particular Rhododendron she was working on stood so tall and broad that Waxy could crawl under it's lowest branches and be completely out of sight. Such a thing occurred to Sullivan as a daydream might fall upon an imaginative and stubbornly bored twenty some years dumb individual. She went about it in phases, incorporating long days of weeding for when she needed to be more conscious of time or when she had some social performance scheduled, as the dream of being hidden under Rhododendrons or old, droopy Cyprus  seemed to leave her all day with a craving for it. The things she once dreaded like the monotony of gardening, the loneliness of it, were now things which filled a soothing bath of metaphysical time she never wanted to leave once she 'got in'.

The noon hour became antsy to be embodied, and Waxy had to empty her wheel barrow and bit the rhodie fare well.
The cats at home were glad to be revisited by their upright walking friends and greeted Waxy and Ed with yawns and needy purrs. Ed fed them a fresh scoop of kibbles and started hungrily rummaging through the kitchen as Waxy began scrubbing the soil from under her every part, and polishing her eyes, hair and lips.
At seven minutes till noon, the two of them piled back into the old blue truck, one to the coffeeshop, the other back into the garden. With a kiss sometimes said out loud instead of administered, they parted for a time everyday at noon but never fully in thought.
Ed kept her in thoughts of his future; projects, goals, sorrow and joy.
Waxy thought in broad brush strokes, thickly sprinkled with the glitter of thoughts of Ed.

A dream given to Waxy during a slumber of tangled bones and death depicted Ed and his once upona time lover, Rose. They play acted a scene from Waxy's past when her heart's first desire sat in a pick up truck, getting licked and tickled by a flirtatious and eye grabbing young, but older than Waxy, dark mysterious woman. Ed played the part of yesterday, and Rose played the part of the delicious little snack. Ih ner dream, Waxy sat in the passenger's seat, as hidden as if she were camouflaged in shrubbery, too devastated to speak. When the two retreated into the drunken tent of animal love, Waxy's dream self walked from the truck, to the ocean and sobbed with her whole dream body, creating a tsunami of tears and whale shit, waking her to the second day of glorious sun of the whole year.
This dream clouded her cappuccinos with spongy foam, and her house brew with the acridness of over processing. 
Rose was a thing to Waxy, more close to an idea than a person.  A thing, symbolizing the life of the man she unexpectedly fell ass over tea kettle in love with in the summer of her freedom, a time capsule of what once was his life, which is very important to her, but a thing that should be buried except for some far distant predetermined date when it is dug up and remembered in the light of day. It should not be spoken to.
But it is. Rose and Ed pass messages in the darkness of cyberspace, as familiar persons in a familiar way.
When Waxy sneaked a peak at the inbox of Ed's note passing device to reassure herself that he had better things to do than keep up a double romance type-thing, she found a message from Rose so riddled with errors and abbreviated statements, she could not decipher it's meaning.
Ed had responded to it with the letter K.
So today at the coffee shop, the barista was confused, dreamily sad and felt pretty poorly about sneaking a peak at the  personal device of communication as she had. In between drab lattes and bouts of small talk, Waxy wandered the gardening section of the book shop and learned that Rhododendrons are toxic to most plants, and are known to impair the development of young begonias. She tucked the thought into her mind for morning when she would be weeding the beds  in Stanley's garden, around one particularly busy gossip of a rhododendron.