Just because it's infuriating me at the moment, let me take an instant to talk about the paranoid causality people like to make of gun death statistics.
Every time the subject of guns comes up, people like to wave around statistics that show the more gun ownership there is, the more gun-related deaths there are. You know what I say to that?
WELL, DUH.
You know what else has a high body count? Automobiles. In fact, in places where governments allow more car ownership, there is a statistical increase in car related deaths. So where is our movement to get rid of cars?
Now, before any of my non-existent readers segue into the "but you don't use cars to run over a grade school full of kids" argument, please realize that my beef is with the often quoted statistic and the implications behind it. I will leave the broader issues of where and why I think we have a gun violence problem in this country to another post.
When you allow something dangerous into your life--drugs, needles, knives, cars, guns, prescription medications, ladders, etc.--you are increasing the possibility you will die from it. When you allow it on a wide spread basis, then that statistical probability goes up even more. YES, more people die from guns in countries that allow guns, YES, in countries where guns are sparse on the ground so are gun deaths. DUH. In other news, water is wet and the sky is blue.
An increased chance of being hurt by a dangerous item is the agreement you make when you take said dangerous item into your home. It is, in essence, the price of ownership. And the price we pay as a country to allow guns in our borders is the knowledge that, sooner or later, someone will misuse them.
The question we should be asking is not how to ban or control guns, because we've pretty much collectively agreed we either like the buggers, or just like the right to keep our options open. We don't want to ban or control guns, at all, ever, period. So be it.
What our question should be is: how do we respond to those who would use guns in a criminal manner?
Do you see the distinction? Our focus should not be guns, but people. Focusing on guns is simply a rehash of the same old question--do we want guns in this country and if so, to what capacity? The answers have been resounding after every crisis--yes we do, and in any capacity we damn well please. Asking the question again and again is not changing the answer, so it's time to start asking different questions. And it's time to start focusing our answers, not on the object, but on the person holding it.
How do we ensure that we can keep bad people/crazy people from getting guns? How do we regulate the use of our accepted tools (yes, a gun is a tool, ask any hunter) so that we can play with our toys in the safest manner possible, so that enthusiasts can collect, so that poor families can hunt, so that we can have home self defense without fear that that defense will blow up in our faces?
And to correct a rather widespread misconception, this isn't gun control. You'll notice we don't call getting a license or obeying speed limits "vehicular control." Why? Because it isn't. It's our way of making one of the tools we need to survive (cars/transportation) as safe for ourselves and others as possible. It's our way of controlling the people behind the wheel, not the vehicles themselves. Just like we have laws about proper road behavior, we should have laws about proper gun behavior, a series of laws that outlines the hows and whys of use so that we can drastically reduce the incidences of people harming other people using these items. People control.
So, if you want to see meaningful changes, stop buying into the spin by calling it gun control, and by all the gods, stop using stupid statistics in trying to call for said "gun control." It really makes those of us who aim for responsible and safe gun ownership look like dumbasses, and that isn't helping our argument any.
Rant-o-matic complete.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Thursday, December 13, 2012
As the Kitty Burns
I walk home, one knee high sagging around my ankle.
I'm thinking.
My cat needs her kidneys flushed. Something is wrong, but I have no idea what. The nice doctor explained it to me on the phone, but a combination of what I can only assume is medical-speak plus his heavy Indian accent turned the explanation to gibberish. I don't understand accents on the best of days because...well...I'm a terrible person (isn't this the sort of thing politically correct, caring, and sensitive white folk know how to do?), but it's even worse when the words are unfamiliar to me.
All I know is she needs them flushed. She needs an IV. She needs an extended vet stay, and in a couple days, she needs her blood tested. Oh, and antibiotics. We can never forget the fun of giving a kitty antibiotics.
And I'm seeing little cartoon dollar signs flitting around my head, making a pass or two before fluttering off into the wide blue sky. I have money. I can pay for this. But it'll hurt. And the solution they're giving...well the doctor isn't guaranteeing it's a solution. There could be more money, more tests if this doesn't work.
I'm thinking of my mom, a single mother in Florida--back when Florida was still something resembling sane--struggling to make ends meet.
We were the only white faces on the black side of town, but back then that didn't mean what it does now. The neighborhood was by no means safe, but crimes didn't happen in broad daylight. Neighbors still looked out for each other, even if it was just keeping a wary eye on what was going on around the homes next to them. My mother could go outside and walk down the street without fear of being raped. I could play in my yard--front or back, we had both--without fear of being kidnapped or harmed. In fact, we had more to fear from the boys who liked to drag race their cars down the street than any criminal danger.
And all those black faces around us were in exactly the same boat.
We adopted a dog when I was four or five and named her Lassie. She wasn't a collie. She was, in fact, probably the spawn of several generations of sleazy back-alley encounters between breeds looking to kink it up with members outside their genetically exclusive gene pool. She was a small, enthusiastic mop of nervous love, her big brown eyes hidden behind bangs so long my mother often clipped them.
She was a pound dog, and that meant something different then than it does now. Anything from a pound had a fifty-fifty chance of having contracted some sort of disease or ailment, usually from the close quarters with other dogs or the merely adequate hygienic conditions. They weren't checked, and pounds didn't apologize. It was simply known, like you knew the sun was going to rise, that you took your chances.
Lassie, when she came to us, had problems. She wasn't fixed, for one thing; that was on our dime. I remember looking at her stitches, mom trying to explain to me what they were for. I also know she was ill, but I was little and it's been years. Ask me to tell you with what and I couldn't answer. I know it was two or three things, probably ears, fur/skin, and some bacteria or virus she needed medicine for. The moment we got that dog we had a money pit.
But my mother stretched her budget and that lovely little dog lived with us for nearly twenty years.
Keep in mind, my mom was a single mother--that's difficult in any day and age. She had only a high school degree, so she wasn't exactly raking in the bucks. And yet, in many ways she was better off then than I am now.
We owned our own home. Sure, it was dirt cheap and on the wrong side of town, and sure we only afforded it because of a special program hosted by the city (lowering crime by making prices affordable for families who weren't criminals to move in--it worked), but hey, we owned it. How many people could do that now, even if offered similar help?
Mom owned her own car. Not making payments, owned. And when a wreck wiped it out, she bought a new one. Sure it was old and not very fancy, and sure it wasn't speedy or pretty or really anything desirable. But it was reliable, not a junker, and was bought with money she saved.
We got a dog, and while the budget was tight while we nursed her back to health, we managed it.
She had one job, one, and it paid all the bills plus some left over. Very little, but some.
And, I can't stress this enough, she was raising a child all on her own.
And my mother, then, made less than I do now, even adjusting for inflation.
Fast forward ten years.
After her divorce and after discovering that her ex had found a legal loophole through which he didn't have to pay his court mandated child support--ever--she was essentially a single mom again, but this time with two kids. Still, she was also senior in her field, having the know how and experience to have moved up considerably in rank, and now made more than she did when I was a preschooler.
My grandparents bought her a trailer on a tiny piece of land nearly an hour outside town--if they hadn't we'd have been homeless. My grandparents bought her a car--if they hadn't, mom would be jobless. And to keep us afloat my mother maxed every credit card she owned, worked long hours, and when that didn't cover it she took on so many odd jobs they essentially became a second job in their own right. Money was so tight we didn't even have a dollar to spare for a candy bar.
Fast forward again another fifteenish years, give or take.
I'm single and childless. I make more now than my mother ever did--even adjusted for inflation--but I own nothing permanent. No car. No college, because I can't afford it and my credit is too bad to get loans--education is apparently NOT an equal opportunity offer. No home; I rent with a roommate, in fact. I own nothing but my books, my clothes, and my cats. Most of my money goes to bills, and I mean basic bills. Aside from internet what I pay falls under necessary--phone, food, electricity, water, sewer, gas. Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy some modest pastimes, like going to the movies or out with friends, but even these things are done pretty rarely.
And sudden disasters like my precious cat being sick? A nightmare.
Like most of my generation I live hand-to-mouth. I don't have credit cards (by choice) so I can't even pretend things are better than they are, that I am somehow wealthier than I really am.
And as I walk home, my knee high around my ankle, exhausted from too much work and too little sleep and hallucinating dollar signs hemorrhaging into the open sky, I wonder how we got here from where we started, not even a full lifetime ago.
I wonder if we'll ever have the energy to get mad or whether everyone else, like me, is so exhausted merely from the daily struggle to survive that they just can't rouse the energy to fight back. Or even to care.
And then I walk in the door.
I'm thinking.
My cat needs her kidneys flushed. Something is wrong, but I have no idea what. The nice doctor explained it to me on the phone, but a combination of what I can only assume is medical-speak plus his heavy Indian accent turned the explanation to gibberish. I don't understand accents on the best of days because...well...I'm a terrible person (isn't this the sort of thing politically correct, caring, and sensitive white folk know how to do?), but it's even worse when the words are unfamiliar to me.
All I know is she needs them flushed. She needs an IV. She needs an extended vet stay, and in a couple days, she needs her blood tested. Oh, and antibiotics. We can never forget the fun of giving a kitty antibiotics.
And I'm seeing little cartoon dollar signs flitting around my head, making a pass or two before fluttering off into the wide blue sky. I have money. I can pay for this. But it'll hurt. And the solution they're giving...well the doctor isn't guaranteeing it's a solution. There could be more money, more tests if this doesn't work.
I'm thinking of my mom, a single mother in Florida--back when Florida was still something resembling sane--struggling to make ends meet.
We were the only white faces on the black side of town, but back then that didn't mean what it does now. The neighborhood was by no means safe, but crimes didn't happen in broad daylight. Neighbors still looked out for each other, even if it was just keeping a wary eye on what was going on around the homes next to them. My mother could go outside and walk down the street without fear of being raped. I could play in my yard--front or back, we had both--without fear of being kidnapped or harmed. In fact, we had more to fear from the boys who liked to drag race their cars down the street than any criminal danger.
And all those black faces around us were in exactly the same boat.
We adopted a dog when I was four or five and named her Lassie. She wasn't a collie. She was, in fact, probably the spawn of several generations of sleazy back-alley encounters between breeds looking to kink it up with members outside their genetically exclusive gene pool. She was a small, enthusiastic mop of nervous love, her big brown eyes hidden behind bangs so long my mother often clipped them.
She was a pound dog, and that meant something different then than it does now. Anything from a pound had a fifty-fifty chance of having contracted some sort of disease or ailment, usually from the close quarters with other dogs or the merely adequate hygienic conditions. They weren't checked, and pounds didn't apologize. It was simply known, like you knew the sun was going to rise, that you took your chances.
Lassie, when she came to us, had problems. She wasn't fixed, for one thing; that was on our dime. I remember looking at her stitches, mom trying to explain to me what they were for. I also know she was ill, but I was little and it's been years. Ask me to tell you with what and I couldn't answer. I know it was two or three things, probably ears, fur/skin, and some bacteria or virus she needed medicine for. The moment we got that dog we had a money pit.
But my mother stretched her budget and that lovely little dog lived with us for nearly twenty years.
Keep in mind, my mom was a single mother--that's difficult in any day and age. She had only a high school degree, so she wasn't exactly raking in the bucks. And yet, in many ways she was better off then than I am now.
We owned our own home. Sure, it was dirt cheap and on the wrong side of town, and sure we only afforded it because of a special program hosted by the city (lowering crime by making prices affordable for families who weren't criminals to move in--it worked), but hey, we owned it. How many people could do that now, even if offered similar help?
Mom owned her own car. Not making payments, owned. And when a wreck wiped it out, she bought a new one. Sure it was old and not very fancy, and sure it wasn't speedy or pretty or really anything desirable. But it was reliable, not a junker, and was bought with money she saved.
We got a dog, and while the budget was tight while we nursed her back to health, we managed it.
She had one job, one, and it paid all the bills plus some left over. Very little, but some.
And, I can't stress this enough, she was raising a child all on her own.
And my mother, then, made less than I do now, even adjusting for inflation.
Fast forward ten years.
After her divorce and after discovering that her ex had found a legal loophole through which he didn't have to pay his court mandated child support--ever--she was essentially a single mom again, but this time with two kids. Still, she was also senior in her field, having the know how and experience to have moved up considerably in rank, and now made more than she did when I was a preschooler.
My grandparents bought her a trailer on a tiny piece of land nearly an hour outside town--if they hadn't we'd have been homeless. My grandparents bought her a car--if they hadn't, mom would be jobless. And to keep us afloat my mother maxed every credit card she owned, worked long hours, and when that didn't cover it she took on so many odd jobs they essentially became a second job in their own right. Money was so tight we didn't even have a dollar to spare for a candy bar.
Fast forward again another fifteenish years, give or take.
I'm single and childless. I make more now than my mother ever did--even adjusted for inflation--but I own nothing permanent. No car. No college, because I can't afford it and my credit is too bad to get loans--education is apparently NOT an equal opportunity offer. No home; I rent with a roommate, in fact. I own nothing but my books, my clothes, and my cats. Most of my money goes to bills, and I mean basic bills. Aside from internet what I pay falls under necessary--phone, food, electricity, water, sewer, gas. Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy some modest pastimes, like going to the movies or out with friends, but even these things are done pretty rarely.
And sudden disasters like my precious cat being sick? A nightmare.
Like most of my generation I live hand-to-mouth. I don't have credit cards (by choice) so I can't even pretend things are better than they are, that I am somehow wealthier than I really am.
And as I walk home, my knee high around my ankle, exhausted from too much work and too little sleep and hallucinating dollar signs hemorrhaging into the open sky, I wonder how we got here from where we started, not even a full lifetime ago.
I wonder if we'll ever have the energy to get mad or whether everyone else, like me, is so exhausted merely from the daily struggle to survive that they just can't rouse the energy to fight back. Or even to care.
And then I walk in the door.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Monday, October 22, 2012
Friday, August 31, 2012
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Monday, July 2, 2012
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Family Fun - Posting Challenge, Day 14
(Also be sure to follow along with Tina, Jean, Krista, and Tambo as they say much more sane and less esoteric things than me!)
So why am I sharing a picture with faces? Because it is totally and completely ludicrous.
I know, it doesn't look funny, but let me put it in perspective.
Why don't I know for sure to what generation various family members can chart themselves? Because, in order to keep up with this family you need a programmable flow chart.
I figure, at the rate we're going, one out of every ten people will be blood related to my family by the year 2130.
Also, this casual poolside picture? Guess what time of year it was taken.
The smart ones caught the one hint in the photo and have already guessed it.
Christmas.
So why am I sharing a picture with faces? Because it is totally and completely ludicrous.
I know, it doesn't look funny, but let me put it in perspective.
- There are 27 people in that photo.
- Of that 27, 18 are blood related, the rest are by marriage.
- All 18 are blood related as children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, or great-great-grandchildren to the women in red.
- 10 are children, grandchildren, or great-grandchildren to the woman in blue right next to her.
- Only 2 are direct children of the woman in blue--3 are represented here if you include the grandchildren given to her by one of her children that has passed away.
- The woman in blue has 9 kids total.
Why don't I know for sure to what generation various family members can chart themselves? Because, in order to keep up with this family you need a programmable flow chart.
I figure, at the rate we're going, one out of every ten people will be blood related to my family by the year 2130.
Also, this casual poolside picture? Guess what time of year it was taken.
The smart ones caught the one hint in the photo and have already guessed it.
Christmas.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Poison Pen - Posting Challenge, Day 13
(Also be sure to follow along with Tina, Jean, Krista, and Tambo as they say much more sane and less esoteric things than me!)
Today is a letter to someone who's recently hurt me. Easy-peasy, since I happen to have been recently wounded, and wounded pretty terribly. There is nothing worse than finding out a friendship is false.
Dear Girl-I-Shall-Not-Name,
I'm past being angry, mostly. I'm past being hurt, mostly. Now I'm just feeling foolish, betrayed, and used. I kick myself daily for losing two extraordinary friends over someone like you. Sure, they were far from perfect, but gods know I'm not either. I could have simply, quietly asked them not to make fun of people I loved to my face and told them that wasn't cool. Instead I pushed, and pushed, and finally exploded.
And lost them.
And you, you gained them. You guys are bestest buds now. For over a year, one of them said the absolute worst things about you every chance he got, while the other very quietly stepped aside and let him do it, never even quietly asking him to pick a more appropriate crowd to vent his feelings to, or at least tone it down a notch; permission seemingly given and agreement made simply by never saying no. Neither ever spoke up for you in any way, not even to just keep things cordial when in mixed company. In fact, they had no use for you at all.
I spoke for you, time and again. I supported you from the first day I met you. I often spoke up for you when people mocked you, in spite of the trouble it caused me. I stepped forward when others stepped away. I bragged about the comics you created to new people who had never seen your work and pointed them towards your creations. I talked out problems with you when others were afraid to speak up. I was the one who finally told you why the bad blood existed between you and your tormentors (yes they were my friends, but let's face it, they were definitely your tormentors)--everyone knew, but I was the only one who had the crassness to step forward. I did it to try to and start the process of mending fences; after all, you can't correct what you don't know about.
And why did I do all this?
Because I believed in you. From the bottom of my toes to the tippy-top of my head, I truly, truly believed in you. I believed in your ever increasing maturity, in your ability to change and grow, in the sweet, wonderful girl I met; I totally believed in you. I believed in your inner strength, in your underlying sweetness, in your competence--untried but there--and in the light of your unique and wonderful personality. I believed you were creative, outwardly fragile but with a tough inner core, quirky, irreverent, and fun. You see the world differently than those around you, and I thought that was spectacular.
And if you sometimes whined, or got mad over stupid shit, or caused drama, or made mistakes...well, no one in our entire circle was blameless of any of those behaviors, especially not your tormentors. None of us stood without guilt, so I could not see why your judgment--a young woman with emotional problems who barely had any real world experience--should be so much harsher than the reaction those of us who were older, wiser, and should have known better.
So I stood up for you, time and time again. For a year solid, I stood for you when others were putting you down. I supported you, reached out to you when you were in crisis, and did everything I could to be your friend. And when matters escalated, I went to the wall for you, and lost two friends that were very dear to me, friends I loved, and who, even now, it hurts to be without.
And you know what?
I made the wrong choice.
Because the upshot was you making up with them--which was good--but dropping me like a hot rock the first time I did anything wrong. Or maybe the second time. Or the third. Or the fiftieth, for all I know, since you never told me anything was wrong. I just looked up one day to find you had dumped me on the comic site and on Facebook, no warning, no explanation, just boom, gone.
And, fool that I was, I honestly didn't believe it. When Facebook and the comics both went silent, I thought maybe you were going through something rough and just not posting. When I saw people in chat talking to you but no longer saw the reply, I assumed it was just scrolling too fast for me to see it. It really never occurred to me that you would ever do such a thing, and when cold realization finally dawned, it was one of the greatest shocks I've ever suffered.
You were a person that, if you needed a place, I'd have opened my home to, despite never having met you in the flesh. That was how much I trusted that the girl I got to know was real and genuine and just plain amazing. That was how much I trusted we'd made a real connection, something more than simple internet buds. That was how much I trusted you.
You're telling me now that you were looking for the right way to let me know why you tossed me away without warning, but the thing is, your actions don't back that up. It was a good two weeks or more before I figured out what was going on, and you never even dropped me a note in that time.You said you didn't want to hurt me, but I can't fathom how someone of your obvious intelligence could have figured that doing things the way you did would have somehow hurt me less.
When I called you on it, asked you calmly and rationally what happened, it was two days before I even warranted an answer. Even then the answer only came after you ignored my inquiry and I went off. And I still feel more like you replied because you were afraid I'd cause some sort of trouble than because you actually wanted to speak to me, and that you continued to argue with me because you felt pressured to do so.
This was something you backed up yourself when you ended your first note to me with; "Maybe I should have told you all of this BEFORE, but the fact that I felt this way wasn't going to change (emphasis mine)." It's the first time you mention anything is wrong, and the very first thing you tell me is that the friendship I foolishly thought we were building meant so little to you that you'd made up your mind it was over before even talking with me.
And the ironic thing? You'd spent well over a year--almost two, in fact--hurt that you were never told why the people who hated you so badly felt the way they did, and upset you were given, not a second or even a third chance, but more like a fifth or sixth one. But when it came time to deal with me, you dropped me without telling me what was wrong and gave no second chances.
You did to me what was done to you, and thought nothing of it.
But the worst, the absolute worst part of it? You proved them right. Your then-tormentors-now-friends? You proved everything that was said about you 100% spot on. I was warned, warned you treated people like this. I was warned that you didn't like people disagreeing with you, which was apparently my sin, to not agree with you on more than one occasion. I was warned you sliced people out of your life like this with no explanation and no second chances. I heard horror story after horror story.
But, foolish me, I make it a point not to listen to gossip. To understand that people--young people especially--can and do change. To think that because you were treating me with respect, that meant you'd give that same respect to everyone, and do so continuously. To think that you had taken the rift between you and those who had dumped and then mocked you as a life lesson.
I was so, so wrong. No lessons were learned. It's possible you only liked me not only because I was nice to you, but because, on that site, I was the popular kid, and more than nice people, you crave popular people. Once my star fell and you hitched your rising one to someone with twice my popularity--someone who, coincidentally, no longer liked me--you sure dumped me hard and fast. After all, you really didn't need me anymore, did you? You have what you want, so why bother ironing out the rough spots in our relationship? You don't need to work that hard, not with all your new friends basking in the glow of your new found stardom, quick to give you all the ego stroking you'll ever need.
Even worse, I lied to my friends, if only out of ignorance. I told them you'd changed, mellowed, weren't the same girl you had been. I guaranteed it. And when they'd had time to get over the hurt we'd slung at each other, they went to you with an open hand of friendship, driven partially by my words.
And you're going to hurt them.
Sooner or later they will disagree with you one too many times. They might accidentally hurt your feelings or piss you off; it happens sooner or later in every relationship. It's an inevitability. And when it finally does, you will do to them what you did to me; what you have done at least twice in the past that I know of, and more often that I have been told about through gossip.
You haven't changed at all.
The day will come that you will hurt my friends. Sure, they have no use for me anymore, and why should they? Pretty harsh things were said all around. But I still love them enough that it hurts every time I know they are online and we don't speak, every time I see comments left elsewhere and smiles given to others, and I know that door is closed to me forever. I'm not sure it will ever stop hurting.
And the clock is counting down until the day I have to watch from afar when the drama explodes all over again, when they curse my name for ever convincing them to trust you. And they'll be right to do so. It will be no less than I deserve.
I stood up for you, for the sweet, shy, sensitive girl I thought I knew. I went to the wall for you, risked everything and lost it, over you. I supported you, believed in you, and stood by you almost from the day I met you. And this is all it's worth, this...summary dismissal.
Know this; I will never ever stand for you again. To anyone. I will not show off your work. I will not introduce people to you. I will not set anyone else up for this kind of hurt, or for this sort of betrayal given in return for loyalty.
I know you are not a bad girl, or even a truly malicious one, but you are incredibly broken. And you are shallow, shallow about your relationships, and shallow about yourself. And until you pull your shit together, you will receive not one more iota of support from me.
Frankly, you haven't earned it, and you don't deserve it.
If I could go back and erase the entire confrontation, take back everything I said to my friends, I would. But I can't. All I can do is learn from this, and I have learned well. You have lost my trust, and you may never gain it back.
But then, I'm guessing that doesn't mean much to you anyway.
Someday it will. Someday you'll find someone you'll really want to keep, and you will do to them what you did to me, what you've done to so many others. Why? Because you refuse to learn from your mistakes or your life. And someday that someone will say the exact same things to you that I am now.
And you will deserve every word.
Maybe then you'll finally stop shitting on people and get your damned priorities straight.
Goodbye,
Me.
Today is a letter to someone who's recently hurt me. Easy-peasy, since I happen to have been recently wounded, and wounded pretty terribly. There is nothing worse than finding out a friendship is false.
Dear Girl-I-Shall-Not-Name,
I'm past being angry, mostly. I'm past being hurt, mostly. Now I'm just feeling foolish, betrayed, and used. I kick myself daily for losing two extraordinary friends over someone like you. Sure, they were far from perfect, but gods know I'm not either. I could have simply, quietly asked them not to make fun of people I loved to my face and told them that wasn't cool. Instead I pushed, and pushed, and finally exploded.
And lost them.
And you, you gained them. You guys are bestest buds now. For over a year, one of them said the absolute worst things about you every chance he got, while the other very quietly stepped aside and let him do it, never even quietly asking him to pick a more appropriate crowd to vent his feelings to, or at least tone it down a notch; permission seemingly given and agreement made simply by never saying no. Neither ever spoke up for you in any way, not even to just keep things cordial when in mixed company. In fact, they had no use for you at all.
I spoke for you, time and again. I supported you from the first day I met you. I often spoke up for you when people mocked you, in spite of the trouble it caused me. I stepped forward when others stepped away. I bragged about the comics you created to new people who had never seen your work and pointed them towards your creations. I talked out problems with you when others were afraid to speak up. I was the one who finally told you why the bad blood existed between you and your tormentors (yes they were my friends, but let's face it, they were definitely your tormentors)--everyone knew, but I was the only one who had the crassness to step forward. I did it to try to and start the process of mending fences; after all, you can't correct what you don't know about.
And why did I do all this?
Because I believed in you. From the bottom of my toes to the tippy-top of my head, I truly, truly believed in you. I believed in your ever increasing maturity, in your ability to change and grow, in the sweet, wonderful girl I met; I totally believed in you. I believed in your inner strength, in your underlying sweetness, in your competence--untried but there--and in the light of your unique and wonderful personality. I believed you were creative, outwardly fragile but with a tough inner core, quirky, irreverent, and fun. You see the world differently than those around you, and I thought that was spectacular.
And if you sometimes whined, or got mad over stupid shit, or caused drama, or made mistakes...well, no one in our entire circle was blameless of any of those behaviors, especially not your tormentors. None of us stood without guilt, so I could not see why your judgment--a young woman with emotional problems who barely had any real world experience--should be so much harsher than the reaction those of us who were older, wiser, and should have known better.
So I stood up for you, time and time again. For a year solid, I stood for you when others were putting you down. I supported you, reached out to you when you were in crisis, and did everything I could to be your friend. And when matters escalated, I went to the wall for you, and lost two friends that were very dear to me, friends I loved, and who, even now, it hurts to be without.
And you know what?
I made the wrong choice.
Because the upshot was you making up with them--which was good--but dropping me like a hot rock the first time I did anything wrong. Or maybe the second time. Or the third. Or the fiftieth, for all I know, since you never told me anything was wrong. I just looked up one day to find you had dumped me on the comic site and on Facebook, no warning, no explanation, just boom, gone.
And, fool that I was, I honestly didn't believe it. When Facebook and the comics both went silent, I thought maybe you were going through something rough and just not posting. When I saw people in chat talking to you but no longer saw the reply, I assumed it was just scrolling too fast for me to see it. It really never occurred to me that you would ever do such a thing, and when cold realization finally dawned, it was one of the greatest shocks I've ever suffered.
You were a person that, if you needed a place, I'd have opened my home to, despite never having met you in the flesh. That was how much I trusted that the girl I got to know was real and genuine and just plain amazing. That was how much I trusted we'd made a real connection, something more than simple internet buds. That was how much I trusted you.
You're telling me now that you were looking for the right way to let me know why you tossed me away without warning, but the thing is, your actions don't back that up. It was a good two weeks or more before I figured out what was going on, and you never even dropped me a note in that time.You said you didn't want to hurt me, but I can't fathom how someone of your obvious intelligence could have figured that doing things the way you did would have somehow hurt me less.
When I called you on it, asked you calmly and rationally what happened, it was two days before I even warranted an answer. Even then the answer only came after you ignored my inquiry and I went off. And I still feel more like you replied because you were afraid I'd cause some sort of trouble than because you actually wanted to speak to me, and that you continued to argue with me because you felt pressured to do so.
This was something you backed up yourself when you ended your first note to me with; "Maybe I should have told you all of this BEFORE, but the fact that I felt this way wasn't going to change (emphasis mine)." It's the first time you mention anything is wrong, and the very first thing you tell me is that the friendship I foolishly thought we were building meant so little to you that you'd made up your mind it was over before even talking with me.
And the ironic thing? You'd spent well over a year--almost two, in fact--hurt that you were never told why the people who hated you so badly felt the way they did, and upset you were given, not a second or even a third chance, but more like a fifth or sixth one. But when it came time to deal with me, you dropped me without telling me what was wrong and gave no second chances.
You did to me what was done to you, and thought nothing of it.
But the worst, the absolute worst part of it? You proved them right. Your then-tormentors-now-friends? You proved everything that was said about you 100% spot on. I was warned, warned you treated people like this. I was warned that you didn't like people disagreeing with you, which was apparently my sin, to not agree with you on more than one occasion. I was warned you sliced people out of your life like this with no explanation and no second chances. I heard horror story after horror story.
But, foolish me, I make it a point not to listen to gossip. To understand that people--young people especially--can and do change. To think that because you were treating me with respect, that meant you'd give that same respect to everyone, and do so continuously. To think that you had taken the rift between you and those who had dumped and then mocked you as a life lesson.
I was so, so wrong. No lessons were learned. It's possible you only liked me not only because I was nice to you, but because, on that site, I was the popular kid, and more than nice people, you crave popular people. Once my star fell and you hitched your rising one to someone with twice my popularity--someone who, coincidentally, no longer liked me--you sure dumped me hard and fast. After all, you really didn't need me anymore, did you? You have what you want, so why bother ironing out the rough spots in our relationship? You don't need to work that hard, not with all your new friends basking in the glow of your new found stardom, quick to give you all the ego stroking you'll ever need.
Even worse, I lied to my friends, if only out of ignorance. I told them you'd changed, mellowed, weren't the same girl you had been. I guaranteed it. And when they'd had time to get over the hurt we'd slung at each other, they went to you with an open hand of friendship, driven partially by my words.
And you're going to hurt them.
Sooner or later they will disagree with you one too many times. They might accidentally hurt your feelings or piss you off; it happens sooner or later in every relationship. It's an inevitability. And when it finally does, you will do to them what you did to me; what you have done at least twice in the past that I know of, and more often that I have been told about through gossip.
You haven't changed at all.
The day will come that you will hurt my friends. Sure, they have no use for me anymore, and why should they? Pretty harsh things were said all around. But I still love them enough that it hurts every time I know they are online and we don't speak, every time I see comments left elsewhere and smiles given to others, and I know that door is closed to me forever. I'm not sure it will ever stop hurting.
And the clock is counting down until the day I have to watch from afar when the drama explodes all over again, when they curse my name for ever convincing them to trust you. And they'll be right to do so. It will be no less than I deserve.
I stood up for you, for the sweet, shy, sensitive girl I thought I knew. I went to the wall for you, risked everything and lost it, over you. I supported you, believed in you, and stood by you almost from the day I met you. And this is all it's worth, this...summary dismissal.
Know this; I will never ever stand for you again. To anyone. I will not show off your work. I will not introduce people to you. I will not set anyone else up for this kind of hurt, or for this sort of betrayal given in return for loyalty.
I know you are not a bad girl, or even a truly malicious one, but you are incredibly broken. And you are shallow, shallow about your relationships, and shallow about yourself. And until you pull your shit together, you will receive not one more iota of support from me.
Frankly, you haven't earned it, and you don't deserve it.
If I could go back and erase the entire confrontation, take back everything I said to my friends, I would. But I can't. All I can do is learn from this, and I have learned well. You have lost my trust, and you may never gain it back.
But then, I'm guessing that doesn't mean much to you anyway.
Someday it will. Someday you'll find someone you'll really want to keep, and you will do to them what you did to me, what you've done to so many others. Why? Because you refuse to learn from your mistakes or your life. And someday that someone will say the exact same things to you that I am now.
And you will deserve every word.
Maybe then you'll finally stop shitting on people and get your damned priorities straight.
Goodbye,
Me.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Blogging – Posting Challenge, Day 12
(Also be sure to follow along with Tina, Jean, Krista, and Tambo as they say much more sane and less esoteric things than me!)
I can't recall my first exposure to blogging. It was back when the net was new; back when LiveJournal was just starting out and hadn't been sold to companies who decided liberally sprinkling the pages with ads was somehow a good idea. I had wanted to keep a diary for a long time, but frankly, I suck at diaries. I'm one of those people that purchases them, keeps a day or two, then relegates them to the back of the bookshelf so I don't have to feel guilty every time I run across the empty pages. I thought maybe having people looking in on my work would help my determination to keep up with it, so I made my first journal.
Like all journals of young people, there was much emotion and angst, to the point I don't know how I ever got followers. But I managed with well over 100, which was a pretty respectable following in the early days of the net. It helped my memory, my emotional equilibrium, and my life in general. But at some point I befriended one too many of my flakier followers. I screamed one too many times where a boyfriend or girlfriend could see it. And the drama bomb exploded once too often in my lap.
So I abandoned it.
About the point I felt I could take it back up again, LJ had added advertisements, and it just didn't feel like the same place anymore. I already paid for my account, I did my part to support LJ for years, and saw no reason why I should be punished when times were lean. Especially when I knew (as everyone there did) that they weren't exactly hurting for money. I'd be there right now, but what's the point? I thought I'd give a different blog site a try instead.
I've since thought of taking it up again, as practice to getting back into daily writing. So far the "daily" part is an uphill battle, but at least the "writing" is happening. I am woefully behind, but I haven't given up.
I can't recall my first exposure to blogging. It was back when the net was new; back when LiveJournal was just starting out and hadn't been sold to companies who decided liberally sprinkling the pages with ads was somehow a good idea. I had wanted to keep a diary for a long time, but frankly, I suck at diaries. I'm one of those people that purchases them, keeps a day or two, then relegates them to the back of the bookshelf so I don't have to feel guilty every time I run across the empty pages. I thought maybe having people looking in on my work would help my determination to keep up with it, so I made my first journal.
Like all journals of young people, there was much emotion and angst, to the point I don't know how I ever got followers. But I managed with well over 100, which was a pretty respectable following in the early days of the net. It helped my memory, my emotional equilibrium, and my life in general. But at some point I befriended one too many of my flakier followers. I screamed one too many times where a boyfriend or girlfriend could see it. And the drama bomb exploded once too often in my lap.
So I abandoned it.
About the point I felt I could take it back up again, LJ had added advertisements, and it just didn't feel like the same place anymore. I already paid for my account, I did my part to support LJ for years, and saw no reason why I should be punished when times were lean. Especially when I knew (as everyone there did) that they weren't exactly hurting for money. I'd be there right now, but what's the point? I thought I'd give a different blog site a try instead.
I've since thought of taking it up again, as practice to getting back into daily writing. So far the "daily" part is an uphill battle, but at least the "writing" is happening. I am woefully behind, but I haven't given up.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Pic With Friend – Posting Challenge, Day 11
(Also be sure to follow along with Tina, Jean, Krista, and Tambo as they say much more sane and less esoteric things than me!)
These posts really assume I'm an interesting person, don't they?
Today is another picture of me with my friends, because, you know, I have permission to splash their faces all over the net. Not.
All right, here's one of my subversive pictures with a small and very prosaic story attached.
It was a new year party/birthday party of a friend, and we all got together, got a little smashed, and enjoyed such party essentials as "is the bathroom ever free," "long talks about nothing at all," "drinking games," "ease the munchies," and Rock Band. These days, no party is complete without Rock Band.
I don't really play guitar, and I find the game guitar fun, but not really my thing. I loved the drums--for about five seconds. The drum set was somehow not coordinated with the game right; you'd hit the drum, then about two seconds later the game would register the hit. The lag in anything else would be barely noticeable, but in Rock Band precision timing is critical. It frustrated so many people that the entire drum set eventually got stowed.
This left guitar, bass guitar, and microphone. A lifelong attendance of choral classes had me gravitating towards, you guessed it, the microphone.
I spent a lot of the night singing, actually, with varying results. The 100% up there, however, was the apparent amazement of those around me when I belted out a perfect score on a song I'd never even heard before. Keep in mind, it was on Easy, and Easy is really, really forgiving. I tried higher levels with songs I did know and bombed badly.
But it made the message board anyway. Other well wishes and smart-ass remarks were erased so my accomplishment could be posted, and it stayed there the rest of the night.
I still say it was only because it was on Easy.
How is this a pic of me with friends? Well, every message there is from a party-goer. One was written by my roomie, one by her sister, and the rest from people I know. Except the well hung bird. I have no idea who drew that (or if it was originally intended to have a ding dong), but you must admit, it's an amusing little doodle. The bird seems genuinely surprised by his dong.
These posts really assume I'm an interesting person, don't they?
Today is another picture of me with my friends, because, you know, I have permission to splash their faces all over the net. Not.
All right, here's one of my subversive pictures with a small and very prosaic story attached.
It was a new year party/birthday party of a friend, and we all got together, got a little smashed, and enjoyed such party essentials as "is the bathroom ever free," "long talks about nothing at all," "drinking games," "ease the munchies," and Rock Band. These days, no party is complete without Rock Band.
I don't really play guitar, and I find the game guitar fun, but not really my thing. I loved the drums--for about five seconds. The drum set was somehow not coordinated with the game right; you'd hit the drum, then about two seconds later the game would register the hit. The lag in anything else would be barely noticeable, but in Rock Band precision timing is critical. It frustrated so many people that the entire drum set eventually got stowed.
This left guitar, bass guitar, and microphone. A lifelong attendance of choral classes had me gravitating towards, you guessed it, the microphone.
I spent a lot of the night singing, actually, with varying results. The 100% up there, however, was the apparent amazement of those around me when I belted out a perfect score on a song I'd never even heard before. Keep in mind, it was on Easy, and Easy is really, really forgiving. I tried higher levels with songs I did know and bombed badly.
But it made the message board anyway. Other well wishes and smart-ass remarks were erased so my accomplishment could be posted, and it stayed there the rest of the night.
I still say it was only because it was on Easy.
How is this a pic of me with friends? Well, every message there is from a party-goer. One was written by my roomie, one by her sister, and the rest from people I know. Except the well hung bird. I have no idea who drew that (or if it was originally intended to have a ding dong), but you must admit, it's an amusing little doodle. The bird seems genuinely surprised by his dong.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Beloved Music - Posting Challenge, Day 10
(Also be sure to follow along with Tina, Jean, Krista, and Tambo as they say much more sane and less esoteric things than me!)
Also note: If SOPA and PIPA pass, I could go to jail for this post, for daring to embed my favorite songs into a post and giving these musicians free advertising. This post could also be used to shut down Wordpress and YouTube...permanently. Please write your congress-critter and protest these bills--or any future bills like them, being passed.
Today's challenge? Songs I listen to when I'm happy, sad, bored, hyper, and mad. Translation? An excuse to link spam! SQUEE!!!
The problem is, this is going to be difficult, since I have no one particular song for any of these emotions. Not to mention, these are very rigidly defined. For instance, the song I would listen to if I were mad at some jerk for cutting me off and making me miss my exit would be different than the song I listened to if I were fuming over an ex. And for either of those situations, I have probably fifty songs in my arsenal.
I am a music-o-holic, always have been. Even as a child, the radio was on in our house (back when radio was still good) more often than the tv. I took to cassette tapes like a duck to water, and I probably owned a million of them. My musical tastes in rock run from practically the birth of rock all the way up to the present day, and I love songs that you've probably never heard of. I also dip into industrial, jazz, blues, folk, symphonic metal, experimental, pagan, comedy, some older country, a very little rap, and gods only know what else. And if you have explored every one of those links, congratulations, you are as music crazy as I am. And probably up as late.
Choosing just one per mood is not easy; it's tantamount to simply pulling a title out of my ass and calling it Gospel. It irks me. But on the flip side, if I went off on a music-y tangent, we'd be here all year.
What to do...what to do....
Edit: Eh, screw this. I was laying down a pretty good post, when the system screwed up enough of the formatting that I had a choice to laboriously redo it, or go back and just do the original question.
Hellooooo, original question! Let's get this done in five minutes, shall we? I'll probably still be giving it my own take, it's just a different take from the one I was using before.
EDIT 2: I tried, I really tried, to make the page pretty and move the text away from the videos. But every time I did, the video coding vanished. I have no idea what's going on with it, but it just seems a better idea to leave the magical motherflipper alone and not to to provoke another vanishing act. So, sorry about the crappy formatting.
Happy:
I don't have a song on tap for being happy, per se. I tend to skim my iPod to find a song that enhances my mood, or just fits it. As for becoming happy from listening, again, it really depends. I have listened to some sad or eerie crap to make myself happy. It's not so much content as the tunes that turn me on.
So I think I'll take this to comedy music instead--which, by the way, I rarely listen to in order to become happy. I actually just listen to it whenever.
So, without further ado, one of my favorite comedic singers that no one knows exists:
And one that everyone knows:
But, I think the better definition of Happy in this case is determination, or...
Confidence:
Because happiness isn't that hard to achieve, but the times I feel really down are times when I feel I'm against a wall with no way out. And, hey, we have music for that!
There is nothing better than this song when I'm feeling down. It just celebrates the individual in such a great way. The message is so positive; "No one can do the job like I can, for this job I'm the best man, and while this may be true, you are the one and only you!"
(And I'd never seen the video for this before--holy crap, he's young!)
Then there are those times I feel I'm losing myself. When that happens, a little reminder of things I believe in are in order. And for that, I tend to turn to Manowar. Many of their songs give me the motivation and confidence I need, but one in particular embodies everything I try to strive towards. I often fail, but I keep trying:
The song is also awesome in German.
Trigger Warning: The links I have here are pretty safe, but this is heavy metal, folks. If you explore the band further, expect a few (thankfully very few, and mostly early in their career--I find that crap tiresome) references to Hell and Satan, and a lot of references to violence including some to rape. Yes, I still love their body of music, though in some cases it's a guilty pleasure. I'm even okay with "Pleasure Slave," since I did once know a woman like that (including being quite happy about her state), and so it probably has different connotations to me than other folks.
The band is very Ancient Norse/viking warrior in their lyrics, but both they and the fans seem to know the difference between fantasy and reality--I have never been safer than as practically the only woman at the testosterone-fest that was a Manowar concert. While I am as feminist and rape aware as the next soul (and gods know I have the background to be easily squicked) I'm okay with this band because of the overall message. If you aren't, fine, but no lectures please. To each their own.
Moving on....
Sad:
*sigh* Refer to Happy for how this works. I have far too many songs I listen to, some for extra wallowing and some to pull me out of it. But I do have a couple songs that make me feel all wistful and longing, so I'll share those.
For the next one, I am embedding the same song twice. Why? Because I am unable to choose between the two versions. They are both incredibly beautiful. Enjoy.
Bored:
Ummm...people have songs specifically for boredom? Truly? I thought all music cured that state of being.
Screw it, have some Leonard Cohen instead. This man is an unsung genius, and what he can do with words makes a word lover like me just curl at the toes. I am picking only three, but he has so many more good songs, hours of blissful listening. Check him out.
Hyper:
Hyper? Pretty much anything I danged well feel like. Refer to Happy to get the general idea. Now, songs to get my engines going? That I have.
One of my favorites for draggy days is this one:
Nothing like it to get engines revved on "wish I weren't breathing, just let me go back to bed" mornings.
I also tend to favor this one, and one listen will tell you why; it's breathless, happy, anticipatory, and just catches me up and makes me want to celebrate.
Mad:
Mad is so easy. I actually have a boatload of songs for anger, but a perennial favorite is one that everyone should be familiar with. The song is an anger cliche for a reason...
Seriously, is anyone really surprised?
I highly suspect I have done enough damage here, and that anyone with a slow connection or an older computer wants to string me up by my toenails right about now, so I think I will curb my enthusiasm. And if you managed to follow every video and link, no matter how long it took, you, my friends, are as big a music-o-holic as I am. I hope I introduced you to something new and incredibly cool.
Also note: If SOPA and PIPA pass, I could go to jail for this post, for daring to embed my favorite songs into a post and giving these musicians free advertising. This post could also be used to shut down Wordpress and YouTube...permanently. Please write your congress-critter and protest these bills--or any future bills like them, being passed.
Today's challenge? Songs I listen to when I'm happy, sad, bored, hyper, and mad. Translation? An excuse to link spam! SQUEE!!!
The problem is, this is going to be difficult, since I have no one particular song for any of these emotions. Not to mention, these are very rigidly defined. For instance, the song I would listen to if I were mad at some jerk for cutting me off and making me miss my exit would be different than the song I listened to if I were fuming over an ex. And for either of those situations, I have probably fifty songs in my arsenal.
I am a music-o-holic, always have been. Even as a child, the radio was on in our house (back when radio was still good) more often than the tv. I took to cassette tapes like a duck to water, and I probably owned a million of them. My musical tastes in rock run from practically the birth of rock all the way up to the present day, and I love songs that you've probably never heard of. I also dip into industrial, jazz, blues, folk, symphonic metal, experimental, pagan, comedy, some older country, a very little rap, and gods only know what else. And if you have explored every one of those links, congratulations, you are as music crazy as I am. And probably up as late.
Choosing just one per mood is not easy; it's tantamount to simply pulling a title out of my ass and calling it Gospel. It irks me. But on the flip side, if I went off on a music-y tangent, we'd be here all year.
What to do...what to do....
Edit: Eh, screw this. I was laying down a pretty good post, when the system screwed up enough of the formatting that I had a choice to laboriously redo it, or go back and just do the original question.
Hellooooo, original question! Let's get this done in five minutes, shall we? I'll probably still be giving it my own take, it's just a different take from the one I was using before.
EDIT 2: I tried, I really tried, to make the page pretty and move the text away from the videos. But every time I did, the video coding vanished. I have no idea what's going on with it, but it just seems a better idea to leave the magical motherflipper alone and not to to provoke another vanishing act. So, sorry about the crappy formatting.
Happy:
I don't have a song on tap for being happy, per se. I tend to skim my iPod to find a song that enhances my mood, or just fits it. As for becoming happy from listening, again, it really depends. I have listened to some sad or eerie crap to make myself happy. It's not so much content as the tunes that turn me on.
So I think I'll take this to comedy music instead--which, by the way, I rarely listen to in order to become happy. I actually just listen to it whenever.
So, without further ado, one of my favorite comedic singers that no one knows exists:
And one that everyone knows:
But, I think the better definition of Happy in this case is determination, or...
Confidence:
Because happiness isn't that hard to achieve, but the times I feel really down are times when I feel I'm against a wall with no way out. And, hey, we have music for that!
There is nothing better than this song when I'm feeling down. It just celebrates the individual in such a great way. The message is so positive; "No one can do the job like I can, for this job I'm the best man, and while this may be true, you are the one and only you!"
(And I'd never seen the video for this before--holy crap, he's young!)
Then there are those times I feel I'm losing myself. When that happens, a little reminder of things I believe in are in order. And for that, I tend to turn to Manowar. Many of their songs give me the motivation and confidence I need, but one in particular embodies everything I try to strive towards. I often fail, but I keep trying:
The song is also awesome in German.
Trigger Warning: The links I have here are pretty safe, but this is heavy metal, folks. If you explore the band further, expect a few (thankfully very few, and mostly early in their career--I find that crap tiresome) references to Hell and Satan, and a lot of references to violence including some to rape. Yes, I still love their body of music, though in some cases it's a guilty pleasure. I'm even okay with "Pleasure Slave," since I did once know a woman like that (including being quite happy about her state), and so it probably has different connotations to me than other folks.
The band is very Ancient Norse/viking warrior in their lyrics, but both they and the fans seem to know the difference between fantasy and reality--I have never been safer than as practically the only woman at the testosterone-fest that was a Manowar concert. While I am as feminist and rape aware as the next soul (and gods know I have the background to be easily squicked) I'm okay with this band because of the overall message. If you aren't, fine, but no lectures please. To each their own.
Moving on....
Sad:
*sigh* Refer to Happy for how this works. I have far too many songs I listen to, some for extra wallowing and some to pull me out of it. But I do have a couple songs that make me feel all wistful and longing, so I'll share those.
For the next one, I am embedding the same song twice. Why? Because I am unable to choose between the two versions. They are both incredibly beautiful. Enjoy.
Bored:
Ummm...people have songs specifically for boredom? Truly? I thought all music cured that state of being.
Screw it, have some Leonard Cohen instead. This man is an unsung genius, and what he can do with words makes a word lover like me just curl at the toes. I am picking only three, but he has so many more good songs, hours of blissful listening. Check him out.
Hyper:
Hyper? Pretty much anything I danged well feel like. Refer to Happy to get the general idea. Now, songs to get my engines going? That I have.
One of my favorites for draggy days is this one:
Nothing like it to get engines revved on "wish I weren't breathing, just let me go back to bed" mornings.
I also tend to favor this one, and one listen will tell you why; it's breathless, happy, anticipatory, and just catches me up and makes me want to celebrate.
Mad:
Mad is so easy. I actually have a boatload of songs for anger, but a perennial favorite is one that everyone should be familiar with. The song is an anger cliche for a reason...
Seriously, is anyone really surprised?
I highly suspect I have done enough damage here, and that anyone with a slow connection or an older computer wants to string me up by my toenails right about now, so I think I will curb my enthusiasm. And if you managed to follow every video and link, no matter how long it took, you, my friends, are as big a music-o-holic as I am. I hope I introduced you to something new and incredibly cool.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Proud Moments - Posting Challenge, Day 9
(Also be sure to follow along with Tina, Jean, Krista, and Tambo as they say much more sane and less esoteric things than me!)
Hunh. I had quite the roll on these posts going until I got smacked by this question. Something I'm proud of in the past few days? Only one thing comes to mind, and it seems silly.
So, after a job interview, I was stranded out by a shopping mall. I needed conditioner and a couple other things, so I moseyed on in. Bad, bad move. The woman with no disposable income should not be in a place with Christmas sales.
This is not the story of how I resisted, but why I gave in.
See, my roommate loves pajamas. She especially loves warm ones, with batshit crazy prints on them. Some notables are elephants in roller skates and...others. Yes, I need to steal a peek at her pants drawer to remind myself.
I have to admit, I don't look all that closely at them anymore since seeing them for the thousandth time, so they've been relegated to a sort of cloth "background noise." If you don't get how that can happen, think of your best friend, then try to describe ten shirts they own in more detail than "...and there's a blue one, and a green one..." If you can do it, I crown thee "Ruler of the Non-Shoddy Memory."
But I digress.
Anyway, I found these deliciously adorable minty green kitty print pj's that were so much her style they were practically screaming her name. And it was a sale, 80% off, which made the expense oodles easier to justify.
Plus, while I had managed a Christmas present, it was small and had never meant to be the present, just a part of a larger one. Then my job bit the dust, and suddenly I was spending less than a dollar on every member of my family (god bless flea markets). I have had better Christmases.
Yes, I picked them up--against all good sense--as well as two ornaments I thought she'd appreciate, and quietly laid them on her bed. Then I left it alone.
The laugh I heard from the bedroom when she finally discovered them was all the reward I needed, and she's been wearing them for three nights now. I somehow picked a winner.
That is the only thing I can think of that I am proud of. Sure, I've sent out dozens of job applications, looked into apprenticeships, am looking at schools (again), am catching up my blog, and have done all my chores like a good little girl. However, those are responsibilities, expected. The sheer delight I gave her, it took so little and meant so much to both of us.
And that's it.
Hmmm...maybe I should have prefaced this with "boring shit ahead." I could have come up with something much less obscure had the time frame been longer.
Hunh. I had quite the roll on these posts going until I got smacked by this question. Something I'm proud of in the past few days? Only one thing comes to mind, and it seems silly.
So, after a job interview, I was stranded out by a shopping mall. I needed conditioner and a couple other things, so I moseyed on in. Bad, bad move. The woman with no disposable income should not be in a place with Christmas sales.
This is not the story of how I resisted, but why I gave in.
See, my roommate loves pajamas. She especially loves warm ones, with batshit crazy prints on them. Some notables are elephants in roller skates and...others. Yes, I need to steal a peek at her pants drawer to remind myself.
I have to admit, I don't look all that closely at them anymore since seeing them for the thousandth time, so they've been relegated to a sort of cloth "background noise." If you don't get how that can happen, think of your best friend, then try to describe ten shirts they own in more detail than "...and there's a blue one, and a green one..." If you can do it, I crown thee "Ruler of the Non-Shoddy Memory."
But I digress.
Anyway, I found these deliciously adorable minty green kitty print pj's that were so much her style they were practically screaming her name. And it was a sale, 80% off, which made the expense oodles easier to justify.
Plus, while I had managed a Christmas present, it was small and had never meant to be the present, just a part of a larger one. Then my job bit the dust, and suddenly I was spending less than a dollar on every member of my family (god bless flea markets). I have had better Christmases.
Yes, I picked them up--against all good sense--as well as two ornaments I thought she'd appreciate, and quietly laid them on her bed. Then I left it alone.
The laugh I heard from the bedroom when she finally discovered them was all the reward I needed, and she's been wearing them for three nights now. I somehow picked a winner.
That is the only thing I can think of that I am proud of. Sure, I've sent out dozens of job applications, looked into apprenticeships, am looking at schools (again), am catching up my blog, and have done all my chores like a good little girl. However, those are responsibilities, expected. The sheer delight I gave her, it took so little and meant so much to both of us.
And that's it.
Hmmm...maybe I should have prefaced this with "boring shit ahead." I could have come up with something much less obscure had the time frame been longer.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Short Term Goals - Posting Challenge, Day 8
(Also be sure to follow along with Tina, Jean, Krista, and Tambo as they say much more sane and less esoteric things than me!)
Today I need to post short term goals for the month. Aside from my determination to catch up and ultimately complete this challenge, I have none. I have many long term goals, such as "find a job," "move to Australia," "meet my boyfriend," "save some money," and "have a(nother) kid." Long term goals I have out the wazoo.
Even the reason for doing this blog--"write more, and better"--is a long term goal.
Perhaps I should make one. How about "meditate daily?"
I always felt my best, my most balanced when I meditated at least once a day, and I did it for a long time. But then...I got busy. I got depressed. I became disillusioned. Time, and life, started slipping away from me, and I was too sad and too despondent to get it back. So I slid into the realm writers and would-be writers know so well, the "I'll do it when I don't have 20 more important things on my plate."
Which, of course, is code for "never, but thinking I will makes me feel better about it."
Today is the 14th--the 15th, technically, but I haven't slept yet. My personal reality holds that the day doesn't end until I go comatose. I am backdating posts, catching up from my flight and subsequent post-flight rush to take care of everything else I'd neglected.
I can't meditate tonight, if I do, I'll fall asleep. No, seriously, I'm exhausted, only the desire to write between 3-5 blog posts so I can catch up is keeping my fingers to the keyboard. It's good practice for getting back into the habit of using stubbor determination when inspiration is low. But honestly, all tendencies to procrastinate aside, I have had one of two results happen when I meditate tired. The first is I fall asleep, nulling any good it might have done. The second is I jazz up, causing a sleepless night and possibly a sleepy next day.
I get little enough sleep as it is, thanks.
So, tomorrow. If you don't see some sort of note dropped on the 15th, someone yell at me, please. I offer myself up to the shame game.
Thanks.
I'll try to drop at least one note about it each day until the end of the month, and I'll try to do so in a way that bores no one. Because, dude, who really wants to hear about my visualization where I climb through the guts of a giant snake until I exit the mouth to find myself on a field of clouds facing a man who will fly me off to strange and odd places, amIright? Boring!
Today I need to post short term goals for the month. Aside from my determination to catch up and ultimately complete this challenge, I have none. I have many long term goals, such as "find a job," "move to Australia," "meet my boyfriend," "save some money," and "have a(nother) kid." Long term goals I have out the wazoo.
Even the reason for doing this blog--"write more, and better"--is a long term goal.
Perhaps I should make one. How about "meditate daily?"
I always felt my best, my most balanced when I meditated at least once a day, and I did it for a long time. But then...I got busy. I got depressed. I became disillusioned. Time, and life, started slipping away from me, and I was too sad and too despondent to get it back. So I slid into the realm writers and would-be writers know so well, the "I'll do it when I don't have 20 more important things on my plate."
Which, of course, is code for "never, but thinking I will makes me feel better about it."
Today is the 14th--the 15th, technically, but I haven't slept yet. My personal reality holds that the day doesn't end until I go comatose. I am backdating posts, catching up from my flight and subsequent post-flight rush to take care of everything else I'd neglected.
I can't meditate tonight, if I do, I'll fall asleep. No, seriously, I'm exhausted, only the desire to write between 3-5 blog posts so I can catch up is keeping my fingers to the keyboard. It's good practice for getting back into the habit of using stubbor determination when inspiration is low. But honestly, all tendencies to procrastinate aside, I have had one of two results happen when I meditate tired. The first is I fall asleep, nulling any good it might have done. The second is I jazz up, causing a sleepless night and possibly a sleepy next day.
I get little enough sleep as it is, thanks.
So, tomorrow. If you don't see some sort of note dropped on the 15th, someone yell at me, please. I offer myself up to the shame game.
Thanks.
I'll try to drop at least one note about it each day until the end of the month, and I'll try to do so in a way that bores no one. Because, dude, who really wants to hear about my visualization where I climb through the guts of a giant snake until I exit the mouth to find myself on a field of clouds facing a man who will fly me off to strange and odd places, amIright? Boring!
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Biggest Impact - Posting Challenge, Day 7
(Also be sure to follow along with Tina, Jean, Krista, and Tambo as they say much more sane and less esoteric things than me!)
*sigh* Seriously? Because, you guys can't handle the truth. Promise. But here it is in all it's squicky glory anyway.
The single biggest impact on my life is what you see right here.
Yes, I have tons of positive impacts. Every friend individually changed my life in amazing and healing ways. I had some teachers reach out to catch me when I fell. I had strangers help me in time of need. I have new people that, even today, are shaping my life for the better. I count them as my blessings and my guardian angels, and I know where I'd be without any one of them. There are not words for how grateful I am. But every one of them was only part of my path to recovery.
It takes a village to heal.
To destroy, it only takes one man.
Maybe it's because he got to me first, I don't know. But I do know that I have struggled endlessly to overcome, to undo what he did; I struggle even now, twenty six years after the day my mother finally left him. Every healing hand has had to find and soothe the wounds left in me, every friendly smile has had to fight with my withered self esteem and lack of confidence, every tolerant soul has had to deal with my shoddy memory, temperamental nature, and uncertain time sense.
I am a walking, talking PTSD poster, and I have accepted long ago that I will never be "normal." I am a broken leg that healed wrong, a curved spine, a hand with missing fingers. Some things, once done, can never be completely erased, and that's where I am now; where I will always be.
Unfortunately for me, this really fits. If I had to think of one thing, one single thing that has touched every aspect of my life, changed the course of my future, and altered every day I have lived on this earth, this is that one thing. I am strong, I am no one's victim, and I have overcome so much, but it remains that I can never get back, never heal or earn, beg, borrow, or steal those things he stole from me. In some very fundamental ways, I will never get better. Despite my best efforts, his shadow is over my life still.
Fuck you, fuck you very much.
Maybe another blog post I'll go into detail, but I'm pretty up after the superhero post, and I don't want to come down. Not tonight.
*sigh* Seriously? Because, you guys can't handle the truth. Promise. But here it is in all it's squicky glory anyway.
The single biggest impact on my life is what you see right here.
Yes, I have tons of positive impacts. Every friend individually changed my life in amazing and healing ways. I had some teachers reach out to catch me when I fell. I had strangers help me in time of need. I have new people that, even today, are shaping my life for the better. I count them as my blessings and my guardian angels, and I know where I'd be without any one of them. There are not words for how grateful I am. But every one of them was only part of my path to recovery.
It takes a village to heal.
To destroy, it only takes one man.
Maybe it's because he got to me first, I don't know. But I do know that I have struggled endlessly to overcome, to undo what he did; I struggle even now, twenty six years after the day my mother finally left him. Every healing hand has had to find and soothe the wounds left in me, every friendly smile has had to fight with my withered self esteem and lack of confidence, every tolerant soul has had to deal with my shoddy memory, temperamental nature, and uncertain time sense.
I am a walking, talking PTSD poster, and I have accepted long ago that I will never be "normal." I am a broken leg that healed wrong, a curved spine, a hand with missing fingers. Some things, once done, can never be completely erased, and that's where I am now; where I will always be.
Unfortunately for me, this really fits. If I had to think of one thing, one single thing that has touched every aspect of my life, changed the course of my future, and altered every day I have lived on this earth, this is that one thing. I am strong, I am no one's victim, and I have overcome so much, but it remains that I can never get back, never heal or earn, beg, borrow, or steal those things he stole from me. In some very fundamental ways, I will never get better. Despite my best efforts, his shadow is over my life still.
Fuck you, fuck you very much.
Maybe another blog post I'll go into detail, but I'm pretty up after the superhero post, and I don't want to come down. Not tonight.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Superhero, Go! - Posting Challenge, Day 6
(Also be sure to follow along with Tina, Jean, Krista, and Tambo as they say much more sane and less esoteric things than me!)
All right, today I suppose I should be a little less obscure. Because I could be, you know. I have some severely weird superhero picks. ;)
However, I feel my mainstream choices are a little too mainstream as . Not because mainstream is bad, mind you, but because they are 1) all men, and 2) well known to the point that if you have to ask why I like them, you weren't paying attention.
I'll give them a quick cover anyway. Very quick.
Spiderman. The chuck-out-of-luck Peter Parker, the only superhero who visibly struggles trying to balance putting food on the table, romancing his girl, and saving the world. One of the few (aside from X-Men, who overblow the concept to ridiculousness) who receives flak for just trying to do what's right, and suffers persecution for it. In many ways Spiderman (at least as he was first conceived) is the Everyman, Joe Schmoe hit with something bigger than himself, and proving to himself and the world that absolute power does not have to corrupt absolutely...it all depends on where your priorities lie.
Why this picture? Dude, cheesecake is cool. And how often do you get a comic book female who looks like she still has all her organs? Though, that could be just a trick of the webs.
Wolverine. Brash, brooding, all male stereotype, and yet his sensitive side runs deep. He's an interesting one in modern comics in that the sensitive, thoughtful, smart part of him doesn't often get downplayed. In fact, it gets embraced. However, they are careful not to call it "sensitivity," oh no, it's him 'struggling with his inner demons,' or 'being haunted by ghosts of the past,' or other male code for "not a psycho killing machine with no emotions."
Wolverine is all strength. He feels love deeply and takes the loss of it hard every time. He is strong enough to place his blades to a friend's throat and offer to assist in their suicide when under extremes, and strong enough to go through with it and live with the consequences should it become necessary. He is a bad-ass, no doubt, and can tear through bad guys like a chainsaw through a paper mache tree. But his true strength lies in what he can take, not physically (though that's damn impressive), but emotionally. His healing powers will never heal those scars, and with veritable immortality at his fingertips, he has to live with them forever. And he does, quietly, and without complaint. He is strength personified, and he blows me away.
Batman. His most formidable weapon is his mind, something modern writers tend to forget in the morass of cool gadgetry they give him, but that even now shines through. He appeared in Detective Comics because that is what he was. Is. A costumed detective with a chip on his shoulder and a sense of justice so superdeveloped he makes Lady Justice blush and swoon. He plays with the big boys, keeping up with superpowers, geniuses, and people so evil their very continued existence breaks the Geneva Convention, and does so with nothing more than brains and a lot of cool gadgets. Speaking of sensitive, here is a man who went so severely PTSD about seeing his parents killed before his eyes that he either flipped his lid, or went very, very sane. He could easily have walked away, drowned his sorrows in Margaritas and a nice beach, his only nod to his tragic past hefty donations to the local police force. Instead, he dedicated his life to protection of the weak, putting his money, all his formidable resources, and his very body on the line for perfect strangers.
Why? Because it's right.
Three very, very impressive men. But, nonetheless, mainstream and male, and I have no doubts what I see, others see as well.
If you want to know the comics that moved me as a child, set many of my values, and carried me into adulthood, look no further than Elfquest:
There are not words for my fandom when it comes to this series. My life would be a poorer, more barren place without it, as would be my mind and heart.
Before some deluded commenter (yes you, the one hiding behind my other two lonely readers) says something about "Ew, elves," and proceeds to rant about their effeminate, cultured ways, how overdone the entire concept has become, or talks about how they're just a masturbation fantasy for girls...let me tell you, everything you learned about elves is wrong.
They never lived here, they lived on a world with two moons. Beings of energy more than physical form, they took the form of myths from a world they were visiting, but something went wrong with their ship, and they crash-landed there instead, stuck in frail bodies. However, they emerged to find themselves in a time too early, faced not with a cultured mankind, but primitive man...and primitive man did not like what he saw. He drove them away from their ship, into hiding, and those he did not kill the harsh rigors of survival took, until only a few remained.
In desperation, one of their kind--the only one still capable of shifting her shape--turned herself into a wolf, determined to learn all she could of survival from the hardy beasts and bring that knowledge back to her people. But she sank into wolf form too far, and forgot them until she she became pregnant, giving birth to a halfling that was as much wolf as elf. It was ultimately he, not she, who taught the remaining elves what they needed to know, bringing them strength, ferocity, and a connection to the world they were now exiles upon.
And that's just for starters. The rabbit hole goes far deeper from there.
It's a series that astounds. Love without ownership, a fierce interdependence of individuals all working towards a greater whole, the closeness of family, a code of ethics that is sometimes rigid but often must be determined on the fly, mistakes made and forgiven--sometimes bad ones, sacrifice, courage, responsibility, and pure blissful joy...the wisdom carried by these little four fingered dwellers just amazes.
They count as having superpowers, some can shape plants, some fly, some shape flesh, some heal, some speak to animals, and some do nothing at all. But their greatest superpower seems to be in their absolute acceptance of self. They are as flawed as any creature, ill tempers, bad judgments, and foolish actions abound. But their strength as a whole lies in the acceptance that one is no greater than the other, and that mistakes are simply a part of life. They are happy within their own skins, which makes them content to celebrate the happiness of others.
And because no one is considered "lesser" than another, no one is waste. Every elf brings something to the table. Skywise has no magic, and he seems no greater a fighter, hunter, or provider than any other Wolfrider, and in many cases is less so. But he brings knowledge, questions, a desire to reach beyond that seems to have been part of the influence that made Cutter the extraordinary chief he became. Redlance waits a long time before his powers finally blossom, and he, like Skywise, has no great skills. But he is valued for his gentle, almost healing nature. Treestump is a special delight for anyone from a youth-centric world. His outstanding contribution is...age. The Wolfriders respect him for all he has survived, and they acknowledge his wisdom, though he is hardly the stereotypical "wise elder." Instead, he is more like the tribes equilibrium, a sort of father figure, and a calm rock to rely on, even in the face of danger.
And so it goes. Everyone has value because everyone's value is recognized, and not just recognized, but sought after. The assumption is that if someone isn't bringing anything of value, it's because whatever makes them valuable simply hasn't been found yet. And through all the adventures, through all the epic battles, through all the magic and mayhem that constantly seems to surround them, this concept is what stuck with me the most. It's an ideal way of relating with one another that humans barely know how to dream for, much less strive for, given an achingly tangible form.
I truly believe that the idealized society in this story outlines what the human spirit could be, if only we loosed our self imposed shackles and set ourselves free. And, I suppose, more than the elves themselves, Wendy and Richard Pini are superheroes in my eyes, for opening my mind to a world, a culture, an ideal I barley knew existed, and giving me the ache to grasp it.
High Ones' blessings on you, my friends.
All right, today I suppose I should be a little less obscure. Because I could be, you know. I have some severely weird superhero picks. ;)
However, I feel my mainstream choices are a little too mainstream as . Not because mainstream is bad, mind you, but because they are 1) all men, and 2) well known to the point that if you have to ask why I like them, you weren't paying attention.
I'll give them a quick cover anyway. Very quick.
Spiderman. The chuck-out-of-luck Peter Parker, the only superhero who visibly struggles trying to balance putting food on the table, romancing his girl, and saving the world. One of the few (aside from X-Men, who overblow the concept to ridiculousness) who receives flak for just trying to do what's right, and suffers persecution for it. In many ways Spiderman (at least as he was first conceived) is the Everyman, Joe Schmoe hit with something bigger than himself, and proving to himself and the world that absolute power does not have to corrupt absolutely...it all depends on where your priorities lie.
Why this picture? Dude, cheesecake is cool. And how often do you get a comic book female who looks like she still has all her organs? Though, that could be just a trick of the webs.
Wolverine. Brash, brooding, all male stereotype, and yet his sensitive side runs deep. He's an interesting one in modern comics in that the sensitive, thoughtful, smart part of him doesn't often get downplayed. In fact, it gets embraced. However, they are careful not to call it "sensitivity," oh no, it's him 'struggling with his inner demons,' or 'being haunted by ghosts of the past,' or other male code for "not a psycho killing machine with no emotions."
Wolverine is all strength. He feels love deeply and takes the loss of it hard every time. He is strong enough to place his blades to a friend's throat and offer to assist in their suicide when under extremes, and strong enough to go through with it and live with the consequences should it become necessary. He is a bad-ass, no doubt, and can tear through bad guys like a chainsaw through a paper mache tree. But his true strength lies in what he can take, not physically (though that's damn impressive), but emotionally. His healing powers will never heal those scars, and with veritable immortality at his fingertips, he has to live with them forever. And he does, quietly, and without complaint. He is strength personified, and he blows me away.
Batman. His most formidable weapon is his mind, something modern writers tend to forget in the morass of cool gadgetry they give him, but that even now shines through. He appeared in Detective Comics because that is what he was. Is. A costumed detective with a chip on his shoulder and a sense of justice so superdeveloped he makes Lady Justice blush and swoon. He plays with the big boys, keeping up with superpowers, geniuses, and people so evil their very continued existence breaks the Geneva Convention, and does so with nothing more than brains and a lot of cool gadgets. Speaking of sensitive, here is a man who went so severely PTSD about seeing his parents killed before his eyes that he either flipped his lid, or went very, very sane. He could easily have walked away, drowned his sorrows in Margaritas and a nice beach, his only nod to his tragic past hefty donations to the local police force. Instead, he dedicated his life to protection of the weak, putting his money, all his formidable resources, and his very body on the line for perfect strangers.
Why? Because it's right.
Three very, very impressive men. But, nonetheless, mainstream and male, and I have no doubts what I see, others see as well.
If you want to know the comics that moved me as a child, set many of my values, and carried me into adulthood, look no further than Elfquest:
There are not words for my fandom when it comes to this series. My life would be a poorer, more barren place without it, as would be my mind and heart.
Before some deluded commenter (yes you, the one hiding behind my other two lonely readers) says something about "Ew, elves," and proceeds to rant about their effeminate, cultured ways, how overdone the entire concept has become, or talks about how they're just a masturbation fantasy for girls...let me tell you, everything you learned about elves is wrong.
They never lived here, they lived on a world with two moons. Beings of energy more than physical form, they took the form of myths from a world they were visiting, but something went wrong with their ship, and they crash-landed there instead, stuck in frail bodies. However, they emerged to find themselves in a time too early, faced not with a cultured mankind, but primitive man...and primitive man did not like what he saw. He drove them away from their ship, into hiding, and those he did not kill the harsh rigors of survival took, until only a few remained.
In desperation, one of their kind--the only one still capable of shifting her shape--turned herself into a wolf, determined to learn all she could of survival from the hardy beasts and bring that knowledge back to her people. But she sank into wolf form too far, and forgot them until she she became pregnant, giving birth to a halfling that was as much wolf as elf. It was ultimately he, not she, who taught the remaining elves what they needed to know, bringing them strength, ferocity, and a connection to the world they were now exiles upon.
And that's just for starters. The rabbit hole goes far deeper from there.
It's a series that astounds. Love without ownership, a fierce interdependence of individuals all working towards a greater whole, the closeness of family, a code of ethics that is sometimes rigid but often must be determined on the fly, mistakes made and forgiven--sometimes bad ones, sacrifice, courage, responsibility, and pure blissful joy...the wisdom carried by these little four fingered dwellers just amazes.
They count as having superpowers, some can shape plants, some fly, some shape flesh, some heal, some speak to animals, and some do nothing at all. But their greatest superpower seems to be in their absolute acceptance of self. They are as flawed as any creature, ill tempers, bad judgments, and foolish actions abound. But their strength as a whole lies in the acceptance that one is no greater than the other, and that mistakes are simply a part of life. They are happy within their own skins, which makes them content to celebrate the happiness of others.
And because no one is considered "lesser" than another, no one is waste. Every elf brings something to the table. Skywise has no magic, and he seems no greater a fighter, hunter, or provider than any other Wolfrider, and in many cases is less so. But he brings knowledge, questions, a desire to reach beyond that seems to have been part of the influence that made Cutter the extraordinary chief he became. Redlance waits a long time before his powers finally blossom, and he, like Skywise, has no great skills. But he is valued for his gentle, almost healing nature. Treestump is a special delight for anyone from a youth-centric world. His outstanding contribution is...age. The Wolfriders respect him for all he has survived, and they acknowledge his wisdom, though he is hardly the stereotypical "wise elder." Instead, he is more like the tribes equilibrium, a sort of father figure, and a calm rock to rely on, even in the face of danger.
And so it goes. Everyone has value because everyone's value is recognized, and not just recognized, but sought after. The assumption is that if someone isn't bringing anything of value, it's because whatever makes them valuable simply hasn't been found yet. And through all the adventures, through all the epic battles, through all the magic and mayhem that constantly seems to surround them, this concept is what stuck with me the most. It's an ideal way of relating with one another that humans barely know how to dream for, much less strive for, given an achingly tangible form.
I truly believe that the idealized society in this story outlines what the human spirit could be, if only we loosed our self imposed shackles and set ourselves free. And, I suppose, more than the elves themselves, Wendy and Richard Pini are superheroes in my eyes, for opening my mind to a world, a culture, an ideal I barley knew existed, and giving me the ache to grasp it.
High Ones' blessings on you, my friends.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Hiatus One
Updates to my 30 days may not resume until the 7th or 8th, at which
point I will write and backdate all owed entries. I leave at 4:30 am to
hop on a plane, and I fully expect to be jet lagged and strung out upon
landing. While being on a plane may seem like a great time to write, I
have 9 hours of flight time and only one hour of battery life. So you'll
have to take my word, writing blog posts isn't about to happen.
Sorry kids.
In the meantime, watch one of my favorite videos:
For that matter, watch two:
See ya in a couple days.
Sorry kids.
In the meantime, watch one of my favorite videos:
For that matter, watch two:
See ya in a couple days.
Places I've Been - Posting Challenge, Day 5
I snagged links today! Also follow along with Tina, Jean, Krista, and Tambo as they say much more sane and less esoteric things than me. :)
Today's demand is a picture of somewhere I've been. Give me a minute.
I'm back.
Here you go:
Not what you expected?
Well, I could tell you about my life in one of five different states or around forty different cities and small towns. I could talk about the six or seven other states I have visited. I could speak of mountains, forests, scenic highways, oceans, swamps, fields, and deserts. I could talk of famous cities, of festivals and events, of clubs and nightlife, even of places that have briefly been home to me as I passed through area after area.
I won't. I'm not travel guide, and besides, you've probably already been there too. If you haven't, Google it.
I want to discuss something a little more...mythic. More surreal. Maybe even crazy. I want to talk about the place where I grew up.
Somewhere in the mind of every lonely child is a friend, just waiting to be imagined. And somewhere in the mind of every abused child is a still small place, a place they used to get away. And that a child suffering both, a creative, lonely, frightened child might create a populated world to flee to...it makes perfect psychological sense.
But it was real to me, real enough that it altered my entire life. It was a land where, in dark corners of the forest, trees bled and screamed. Where unicorns--real unicorns, not these pansy ass, horse-with-a-horn-Jesus-myth-virgin-loving-wanna-bes--were rare, beautiful, intensely magical...and were the terrifyingly vicious fighters of myth. (Seriously, I don't care how you depict a unicorn, but if you are drawing a horse with a horn, you're DOING IT WRONG.) It was a land with dangers around every corner and magic that was just a little too chaotic to be trusted, a war-torn land where children were disposable and people were suspicious and frightened even of familiar faces, and yet was also a land of incredible, awe inspiring beauty and endless, boundless potential.
I tried to write about it, in fact, spent most of my childhood locked in a battle with myself, trying to depict this inner world to my satisfaction. I eventually put that story down and moved on, after thirteen years of trying. I came to realize how difficult it was to capture, and if I succeeded in my dream, if I managed something so well that it could be published and shared but I made a mistake in that world, it would be cemented in print forever. The very thought felt like a betrayal. So I moved on to write stories about worlds that I cared about so much less. I still loved them, mind, but they weren't Home.
I suppose no one can capture the spirit of their home very well, even if they are writing pure nonfiction, and not about a world that lives in their head.
Maybe I'll take it up again, someday.
In the meantime...if you are following me through these posts, you'll recall I mentioned that I am a weirdness magnet. Let me leave you with a little weirdness that is--probably, maybe--all in my head.
But, you know? Maybe not.
Today's demand is a picture of somewhere I've been. Give me a minute.
I'm back.
Here you go:
Not what you expected?
Well, I could tell you about my life in one of five different states or around forty different cities and small towns. I could talk about the six or seven other states I have visited. I could speak of mountains, forests, scenic highways, oceans, swamps, fields, and deserts. I could talk of famous cities, of festivals and events, of clubs and nightlife, even of places that have briefly been home to me as I passed through area after area.
I won't. I'm not travel guide, and besides, you've probably already been there too. If you haven't, Google it.
I want to discuss something a little more...mythic. More surreal. Maybe even crazy. I want to talk about the place where I grew up.
Somewhere in the mind of every lonely child is a friend, just waiting to be imagined. And somewhere in the mind of every abused child is a still small place, a place they used to get away. And that a child suffering both, a creative, lonely, frightened child might create a populated world to flee to...it makes perfect psychological sense.
But it was real to me, real enough that it altered my entire life. It was a land where, in dark corners of the forest, trees bled and screamed. Where unicorns--real unicorns, not these pansy ass, horse-with-a-horn-Jesus-myth-virgin-loving-wanna-bes--were rare, beautiful, intensely magical...and were the terrifyingly vicious fighters of myth. (Seriously, I don't care how you depict a unicorn, but if you are drawing a horse with a horn, you're DOING IT WRONG.) It was a land with dangers around every corner and magic that was just a little too chaotic to be trusted, a war-torn land where children were disposable and people were suspicious and frightened even of familiar faces, and yet was also a land of incredible, awe inspiring beauty and endless, boundless potential.
I tried to write about it, in fact, spent most of my childhood locked in a battle with myself, trying to depict this inner world to my satisfaction. I eventually put that story down and moved on, after thirteen years of trying. I came to realize how difficult it was to capture, and if I succeeded in my dream, if I managed something so well that it could be published and shared but I made a mistake in that world, it would be cemented in print forever. The very thought felt like a betrayal. So I moved on to write stories about worlds that I cared about so much less. I still loved them, mind, but they weren't Home.
I suppose no one can capture the spirit of their home very well, even if they are writing pure nonfiction, and not about a world that lives in their head.
Maybe I'll take it up again, someday.
In the meantime...if you are following me through these posts, you'll recall I mentioned that I am a weirdness magnet. Let me leave you with a little weirdness that is--probably, maybe--all in my head.
But, you know? Maybe not.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Habits - Posting Challenge - Day 4
So today is all about a habit I wished I didn't have. There are so many to choose from.
I suppose I will astound friend and foe alike by saying...I wish I was a little more positive.
And before anyone decided to go get their hearing checked, let me qualify that statement--what I really mean is I wish I was less like my mother. I have had a vivid reminder of how my mother operates, and while there are many good things I could say about her, her doomday predictions make me was to slam her head into the nearest wall repeatedly. I had nearly forgotten how much her negativity brought me down or how deeply her doubts sliced into my self esteem. I have managed to curb the tendency to be that bad myself, but I have not quashed it.
Don't get me wrong, I will never be Pollyanna, and I never hope to be one. Too much sweetness and light tends to give me screaming fits, and I run put on dark music or angry horror movies to make the teeth grating cheeriness dissipate. I do not believe in the best of humanity, and I am a firm believer in Murphy's Law. In fact, I sometimes suspect I am Murphy's butt boy.
But...there is a limit. And it's a limit I often cross.
I'm not even sure how to tackle this one because I'm never sure when I'm doing it. Can't ask my friends, as every one of them has a different definition of "negative," and the ones living closest to me are the cheeriest. Honestly, I think they're genetically predispositioned to it somewhere in their DNA. All I really want is a better balance, and maybe a justified belief in the best of things again.
This one will probably take some thought.
And therapy.
And possibly a miracle.
...was that negative?
I suppose I will astound friend and foe alike by saying...I wish I was a little more positive.
And before anyone decided to go get their hearing checked, let me qualify that statement--what I really mean is I wish I was less like my mother. I have had a vivid reminder of how my mother operates, and while there are many good things I could say about her, her doomday predictions make me was to slam her head into the nearest wall repeatedly. I had nearly forgotten how much her negativity brought me down or how deeply her doubts sliced into my self esteem. I have managed to curb the tendency to be that bad myself, but I have not quashed it.
Don't get me wrong, I will never be Pollyanna, and I never hope to be one. Too much sweetness and light tends to give me screaming fits, and I run put on dark music or angry horror movies to make the teeth grating cheeriness dissipate. I do not believe in the best of humanity, and I am a firm believer in Murphy's Law. In fact, I sometimes suspect I am Murphy's butt boy.
But...there is a limit. And it's a limit I often cross.
I'm not even sure how to tackle this one because I'm never sure when I'm doing it. Can't ask my friends, as every one of them has a different definition of "negative," and the ones living closest to me are the cheeriest. Honestly, I think they're genetically predispositioned to it somewhere in their DNA. All I really want is a better balance, and maybe a justified belief in the best of things again.
This one will probably take some thought.
And therapy.
And possibly a miracle.
...was that negative?
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Me With A Friend - Posting Challenge - Day 3
Today's is both easy and hard--show a picture of me with friends.
Easy because, hey!, very little writing. (Creative punctuation, must love it.) Hard because...well...remember what I said about photos?
But it's not just that, it's that I have pics taken of me by friends, or with just one or two friends, but the picture I would wish to share would have all the people who should share the limelight, and that doesn't exist. So instead, I give you a picture of legs.
This was a Chinese New Years party. And the legs you see before you was the natural fallout of drinking at said Chinese New Years party. It was great fun.
For a while, whenever a friend and I would get drunk, we'd tussle. We'd hit, but not too hard; we weren't out to beat each other up. Mostly, we'd wrestle. Two large breasted, long legged women in short skirts, trying to take each other down.
As a matter of fact, no, we weren't the life of the mostly male dominated parties. We didn't do it for the men, you see. We often started in a quiet little corner, and it would be after we'd chatted for a long time with no sign things were headed that direction. We tended to wind up like this, in a deadlock, with neither winning and neither losing, though we would end the battles like children:
"I won!"
"Nu-uh!"
"Uh-huh"
"Nuh-uh. I got you in the piggy-nose lock!"
"Well I got you in the over-the-shoulder-boulder hold."
"That was cheating! Bras are off limits!"
"They are not."
"Yes they are!"
...you get the point. Sometimes we'd tussle again, most times we'd go for another drink and dance.
I think our crowning moment of awesome was at a Con. Some guys had started beating drums quietly down one end of a hall, just for fun, not for show. We wandered down to watch, and then the mood of the drums took us. We circled and feinted and tussled and wrestled and hit while the drums pounded, two girls just feeling their inner cavewomen. I think we were both aware the guys were grinning as the watched, but there was not a catcall to be had, not a word of leering encouragement said, just silence and the pounding of the drums. It was like a spell was cast over us all.
We never tussled again after that. Life took us in separate directions, and besides, that was a tough act to beat.
But I know what will happen if we ever see each other again, someday. We'll laugh, reminisce, drink, and sooner or later, with half forgotten drums in our heads, we'll tussle.
Easy because, hey!, very little writing. (Creative punctuation, must love it.) Hard because...well...remember what I said about photos?
But it's not just that, it's that I have pics taken of me by friends, or with just one or two friends, but the picture I would wish to share would have all the people who should share the limelight, and that doesn't exist. So instead, I give you a picture of legs.
This was a Chinese New Years party. And the legs you see before you was the natural fallout of drinking at said Chinese New Years party. It was great fun.
For a while, whenever a friend and I would get drunk, we'd tussle. We'd hit, but not too hard; we weren't out to beat each other up. Mostly, we'd wrestle. Two large breasted, long legged women in short skirts, trying to take each other down.
As a matter of fact, no, we weren't the life of the mostly male dominated parties. We didn't do it for the men, you see. We often started in a quiet little corner, and it would be after we'd chatted for a long time with no sign things were headed that direction. We tended to wind up like this, in a deadlock, with neither winning and neither losing, though we would end the battles like children:
"I won!"
"Nu-uh!"
"Uh-huh"
"Nuh-uh. I got you in the piggy-nose lock!"
"Well I got you in the over-the-shoulder-boulder hold."
"That was cheating! Bras are off limits!"
"They are not."
"Yes they are!"
...you get the point. Sometimes we'd tussle again, most times we'd go for another drink and dance.
I think our crowning moment of awesome was at a Con. Some guys had started beating drums quietly down one end of a hall, just for fun, not for show. We wandered down to watch, and then the mood of the drums took us. We circled and feinted and tussled and wrestled and hit while the drums pounded, two girls just feeling their inner cavewomen. I think we were both aware the guys were grinning as the watched, but there was not a catcall to be had, not a word of leering encouragement said, just silence and the pounding of the drums. It was like a spell was cast over us all.
We never tussled again after that. Life took us in separate directions, and besides, that was a tough act to beat.
But I know what will happen if we ever see each other again, someday. We'll laugh, reminisce, drink, and sooner or later, with half forgotten drums in our heads, we'll tussle.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Name That Blog – Posting Challenge – Day 2
Today’s posting challenge is about the name of this blog–what, why, and where it comes from.
This is hardly mysterious. My last name is Grimm, and I set up this blog (originally) to be my writing blog. You do the math.
So instead I will talk about the name of my first blog, "Screaming in the Dark." I made that blog back in the 90's, back when the internet was so new it barely had graphics and the idea of sharing information was just as new. Back when I was pretty new, too, and trying desperately to navigate a life I was ill prepared for while dodging the demons that haunted my every step.
Anyone who knows me knows my life was never a picnic. Abuse, neglect, mental programs, and a lot of anger haunted my childhood. By the time I was seventeen my mother had had enough of me and threw me out of the house. By the time I was in my early 20′s I was a wreck. I barely knew how to make friends, I worked shit jobs for too little pay–so little that even holding down two or three could not pay my meager bills–and every day seemed just a little bit darker than the last.
Some good things happened, such as me discovering a place called Ravensguild. There I made my first lifelong friends, embraced a spiritual path I was finally happy with, and discovered that everything I said, felt, and thought was not wrong or stupid or immature. I was, for the first time, respected, and it was a revelation. It wasn’t enough to cure all that ailed me, but it went a long way to making me the person I am today.
But while it made my mental life easier, it did nothing for my physical one, and could only help ameliorate the worst of my lingering emotional effects. Bluntly put, they kept me sane, but they couldn’t make me a functioning human. I felt like I was drowning, physically and emotionally, that the light was going out of the world. Every day, every breath was a struggle, and I was ill equipped to deal with it.
But a friend in the Guild noticed. He only went by Wraith; it was all I ever knew him as, even though I have long since learned the names of most of the others. He didn’t speak often of his past, and what little I learned showed his to be far darker than mine. We spoke often. I told him what was going on with me, and he told me it was okay. It was okay to be in darkness. It was okay to drown.
See, I felt I was failing at life. I often still do. But I wasn’t the failure. In fact, nothing was wrong with me at all. Everything I was was a normal response to a fucked up existence. I was, in fact, a machine of survival, bred under harsh conditions to stand up to anything. What seemed broken was merely me breaking into a new world, a world where I no longer had those conditions to endure. I had to learn all new skills, and do it without a therapeutic ear, parental guidance, or really, any help at all. I was in the deep end–sink or swim–and I was going under.
I saw this world with a stranger’s eyes, and I saw more in it than those whom it had treated gently as children. I saw the hypocrisy, the double-speak, the lies. I saw it when politicians’ swindles made lives harder and closed doors. I noticed when people were subtly rude about my value, implying I had none because I was poor. I understood as my friends could not how and why the deck was stacked against me. And I ranted about the unfairness of it, even though every rant fell on deaf ears. People who hadn’t been there didn’t believe it, people who had and survived refused to think I could be different than them while those who failed also thought they were fully to blame for their failure. The first lesson I learned as an adult in this country that there was no mercy for people like me, and that I was more disposable than a week old McDonald’s wrapper.
I was mentally broken and scarred, severely PTSD, completely alone in the world without any familial support, I had no savings, and every goal I reached towards I had to achieve completely alone. Before you say it’s easy, imagine college without loans or grants, imagine your parents never washing your clothes, no friends to lend you money or take you out, no reward for hard work but more hard work. I was in a race with the rest of the world, but someone had moved my starting line ten miles back, broken both my legs, then demanded I catch up. Then, when I found myself floundering and begged for help, they told me my failure was my fault.
It was a hard coming-of-age, an awful one, and at the time I was unable to sort all the lies from the truth; even the truths I suspected I was reluctant to give public voice to. No one agreed (oddly enough, almost 15 years later they do but it took the collapse of an economy), and most told me I was full of it. So instead I whispered it to Wraith in private.
The pain I felt, the betrayal of my country, the double standard of outward politeness and subtle discrimination, the ghosts of my past trying to devour me, my feeling of culture shock and betrayal in my own home, a stranger in a familiar land, all the unnecessary trials I had to endure, and my fury at being thrown to the wolves…he called it “screaming in the dark.” He’d been there, talking into the blackness, into people’s apathy and their unwillingness to listen or learn. He’d raged against the world, a well founded rage, and been ignored, forgotten, dismissed. Disposed of. He’d screamed defiance against his own demons as threatened his very being, and he lived in that darkness still. We both did.
He taught me the darkness is okay. The fury, the pain, all of it is as right to feel and embrace as joy or love. Getting rid of the emotions only numbs you, but it doesn’t make the source of the problem go away. Injustice will exist, always, but the brave don’t look away. The truly brave don’t fear the dark.
And he taught me that I wasn’t alone.
I remember the relief I felt. I was depressed, and that was okay. I wasn’t “broken,” I didn’t need to “cheer up” or “get over it” or “focus on the positive.” I could rest, stop struggling all the time to live up to those impossible expectations, nurse my wounds and just let them heal. All those things other people demanded of me, that was their wants, their needs, their desires, not mine. And I had no obligation to fill them.
Wraith taught me there is positive strength in pain, in sorrow, in being true to yourself and honoring your needs, even those most people would say are negative ones.
I named my first blog “Screaming in the Dark,” and that was what I did. I was young, there was an awful lot of whining done. But I said many true things as well, and I found a forum in which people would listen. And through all of them, I made my way out of the dark.
That time in my life is over, even if I feel the darkness swimming about my feet again, piranhas set on devouring me. I’m not yet certain the blog title still fits, and I am certainly fearful that I have no more wisdom or insight, but that my best years for both are behind me. I am pretty certain no one would listen, not this time, and I find myself blaming myself for my failures and cowering once again from the dark. It’s a scary damned place.
But for the moment, I’m trying it again, just to see if it’s right, just to see if it fits. Just to see where it goes. I’m walking down old roads in search of new paths, things I missed the first time around, and seeking to pick up strengths I once had but have since let fall behind me. And I am completely noncommittal. “We’ll see” is all the credence I give it.
But if I get really lucky, maybe I’ll find myself there once again.
And if I get really, really, really lucky, maybe I’ll find the ghost of a lost friend.
This is hardly mysterious. My last name is Grimm, and I set up this blog (originally) to be my writing blog. You do the math.
So instead I will talk about the name of my first blog, "Screaming in the Dark." I made that blog back in the 90's, back when the internet was so new it barely had graphics and the idea of sharing information was just as new. Back when I was pretty new, too, and trying desperately to navigate a life I was ill prepared for while dodging the demons that haunted my every step.
Anyone who knows me knows my life was never a picnic. Abuse, neglect, mental programs, and a lot of anger haunted my childhood. By the time I was seventeen my mother had had enough of me and threw me out of the house. By the time I was in my early 20′s I was a wreck. I barely knew how to make friends, I worked shit jobs for too little pay–so little that even holding down two or three could not pay my meager bills–and every day seemed just a little bit darker than the last.
Some good things happened, such as me discovering a place called Ravensguild. There I made my first lifelong friends, embraced a spiritual path I was finally happy with, and discovered that everything I said, felt, and thought was not wrong or stupid or immature. I was, for the first time, respected, and it was a revelation. It wasn’t enough to cure all that ailed me, but it went a long way to making me the person I am today.
But while it made my mental life easier, it did nothing for my physical one, and could only help ameliorate the worst of my lingering emotional effects. Bluntly put, they kept me sane, but they couldn’t make me a functioning human. I felt like I was drowning, physically and emotionally, that the light was going out of the world. Every day, every breath was a struggle, and I was ill equipped to deal with it.
But a friend in the Guild noticed. He only went by Wraith; it was all I ever knew him as, even though I have long since learned the names of most of the others. He didn’t speak often of his past, and what little I learned showed his to be far darker than mine. We spoke often. I told him what was going on with me, and he told me it was okay. It was okay to be in darkness. It was okay to drown.
See, I felt I was failing at life. I often still do. But I wasn’t the failure. In fact, nothing was wrong with me at all. Everything I was was a normal response to a fucked up existence. I was, in fact, a machine of survival, bred under harsh conditions to stand up to anything. What seemed broken was merely me breaking into a new world, a world where I no longer had those conditions to endure. I had to learn all new skills, and do it without a therapeutic ear, parental guidance, or really, any help at all. I was in the deep end–sink or swim–and I was going under.
I saw this world with a stranger’s eyes, and I saw more in it than those whom it had treated gently as children. I saw the hypocrisy, the double-speak, the lies. I saw it when politicians’ swindles made lives harder and closed doors. I noticed when people were subtly rude about my value, implying I had none because I was poor. I understood as my friends could not how and why the deck was stacked against me. And I ranted about the unfairness of it, even though every rant fell on deaf ears. People who hadn’t been there didn’t believe it, people who had and survived refused to think I could be different than them while those who failed also thought they were fully to blame for their failure. The first lesson I learned as an adult in this country that there was no mercy for people like me, and that I was more disposable than a week old McDonald’s wrapper.
I was mentally broken and scarred, severely PTSD, completely alone in the world without any familial support, I had no savings, and every goal I reached towards I had to achieve completely alone. Before you say it’s easy, imagine college without loans or grants, imagine your parents never washing your clothes, no friends to lend you money or take you out, no reward for hard work but more hard work. I was in a race with the rest of the world, but someone had moved my starting line ten miles back, broken both my legs, then demanded I catch up. Then, when I found myself floundering and begged for help, they told me my failure was my fault.
It was a hard coming-of-age, an awful one, and at the time I was unable to sort all the lies from the truth; even the truths I suspected I was reluctant to give public voice to. No one agreed (oddly enough, almost 15 years later they do but it took the collapse of an economy), and most told me I was full of it. So instead I whispered it to Wraith in private.
The pain I felt, the betrayal of my country, the double standard of outward politeness and subtle discrimination, the ghosts of my past trying to devour me, my feeling of culture shock and betrayal in my own home, a stranger in a familiar land, all the unnecessary trials I had to endure, and my fury at being thrown to the wolves…he called it “screaming in the dark.” He’d been there, talking into the blackness, into people’s apathy and their unwillingness to listen or learn. He’d raged against the world, a well founded rage, and been ignored, forgotten, dismissed. Disposed of. He’d screamed defiance against his own demons as threatened his very being, and he lived in that darkness still. We both did.
He taught me the darkness is okay. The fury, the pain, all of it is as right to feel and embrace as joy or love. Getting rid of the emotions only numbs you, but it doesn’t make the source of the problem go away. Injustice will exist, always, but the brave don’t look away. The truly brave don’t fear the dark.
And he taught me that I wasn’t alone.
I remember the relief I felt. I was depressed, and that was okay. I wasn’t “broken,” I didn’t need to “cheer up” or “get over it” or “focus on the positive.” I could rest, stop struggling all the time to live up to those impossible expectations, nurse my wounds and just let them heal. All those things other people demanded of me, that was their wants, their needs, their desires, not mine. And I had no obligation to fill them.
Wraith taught me there is positive strength in pain, in sorrow, in being true to yourself and honoring your needs, even those most people would say are negative ones.
I named my first blog “Screaming in the Dark,” and that was what I did. I was young, there was an awful lot of whining done. But I said many true things as well, and I found a forum in which people would listen. And through all of them, I made my way out of the dark.
That time in my life is over, even if I feel the darkness swimming about my feet again, piranhas set on devouring me. I’m not yet certain the blog title still fits, and I am certainly fearful that I have no more wisdom or insight, but that my best years for both are behind me. I am pretty certain no one would listen, not this time, and I find myself blaming myself for my failures and cowering once again from the dark. It’s a scary damned place.
But for the moment, I’m trying it again, just to see if it’s right, just to see if it fits. Just to see where it goes. I’m walking down old roads in search of new paths, things I missed the first time around, and seeking to pick up strengths I once had but have since let fall behind me. And I am completely noncommittal. “We’ll see” is all the credence I give it.
But if I get really lucky, maybe I’ll find myself there once again.
And if I get really, really, really lucky, maybe I’ll find the ghost of a lost friend.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
15 Things – Posting Challenge – Day 1
The official instructions are to post on Day 01- A recent picture of you and 15 interesting facts about yourself.
I warned you I’d fudge the pictures.
I warned you I’d fudge the pictures.
This is a picture of me from several years ago. Digging, of course. The blue dye in my hair had faded to a rather pleasant green, I am, as always, barefoot as possible, and I am on a mission. Aside from gaining weight, not much has changed.
I’ve done these “15 facts” things before, and I always seem to say the same things. So I’m going to try to stretch my wings on this one. Let’s see how I do.
1) I’m a Florida girl at heart. Not the soulless “Death’s Waiting Room” Florida has become, catering to the very expendable cash of people who realize they can’t take it with them, and who’s voting views look no further than the end of their ever shortening life spans. No, I’m a true Florida girl, one of the ones who can remember when Florida tourism advertised itself for the state’s natural beauty and not just tourist trap beaches and hotel pools. I am swamps and bugs, beach sand and sticker bushes, hurricanes and hundred degree weather, buzzards and eagles and hawks and ten types of cranes, I am antebellum trees with hanging moss, alligators and armadillos, bikinis and bare feet.
I am the living embodiment of the memory of the state, of the land, which is slowly dying as short sighted fools build in a place with no natural barriers to stop them. Florida was once not paved all up and down the coast to the point that the only way you knew you exited one city and entered the next was a sign telling you so. You didn’t find an air conditioner in every building, and old faces everywhere you looked. Florida has been consumed by people who exploit her worse than a five year old sex slave, and like that unfortunate child, they will use her until she dies. She is dying.
I secretly root for hurricanes with high property (not people) damage. I root for fires and floods, for the unsavory reputation of death to follow closely on the heels of her name. I want people to think twice before moving here. I want them to consider other warm places, Arizona, Texas, Alabama, or half the bloody South. I want those who only care about their next breathing day (young and old, mind), and who devoid the state of opportunity, of growth, of beauty, of any reason for youth to stay, of any help to the non-wealthy farmers and laborers who daily strive to make this a state worth living in to leave. I want them to find other homes and never return.
I want my state back.
2) I have very limited reading habits, which I’m told for a writer is suicide. I read sci-fi, fantasy, horror, and a (very) little bit of romance. I also read countless fun articles, news articles and blogs online, though I’m not sure how these officially classify.
I don’t so much read non-fiction as skim for what I need, and most straight fiction (aside from select humor) bores the crap out of me. I consider most suspense and westerns as “men’s fiction,” meaning they are fast in pace but often low in characterization. I also eventually quit reading mysteries for this reason–I was supposed to care about what was going on, but I didn’t. I feel obligated to struggle through classics, though I do admit a few of them are perennial favorites. Overall, though, the daily human experience holds little thrill for me–to me, I can look out a window and see it. It’s making the impossible seem real that turns me on, so that is what I read.
On the flip side, I do read voraciously.
3) I have a strange idea of beauty. I think lush green lands are very pretty, but…postcard pretty. Uninspiring. For beauty that shakes me to the core, give me miles and miles of miles and miles. The ocean’s vast emptiness, the unfolding desert, the middle of winter when the leaves are off the trees and you can finally see the land rolling away before you. I love skies that go on forever, rainstorms seen in the distance, sunsets and sunrises that brand the sky halfway into tomorrow. The beauty I seek doesn’t have to be harsh, but it should have grit.
Perfect beauty on people bothers me too. Give my a slightly asymmetrical face, a smile too wide or too crooked, some lines, crows feet, scars, a little bit of pudge. Dolls and statues are beautiful because in them we can create a human ideal. People are beautiful because of their flaws. Anyone without flaws is also without humanity, without the imprint life leaves on us all. They are pod people, and as such are to be avoided. And screw a media that says otherwise.
4) I have found the way to discourage people from reading things is to be verbose. So if you want to publicize personal facts without having people actually read them, just talk a lot. (By the way, how you doing in this post so far?)
5) I’m double jointed to the point that sometimes things…spontaneously dislocate. I don’t know why, but my guess is I stretch the tendons or something just a little too far. Old age is gonna be fuuuuunnn…..
6) I like long hair on both men and woman, and I think the cultural push towards ever shorter hair is criminal. I will admit, there are people who look best in shorter hair, and even I prefer them that way, but I think it should be personal choice, not a cultural no-no. For both genders. I also think there is nothing unprofessional about well kept long hair on men or women, and that with all the other things we need to worry about, nitpicking someone for long locks is just plain petty.
7) I overcooked my toast and now it’s a briquette. Hey, it’s a thing….
8) I love writing, but I absolutely hate, hate, hate the process. This was something I held as a shameful secret for years. But then, much to my surprise, I discovered I was not the only one. Some people write shallowly, and you can tell. Others rip open hidden corners of their souls and struggle to get it on paper. How hard that struggle is, I think, depends on how good a grip you have on your inner demons and past nightmares, and as it turns out, a surprising number of people don’t have a grip that’s all that good.
To everyone who keeps on plugging away anyway, driven by muses with whips who chain you to a writing implement, I salute you. This should, in the end, be a “fun” thing, but I’m not sure it should ever be easy.
9) I want to have a pet skunk, a couple ferrets, breed Scottish Fold kittens, and own a greyhound, a Great Dane, and a small dog. My perfect household will be overrun with animals. And kids.
10) I once had a cockroach in my cleavage. No, I don’t feel like sharing that story today; I just told you to tease you.
11) I have a memory of something that happened before I was born. Not telling that story today either. Instead, I’ll just link it.
12) I’m a weirdness magnet. If something is going to go strange, I tend to be standing somewhere in the vicinity, if not at ground zero. Most of the time I’m just minding my own business when it happens, too.
Wait, you want examples? Don't ask for much, do you?
Well…two UFOs (not aliens, but flying objects with zero explanation behind them, I looked), an odd experience that I can only describe as a fairy encounter, several ghost-like encounters and one haunted house, shared dreams with an ex, and a few experiences to frightening to go into. Also, there was the time I got into an exclusive camp because I wrote on a wall (they weren’t mad and it wasn’t punishment, they were impressed), twice I was stranded on the road and helped (safely) by complete strangers, survived an accident that should have killed me, and a whole lot more. Seriously, my life makes no sense, and people who’ve lived with me can and will attest to this.
Thankfully, I have yet to make a door fall off a plane, though.
13) I like caves and underground spaces. I go into them even though I suffer a touch of claustrophobia and find them uncomfortable places to be. This may go back to that whole weird concept of beauty–I think they are marvelous. I also love exploring ruins for much the same reason.
14) I am a Southern eater to the core. Sweet tea, grits, fried catfish, greens, black-eyed peas, and all those other down-home foods are my nirvana. I have had fancy food, foreign food, and things so delicious they’ll make your toes curl, but offer me a choice between those things and cheese grits and the grits win every time. However, a good red curry is a fighting second place.
15) I did this for a year:
The falling down? I did lots of that, too.
It was how I got past a suicidal depression. Needless to say, I wasn’t much fun for my teammates, and I think they were happy to see me go. But it saved my life. I can’t do it again–too time intensive, it costs too much money, and then there’s the little matter of having blown out both my ankles–but I’m glad I did it. I wouldn’t take back the experience for the world.
Duty, DONE. Honestly, I’m not that interesting of a person, and some of my most interesting bits I don’t want to talk about right now anyway. Maybe I’ll revisit it next year and see if I have anything different to say.
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