See Life.

Vampyroteuthis infernalis.


I cloak myself in spirit
Hand over hand, I string my beaming soul from my heart, out through my mouth.
I dust it off, and wring it out, release it to the wind, watching it balloon over my head and float down to my feet.
I pull it over my tingling toes and my arms easily reach into the sleeves.
I zip my ghostly jumper over my form, so only my eyes are seen.
Lastly, I raise my hooded shield, nothing like my former homogeneous self.
Pupils expand with glowing anticipation.
Far off ideations weave the essence of my shroud.
I pull the silk gloves of grace snugly over my hands, stretching out my fingers, and snapping the fabric at my wrist to ensure their tailored fit.
My instrument I lift with confidence, and bold strokes of ink flood the manuscript.
Composure escapes as I compose.
My veil hums as its patches are revealed incongruently.
I have turned the page inside out:
The unscripted portrait is the story of my life.



To me, writing is alive.  I treat reading like surgery.  I regularly operate on a number of texts.  I cut away at tissue and muscle and bone until I can hold the beating heart of a book in my hands.  I wrote this thinking about that.  Thinking to myself; if I could turn writing inside out, what would it look like?

Music to my ears

Sometimes an accompaniment is necessary...so if you'd please Right Click and hit Open in New Tab, I'd be ever so grateful.  Without knowing a single word of Italian, this song makes me feel 15 years old.  I am pulling out of the driveway at 1215 N. Sixth Street all over again, saying goodbye to the house I grew up in and the life I had thus far known to head to Florida: an exotic, far off land of Disney World, and tanned beach goers.  People nothing like me! ...It also makes me think of my Meme who LOVES Andrea Bocelli.  And my sister because she played this song at her wedding.  What does it make you feel? Who does it make you think of?  Do you feel happy?  Sad?  Both?

Without meaning to, I've managed to weave music into almost every post I've written, and even if it wasn't there, you can bet your arse I was listening to some when I wrote it.  I am a big fan of music (...really, who isn't?).  I consider my generation, perhaps arrogantly so, to be 'music connoisseurs'.  Of course, I also believe this is through no effort of our own; we are merely fortunate members of the human race existing in the right time and place.  A time when music sharing and exposure to new artists, old artists, cultures, and varieties is at a peak.  Thanks to the multitude of mediums out there (so many, that I won't even begin to list them; I will cheat with a catch all: THE INTERNET), not a day goes by when I don't listen to music, oftentimes hearing something I've never heard before.  Music, to me, is a pinnacle of inspiration.  As a person who reveres syntax and cultural interpretation of syntax, a well written verse can only be enhanced by what Webster's Dictionary defines as "the science or art of ordering tones or sounds in succession, in combination, and in temporal relationships to produce a composition having unity and continuity."  Simply put, it flows.  Music has the unique ability to instantaneously affect our mood.  A good song can make you want to skip and dance and yell out to the world.  A nostalgic song can cause immediate lumps in the throat, and the sting of hot tears.  Each person, artist included, imbibes different meanings from certain songs.  Some might loathe an entire genre, while others would extol its existence.  It is completely relative. 

This theory of 'musical relativity' is nothing new.  Part of being a great artist is relinquishing the rights to meaning the second your work goes public.  If each of us read into everything the same way, the world would be perfect...and incredibly boring.  So it's no wonder, really, that we often find ourselves at odds with each other; hearing unspoken words, assuming one meaning, when it might very well be another.  In addition to being a music enthusiast, I am also a communication enthusiast.  I like to think very carefully about things before I say anything.  And then I like to talk things to death.  And when I'm done talking about them, I usually write about them.  And when I'm done writing about them, I usually reread what I wrote, and then start thinking all over again....well.  It can be very exhausting...and I don't just mean for me, but mostly for those on the receiving end of my communicative hyperbole (...or babble).

I am going somewhere with this, I promise.  Thinking about music and communication, made me reconsider my approach to the latter.  Music is (usually) succinct and direct.  It can drive home a point quickly, and with just the right sized spoonful of sugar (pun intended; think Lily Allen's **** You  This is the clean version...but still.....not a song for conservative ears....Mom).  Sarcasm put to a good tune, is nonetheless sarcasm.  I wish I could communicate just in music sometimes.  I'm not talking about a Glee-ified world where everyone breaks into song at any given moment (although, how fun indeed!!), but rather, being a sharper version of myself.  Rather than fumbling around, trying to anticipate what everyone else will read into what I'm saying, just saying it and letting it be.  I fall victim to the 'explanation' constantly.  "Let me explain what I meant here."  "To further clarify, dot dot dot." "In case I wasn't clear, yada yada yada."  And, really, at the end of the day, I have a feeling that's what most people get out of what I'm saying: a lot of dot dot dots, and yada yada yadas.  I need to learn to reign in my wordy wordliness.  I blame all those lawyers I have to listen to all day.  An important part of the creative process is learning what to say and when...but also what NOT to say.  I think it would be best, for today, if I cranked down my thoughts, and cranked up my showtunes...

So.  With all that said, since I'm sure I've far exceeded my personally imposed word limit once again, I bid you adieu!  Which, if you've made it this far, should be music to your ears.  Thanks for bearing with me!!  :) 
xo

The Skinny

Last night, I went to The Plaza to see Peter, Bjorn, and John and if you didn't make it out, it has to be said; you should be peanut butter and JEALOUS!!!  Not ONLY were they even better live (which is always my measure of great music), but the crowd was eclectic, and fun, and completely pumped for the show, making the exchange between artist and audience just. plain. AWESOME.  There were plenty of fedoras, plaid, and skinny jeans to please even the devoutest of hipsters, making the 'people' watching almost as fun as the 'Peter watching'.  (How adorable is he!? And YES, he is really whistling.  I am a witness.  Partake in a small sampling of their songs here, here, and (my personal favorite) here!).  It's Swedish delight. 

So that's the skinny on my Thursdsay!  Exciting as it was, I bid it a fond farewell; I will be promptly picking Michael up from school today and he, myself, and Jimbo will be transforming ourselves into a jedi, a fairy, and a vampire, respectively, so to partake in Mickey's Not So Scary Halloween Party.  Michael picked our costumes, and in the spirit of Halloween (and maybe a little bit of cruelty) I tried to privately convince him that Jim should be the fairy, and I the vampire....but, alas, at almost 7, he's hip to my tricks.  SIGH.  So it's just treats tonight, for this fairy.  Oh well...C'est la vie, right? 

Happy Weekend!

I'll leave you with the skinny on another GREAT band and song....  Bon Iver: C'est Magnifique!.  C'est tout, folks.

Go get Busy

 There is a boatload of laundry waiting to be ironed, a sink full of dishes waiting to be washed, lunches waiting to be made, and beds waiting to be unmade so Maureen's a certain weary head can lay to rest.  But never mind all that.  It's dark, the boy child is in bed, the man child is occupied with his new, important, and TOP SECRET mission for BCS (seriously.  I want to tell you about it SO BADLY, but I can't.  I'm in the circle of trust.), and I'm happy to tap away the stress of the day right here, and right now that's what matters.

I function best on days which are filled to the brim.  Probably a symptom of growing up with 3 siblings, 5 extra-curriculars each at any given time, 2 parents, and only 7 days in the week.  When my teachers or parents used to tell me to 'go get busy,' I used to want to say, 'no need to go get her.  you're looking at her.'  Busy is my middle name.  I like to stay on the go.  I also like to complain about this, as though I myself don't plan out every minute of my life.  But the truth is, when I have nothing to do, I'm not good at doing it.  I always have to be tasked with something, or going somewhere, or coming from somewhere.  It is simply, and if you ask Jim-dear, sometimes regretfully, my nature.

  It's tough to really devote myself to creative endeavors when I'm always go! go! go!  I don't nurture the small amount of talent I may have, and I certainly don't harvest the great amount of desire and ideas I know I have.  I can never focus on a centralized idea, but rather, satisfy my whims by slapping them on a word document, disjointed and unfinished.  I have enough characters to rival Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros (if you can get past his Jesus complex, and her Swiss Family Robinson haircut, they're seriously good music).  I could write a novel with excerpts from ideas.  Derivatives from my right brain.  None of them have much to do with each other...but the words are there.  It's frustrating for two reasons.  One: it's easy to be a defeatist in a truly competitive industry.  The chances of me having any literary success are slim, and that's realistic.  Two: I'm really not going to succeed if I never try at all, and I, of all people, know that!  I was reading a great interview a few weeks back with one of my favorite actresses, Rita Wilson.  In it, she responds to an inquiry on how fate plays a role in our careers and our professional choices, saying, "...whatever you loved to do as a kid you should probably be doing as an adult."  She goes on to highlight our innocence as children, our purity of heart and purpose.  We did what we did because we loved it. 

When I was a kid, I wrote stories.  ENDless stories about endless topics (frequently about two dogs named Max and Sadie).  I know, I know...you thought I'd say something about acting right??  I did plenty of that, too, but still under the guise of creating anew.  I loved to make up new people with new backgrounds and histories and futures.  I read this article and it was like a lightening bolt hit me between the eyes!  Why, as a child, when I was probably more prone to distraction and deficits of attention, did I have more patience to write with a focus and a purpose than I do now as an adult?  And I can partially answer that; for one, my stories were short and undoubtedly not very "deep."  I also have many more responsibilities as an adult than I did as a child.  My priorities are different.  But it sure did get me thinking about that "P" word.  Priorities.  Why isn't my writing a priority?  Because it may be pointless?  And then I started thinking about that other  "P" word.  Pointless.  As a believer in a higher authority, a grander plan, I try not to see anyone or anything as pointless.  Yet, here I am, applying lackluster faith to my own contribution. 

I believe we are each called to a vocation in life.  The more time I invest in thinking and praying about it, the more sure I become that my vocation is one of the written word.  I have no idea what direction that will take.  For all I know, it might never leave this page.  It's exciting to think, though, that I'm starting to see more clearly on my path, hazy as it still may be.  It's exciting, and scary, and a little overwhelming knowing what you want, or at least having an idea.  I guess it just makes me want to....get busy :)   

Fast Food for the Soul

I am a glutton for gossip.  I try so hard not to be...but sometimes I don't try so hard, and that's when it gets the best of me.  Gossip fodder is easy to come by these days, thanks to our socially networked world.  All one has to do is log onto Facebook to get a heavy dose of personal revelations, pictures, interactions, and it's ready; set; GOssip!  And every time after I do it, I feel like I've eaten a big mac and fries; kind of sick, hardly satisfied, and always craving more. 

Last night, I indulged my habit for 'chewing the fat' (see: Southern Phrases 101), and it went over as expected.  It felt really good for about an hour, and then it began to settle in my stomach.  My words were particularly spiteful, occurring in the wake of a bad day and a contentious argument which had left me feeling frustrated and hurt.  I picked up the phone, called one of my best friends, and proceeded to pick the person apart in the worst kind of way.  You know how it is after someone really fries your grits (again, SP 101).  You aim for the first place you can think of to cut them down, and it's usually a low blow.  It's easy to focus on character flaws and personal grievances, rather than confronting the issue at hand.  In those moments of anger, it feels so good to just lash out!  But then the aftermath is something of a hangover; at least, for me, anyway. 

So I guess today my soul is a little hungover.  Because what they don't tell you when you really stick it to someone, is that it's a double-edged sword.  Unkindness breeds guilt which breeds resentment which breeds more unkindness.  It's as though you're saying, "fine, we'll BOTH feel terrible!"  Not a very nice way to treat ourselves, if you ask me.  Normally, in situations like that, I try to take a walk, breathe deeply, write about it in my personal journal, meditate, pray.  I try to remember who I am, and who my parents taught me to be.  Someone with compassion, and empathy.  Someone who doesn't endorse vengeance, or spite.  It's tough!!  But, as I've discovered, if I avoid those 'big macs' for long enough., I'm still able to discern the difference between them and healthy food.  When you start visiting that drive-thru every day; taking each opportunity to cut down, or hurt a difficult person in your life, or your past...then you have problems.  Because before long, you fail to see the difference between the high road and the low road.  You spend your time looking for the next easy out, the next quick fix. 

I'm not perfect, and that's OK.  Yesterday wasn't the first time I've been ashamed of my words or behavior and it won't be the last.  But if I can continue to see it; if I continue to nourish my spirit with good things, and good people, and healing words, I think I'll make it out unscathed. 

To that person about whom I said those awful things:  I'm very sorry.  Unaware as you are that I said it, and unaware as you may be of my remorse, I am truly sorry. 

I feel much better!  Sushi for lunch, anyone?

Lately...

Michael has been asking to wake up early in order to have time to read from his new favorite series The Magic Tree House by Mary Pope Osborne.  I'm not joking.  ...But I may be bragging.  Michael is a child of the 'non-morning' variety.  As early as 3 years old I was dragging him out of bed to make it to pre-school on time, something I was sure didn't happen until at least  the sixth grade.  I have tried everything from rewarding, to punishing, to ET-ing (come on, trail of Reeses Pieces, keep up), and back again.  Nothing could motivate that child to get out of bed.  As my therapist put it, I hadn't "found his currency."  (Oh, don't give me that face.  It's 2011.  Look to your right and look to your left; that's how many people secretly see a therapist).  Then, my sweet Jim decided we weren't challenging Michael's reading ability as we should be (he's so smart, that guy!).  "Enough with Clifford!" he declared, and promptly went out and bought the 1st three Magic Tree House books.  (Should you be considering them, there are 50+.  Start small). 

Personally, I loved the big red dog...but that was mostly because it meant my baby was still a baby.  It felt like overnight Michael transfromed from a reluctant reader into a voracious one!  Having been on a 1st grade reading level since the beginning of Kindergarten (OK, now I'm definitely bragging), I wasn't surprised by his ability, but moreover his appetite.  He is hungry for books.  Enough so, that when I crept into his room today before the sun was up and gently nudged him, he sat up like the house was on fire and immediately began pushing back the covers, anticipating the adventures awaiting him on his desk.  I don't know if there is anything more thrilling than seeing my 6-almost-7 year old so thrilled himself over the world he's entered.  Part of me, the B.A. in Literature part, wants to tell him the thousands upon thousands of worlds that await.  His imagination has no idea what's in store!!  But another part of me, the Mommy part, wants to dust off The Berenstain Bears and sit and read with him while I do my very best Papa Bear voice (think Yogi Bear meets Eeyore).  Ultimately, I have to meet myself in the middle, learning to encourage and challenge his intellect, while easing him into his newfound literary independence.  My Mom used to warn me that school was the beginning of the end.  Once your children get there, each year carries them a little further away.   As depressing as that is, it's a bitter pill I will gladly swallow if it means Michael is excelling at one of, if not the most valuable skills we ever acquire.  And anyway; since "no one can do Papa Bear like me"....I think our daily story time will be safe for a while longer ;)

When the Dog Bites...

Today, for the most part, was barren of inspiration.  I am usually struck, on average, between 5 and 10 times a day (depending on my surroundings, digital or otherwise) with something I would love to write about.  As it's Monday, however, and as I overslept and had no time to coordinate my outward appearance to my satisfaction, I find myself sitting in puddle of dull.  Just a big, sloppy, overflowing, 'I can't wait until pj's and bed' pond of UGH.   You know those days.  You do. 


Good day!!



Bad day.





So with little inspiration, and a lot of flyaways, I come armed to talk about a few of my favorite things: The Fall; Jane Austen; and Princess Fiona (a sweet pooch who shares my abode).  

There is just nothing better than the fall.  It is my absolute favorite time of year.  The warm smells and vibrant colors and excitment for holidays and the sound of crunchy leaves under your feet!  It's around this time of year, every year, that I begin to pine for the Midwest.  Come January, you'll find me cheerfully oblivious to the pounds of snow being dumped elsewhere around the country, but right now I envy the change of scenery, the swell of oranges and reds and yellows throughout treetops, and, most of all, the relief of fresh, cool air.  Florida skips fall (and winter) and heads right into spring, something I've always resented (because, naturally, I want it all!).  I haven't had a real "fall" since 1999, the last time I spent a complete one up north.  Instead, I have to be satisfied with brief stints and visits here and there, sometimes on the cusp of fall, barring me from getting the full affect.  After years of Autumn dissatisfaction, I did what any girl would do...I snagged me a Midwest Boy!  Now, I have an excuse to visit fall every year...thinking about that (and him) makes me smile today, despite my scruffy appearance.

Another favorite thing that's getting me through my case of Mondays is  the Jane Austen marathan waiting for me in the DVD player right now.  Recently, a supervisor who shares my 'all things Jane' passion, generously bestowed upon me the A&E original Pride and Prejudice series featuring Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle (which, yes, I've never seen. Pause for ridicule).  I swore up and down to Ms. P that I would NEVER betray my love for the most recent Pride and Prejudice, but took the series anyway, just so I could say I had watched it and put the issue to rest.  Approximately an hour and a half in, I realized why her desktop background is Colin Firth.  Four hours in, and I am trying to justify (to myself.  and Jimmy, even though he usually has no idea what I'm talking about) why I do indeed love the Matthew Macfadyen version (don't ever call it the 'Keira Knightley' version.  Mr. Darcy owns this one, no question!) so much better.  I do think Jane was better cast in 2005.  I also think that I could do without the weird hallucinations of Mr. Darcy Elizabeth keeps having.  Ultimately, though?  Ms. P may be right in her assessment (don't ever tell her though!).  A&E's version is, of course, longer which allows for a closer relationship to the novel.  Being thus, the viewer gets to see ALL the characters and come to know them with more accuracy, as well.  I still have to conclude the series (which I plan to do tonight in the aforementioned pj's and bed), but I think it's safe to say at this point; my allegiance might just have changed. 

Lastly, amongst my favorite things, there is no way I could fail to mention Mr. Michael Magoo, who lives in the room down the hall and has occupied my 2nd bedroom and my heart for *almost* 7 (SEVEN!?) years.  Michael, my most beloved son, has the perfect size bed for our new addition; Princess Fiona, aka Fifi, aka Phoebe, aka Chihuahua-Maltese we inherited from Jimmy's best friends.  We often find her snuggled at its foot after an afternoon at Disney, or a workday.  Last night, I snuck into Michael's room to put some laundry away while he slept.  After sneaking back out again, and prepping for my own foray into dreamland, I began to look for Fifi so she could get to bed, too.  She wasn't on the couch; she wasn't in "her" tent (Michael's playroom tent, which she has comandeered as her own), and she wasn't in her actual bed, where she was supposed to be.  I was stumped.  Had I left the back door open?  Was she hiding under a bed?  Peeking into Michael's room, I found the little princess snoozing quietly next to my prince, at the foot of his bed.  I couldn't even really be upset; I know just how she feels.  There's nothing better than drifting off to sleep nearest the ones you love. 

Just a few of my favorite things before I make my Monday escape!  What's getting you through yours?

xo!

Once Upon a Time...

I believed in fairy tales. I used to envision being swept off my feet, just like when Mayo scoops up Paula in An Officer and a Gentleman. I would be wearing a sweeping silk gown (I rejected the 'factory setting' from the movie). My hair would be flowing down my back, and my dainty feet would be kicked up in the air when my personal Knight in Shining Armor carried me away in a fit of passion which he could just no longer deny.

And then...then I realized that that movie was actually released two years before I was even born.  I realized that by now the stress of military life would probably have caused their marriage to self-destruct, leaving Mayo a cold and hardened military machine with no show of outward emotion, and Paula a bitter and cynical middle aged divorcee with 2 kids and a dog who bashes men at her book club each week.

Reality is harsh. And unfair. That's not to say there aren't Mayo's and Paula's out there who make it, and even happily so. I'm just saying that real life is gritty and not necessarily filled with officers waiting to carry you away from your day job (unless you've committed a heinous crime). In real life, my feet are not dainty, and are in badly need of a pedicure. In real life, it would take a very strong man to pick me up and carry me away, because I like food a lot, and my body shows it. That's real life. Fairy tales, while providing feel-good fun and warm fuzziness, are just that; tales. They're stories, lore, myth even.

I certainly believe in soul mates, and love that lasts for a lifetime, and happy endings. But, moreover, I believe in love as a choice...not just a feeling. It's waking up, every day, and choosing to love your partner over any other person. It's recognizing, honoring, and maintaining that commitment. And it's hard as heck some days!!! Because no one is perfect and no one has it all together, all the time. But loving through the sour, to me, makes the bond that much sweeter.

I still believe in 'fairy tales'. I believe that people, who come from nothing, can achieve anything. I believe that the country we live in and the freedom we enjoy is absolutely a fairy tale. The resilience we show as a human race in the face of suffering IS a fairy tale! But when it comes to it, I prefer to live my story...and while it's no fairy tale, it is an overwhelmingly blessed life to live.

We hold these truths to be self-evident...

I would compose an eloquent, stunning, edge-of –your seat, inaugural-type address, except; I sort of already did. Oops! But that’s OK! I’ve been lazily parading poems on this blog since 2008, and I feel no closer to achieving any goals. Scratch that; I feel no closer to creating any goals. A wise person told me that I should stop writing to you, and just write to write. To that end, I decided; it can’t hurt!

I remember when LiveJournal was all the rage. OK, well, maybe not all the rage, but I had a raging obsession with a boy who used it, so I became a frequent visitor to his page. I would pour over his deep, meaningful posts about Linkin Park, extracting meaning out of each word in order to better understand his enticingly mysterious 19 year old self. Without knowing it, I was a pioneer of the social media revolution. It marked the beginning of my initiation into digital stalking.

3 times I tried to start my own online journal (you know, in case anyone wanted to analyze why I posted song lyrics from Say Goodbye), but every time the same thing would happen. I would have all these scintillating thoughts in my head (I didn’t just quote DMB… I also liked to cover Coldplay, Jack Johnson, Counting Crows, The Cranberries! The Cranberries, man!). I would sit down, and. Just. And some more of. I wasn’t even brave enough to write someone else’s thoughts down. And then, something happened. Well, lots of things happened, but a big thing happened; my heart got broken for REAL. Like, cry on the bathroom floor, stop eating, lose hope, and wear the same outfit to work 3 days in a row broken. It was pretty gross (the outfit, I mean. I had to walk up a really big hill in Florida heat each morning). But out of that came this amazing flood of emotion. I suddenly had all these things to say, and no matter how much Mr. McDevitt’s typing class had helped, my fingers couldn’t keep up with my thoughts (which were all over the place). They flew out in all different directions landing on everything you can think of; childhood, antiquing, birthing, love, hate, forgivness, Chris Farley, split ends, traveling…the list goes on. I had all this stuff to say.

When I later sat down and read through all that junk I realized why I had to say it. Because I was finally listening to myself. I was finally acknowledging who I was…and who I wasn’t…(like, for instance, I am not a baseball fan. I thought that I was, but I decidedly DON’T care in the least bit about MLB. I AM a Cubs fan, but Cubs fans are obviously not baseball fans, either.). I had never been so confident; so ready to accept me. So—I wrote a declaration of independence. I seceded from the union that prodded my aching heart, and I stated my intentions…for myself. Granted, things have changed since 3 years ago, and when I read this now, I have to smile at some of my demands. But I would smile anyway, because…finally…I sat down and…..

•  I deserve someone who respects my beliefs, even if he doesn't agree with them. Someone who isn't afraid to disagree, but does it without making me feel like a lesser person.  Someone who loves my friends, even if it's only because they are my friends. Someone who makes sacrifices, even if it's just the little ones like seeing a movie I pick once in awhile.  Someone who is grateful for what I do, and who is willing to compromise. I deserve someone who is willing and ready for commitment. And someone who wants it! With me!! I deserve someone who knows I have flaws and doesn't try to fix them. Period. I deserve someone who will let me love him. Someone who will take me dancing. Someone who I can talk to and who listens. Someone who likes to talk to me. Someone who has his priorities straight. Someone who doesn't get jealous, or make me feel like I should be. Someone who doesn't play games! Someone who is mature, and confident, but kind to others. That's a big one…someone who is a genuinely nice, compassionate person. Someone who listens to me when I go on my political rants, or my literary rants, or my rants in general! Someone who knows me, who gets me. Someone who knows himself. Someone who recognizes that we are all we have in this crazy, overwhelming, confusing, terrible, wonderful, tragic, scary, elating experience called life. The best gift we have is each other…and I want a guy who understands that.

I wrote my soon-to-be husband into existence…and I’ve been writing ever since :-)