One week later

I’m trying to make use of my room upstairs. I wish it wasn’t so dark up here, and small, but I should be grateful that there is a place for me to go when I want to be alone. Everything is dusty and cramped at the moment; work on the kitchen continues and the whole house is in dissaray.

It's been a week now since we lost Akasha, and I'm finally able to look at her name without breaking down into a sobbing wreck. We knew it was going to happen, but you're never really ready for it. We had this weak hope that the vet would look at her, give us some vitamins, and we'd have her a little longer. Unfortunately, that's not how it happened. One look and the vet said it's time to let her go.

I had no shame weeping in front of these people. When you're about to lose someone precious to you, the last thing on your mind is wondering how you look. I didn't care. All I could do is look at her on the steel examination table, lying on a green flannel blanket and thinking this is the last image I'll have of Akasha in my head. I think she was ready though. Her eyes had been vacant for the last few days, and she had stopped eating that week. Nothing was left of our former 21 lb cat but bones and fur, and whenever I picked her up she was practically weightless.

The vet let us have a moment to make our decision and be alone with our pet for a little while longer. I couldn't believe how much it hurt. It still hurts a week later, but it was unbearable at the time. We petted her, cried, and when the vet returned we said we were ready. She explained the procedure again to us: she would put an IV on Akasha's paw, then inject the medication into the tube. Akasha would probably be confused, look around, then just fall asleep peacefully. It happened just so, except for the confused part. She merely put her head down on her left paw, and then she was gone.

I cried for three days.

This morning I woke up after dreaming about tigers. I was walking to a friend's house in Detroit, and ahead in my path was a huge dead tiger. I dream in color, and its orange and black striped hide contrasted loudly with the dirty landscape. I walked past it, then I saw another one playing in the street. It went into a beat up truck and sat next to a dangerous looking blond man with long, dirty hair tied into a pony tail. He looked at me, and I looked away. Maybe he was death, and I didn't want to look death in the eyes for fear of what might happen.

Maybe it doesn't matter.

At last

It's finally happened. I had my Office Space acronym moment and it's as bewildering as I imagined it would be.

Among my usual emails this morning, I received an SLT schedule. This was a follow-up on the SLT & ELT from last April, which are clearly illustrated through a delightful color-coded scheme that is easy to follow. I was then instructed to await the next SLT update that would be on its way in the next few weeks.

I looked at the email addressees, and noted that they were all executive administrative assistants. I also assumed they all knew what this was about, and that I was probably the only one who didn't know what the f*** an SLT was. Stunning Latino Tata's? System Lord Teatimes? Hell if I know. My choices are to either wait and see if more clues appear in future emails, or I can ask the assistant to one of the higher-ups who has a sense of humor and would at least find my confusion entertaining.

Strapping Lads of Toronto? Sinister Lilac Tongues? Oy. I don't know.

Muse

He’s right. I hate it when he’s right.

David is the real thing. For years he has pursued screenwriting and actually gotten some real attention for his efforts. It’s unnerving to know this when we discuss writing, though he does treat me as an equal. I still see myself as a pretender, who frequently talks about being an author of many brilliant works of literature, but still can’t seem to finish anything. So tonight, he asks me how my efforts are going. I tell him.

“Damn, you know I was going to write tonight but I left my laptop at work.”

“That’s no excuse. You can write on anything. And what about that room you have upstairs? Do you go up there much?”

I cringe as he says this, because I haven’t and he’s about to make a very good point.

“That’s a really cool room. If I had a room like that I’d be up there writing all the time.”

The last person I expected any support from was David. I guess I can’t seem to let go of the guy I went to high school with who was sarcastic and incredibly insensitive most of the time – a typical honor roll nerd guy. This was his personality up to our early 30’s, and I would actually go for long periods of time not contacting him because of some offense, which he still refers to as the “anti-David” periods. This would last up to six months, during which I wouldn’t respond to his emails or instant messages or simply wouldn’t acknowledge him when we crossed paths. He’d get the message, though he would call me petty later on after I forgave him.

But I could never stay mad at him. He was David. He was a good person who made me laugh with his hilarious mock German and intimidating intellect. I knew we would be friends until we were old and decrepit, sipping our peach Metamucils during Bingo and being quietly content with the other’s presence. That’s just how it was going to be.

And he’s been full of surprises.

The first occurred last November. I decided to take part in “National Novel Writing Month” which is sponsored annually by Nanowrimo out of San Francisco. Basically, you’re given one month to write a novel of 50,000 words, and if you reach your goal you print the winner’s certificate (which is absolutely delightful to look at) and feel really quite proud of yourself. Also, you get congratulations from all the people who knew you were doing it.

I wasn’t going to tell David, but I ended up including him in the email announcing my participation. I really didn’t expect any response from someone who has an agent and regularly talks to producers, but he surprised me by responding a few minutes later with some brief but very helpful advice and encouragement. It was unexpected. I mean, really unexpected. Like he had finally consented to lend me his precious copy of Animal Farm and said “Go ahead. Keep it.”

This was the same person who had, not too many months ago, pissed me off for making a condescending comment about my band. The same guy who, on occasion, would bring up the name of an ex-boyfriend and follow it with “What were you thinking?” Also the same guy who, on this cold February night, reminded me that I had a very delightful room upstairs that was perfect for pursuing my literary aspirations – and why wasn’t I using it?

Which brings us to the second surprise. I thought his visit tonight was just to catch up on life, but instead David takes a sip of his tea and announces he’s getting a divorce. He’s moving out of his house this week and being alone again for the first time in eight years. He says these things without drama but not entirely without emotion, because I can sense in his voice and see in his eyes that this wasn’t something he expected to happen, but he’d been thinking about it for a long time. Nobody’s fault, he explains, and certainly not hers. He had thought maybe coming over might take his mind off things. So there we were, sipping green tea in my living room, the sky going from grey to black as the evening passed. We end up talking about everything but the changes he’s about to go through. We end up talking about my writing.

One doesn’t argue with inspiration, whatever form it might take. Tonight it came in the form of a friend who took comfort through helping another. I don’t know if I did anything for him but listen to his advice for me, but maybe that was enough for now. He got up to leave, and we hugged as only old friends can – deeply and as intensely as our situation allowed. I watched him walk to his car, a tall figure obscured by darkness, no longer the irritating boy from high school but a man in my eyes for the first time. Then I closed the door against the evening chill, and headed up to my attic room to heed the advice of an unexpected source of inspiration. I looked around at my dark Asian-themed furniture, my bookshelves filled with my favorite authors and illustrated novels and thought, Yeah, he’s right. This is a cool room.

Damn, I hate it when he’s right.

Another Blank Page

It's Wednesday morning, and the day is like a white sheet of paper in front of me, ready to be scribbled full with the chaotic activity that I've grown accustomed to these last few months. Nothing is really focusing me, though I certainly have plenty to do.

I've concluded (I'm certain it's not for the first time) that I have to concern myself only with things I can control, and as for the things that are out of my hands, I just have to let them go. I can find a new job. I can be a good person. I can be.

Perhaps achieving a state of Buddhist simplicity is not so far out of reach for me. It certainly is more calming to think along that philosophy. I guess that's it for now - maybe tomorrow I'll put up a chapter from the Chronicles of O'meh, the fantasy/sci-fi novel I'm still in the process of creating.

So hooray for me!

Boston 21

When I turned twenty-one in 1992, I thought a solo trip to Boston would help me obtain some knowledge about adulthood. Instead, I gained insight on the world of homeless people and life in general.

On day one, the first thing I observed was the constant presence of beggars. Such elements are usually present in major cities, but what stood out was the large amount of foreigners. They carried cards that said “I don’t speak English. Please give me money for food.” One lady, who seemed more animal than human as she communicated with aggressive grunts and gestures, was stuffing her mouth with a sandwich while shoving the card in my face. Her reek was unbearable. I hurried past, vacillating between revulsion and sympathy.

But there were some who begged with a smile and a witty comment. Curiously, they didn’t seem particularly upset about their lot in life. One such individual shot me a remark as I walked past. He wore a dirty white t-shirt, baggy jeans, and seemed a bit plump for a panhandler. His disposition appeared quite sunny, despite his obvious social standings.

I used the moment to inquire about his origins.

His answer was quick. “I’ve always relied on the kindness of strangers to get by,” he explained with a grin. “Since I was a child.”

I gave him a dollar and thanked him for his time. Later, I came across another young man, dread-locked and full of sarcasm. When I tried walking past him, not quite in the mood for conversation yet, he told me to smile, sister. So I walked up to him and said “Tell me your story first.”

He told me that he and his girlfriend were living in an abandoned house not too far away, both jobless and making ends meet begging. They weren’t from Boston and had arrived there through whatever means they could find. When I met her later – a full figured white girl with short, choppy blonde hair and piercings – they seemed more like newlyweds on their honeymoon than two lost souls with nowhere to go. It was all a grand adventure to them. They didn’t seem crazy, either. We actually got on pretty well, but it was quietly understood between us that our relationship was limited to polite conversation.

What happened to these people? Did they find their ultimate destination? Did they meet a terrible fate I’ll never know? Their approach to life that was so different than what I expected and my brief conversations with them left their mark on my mind. I returned with more than what I had originally sought: new experiences, and the realization that life is a choice, and you can make the best of what you choose for yourself. So at 37, I’m still choosing - but I know it’s ultimately up to me and no one else.

J. Thomas

Yes, his name is John Thomas. It really is.

I thought of him the other day. I often have periods of nostalgic memories in my car, and that morning on the way to work he came to mind. John was one of the most American looking guys I've ever come across - blonde hair, blue eyes and six feet tall. He also kinda looked like Stewart Copeland from The Police. He was, in fact, a drummer, which is how I met him.

John and I became involved first in this terrible reggae band I was in during the part of my 20's when I just wanted to do stuff without really thinking them through first. After that we volunteered to be part of a doomed project that was put together to play Top 40 in Taipei, along with some other foolish people who thought it was a swell idea. It hadn't been a total disaster, and we did have some fun while we were there. All in all it had been a poor decision, but during the whole experience he and I became good friends. One reason I enjoyed his company so much was that we both would have giggle fits just being around each other, like we were in elementary school. That's a rare thing between those of the opposite sex, I think. He also was amazingly calm and together during our Taiwan ordeal, and never blamed me afterwards though I think it was me that talked him into going. Now that's a pal!

John eventually moved to New York to try his luck in the music scene. Eventually, he ended up getting a teaching degree and marrying the anesthesiologist who put him under during some surgery he had to have. I believe he has kids now, too. We don't keep in touch anymore, unfortunately, but perhaps we'll cross paths again. For now it's enough that I had enjoyed his company and gotten through a really very silly time in my music career. Well, one of many silly times, actually.

Thanks, John - wherever you are!

Super Bowl

So all week it's been sports media mayhem in the RenCen. We had all been apprehensive about what it would be like when Detroit hosted Super Bowl XL, but so far, it hasn't been so bad. Traffice was normal on the way in, and getting around the building hasn't been as difficult as some had feared. The only bad part is that I wouldn't know if I bumped into someone famous, as my knowledge of sports is pretty non-existent. Maybe next time we can host something for the Food Network. Now that would be cool.

Mario Batelli could sign olive oil bottles. Emeril could roast a pig in the Winter Garden. Rachel Rae could do me a favor and not show up at all. And if Alton Brown was there, I would surely have him sign my salt cellar, 'cuz he's just dreamy (it's true - I fall for the guy with the twisted sense of humor every time, receding hairline or no).

But I'll keep going down and checking out the scene. It gives my daily walk to the mailbox just a little more excitement, and maybe I'll run into Gilbert Gottfried getting a Cafe Carmel at the Coffee Beanery. Like that guy needs any more caffeine.

Friday, a long lunch will be spent at the Motown Winter Blast looking at sledding dogs and cheering on some friends who are playing at the event. I'm keeping nice and busy. Life is good, and soon winter will just be a distant memory. And that would be fine thing indeed.

Mindfulness

There is this concept in Buddhist philosophy called mindfulness. Basically, what you're endeavoring to do (or not endeavoring to do at all, as Buddhism goes) is live each moment fully, rather than dwell on the past or the future , what you need to do, etc.

For example, I'm sitting at my desk about to get into my daily worries and anxieties, and I just realized that I need to take a breath and experience everything around me. I stop what I'm doing, and listen. I hear my co-workers, whom I like. We might not have anything in common, but they're good people. I hear them talking or typing quietly at their desks, and I'm reminded that they are well and healthy, and that their existence at my job is comforting.

From there I move to my body, and the simple comforts I have at my disposal. My clothes fit well, I'm warm, I'm not particularly tired and I'm pretty alert this morning. These are all basic things, I know, but somehow when I stop and meditate on these things, I calm down and am able to take things one at a time.

It's not that I'm completely stressed out about anything. I just find myself getting caught up with things that shouldn't worry me so, and it's so much better to be calm. Better for the mind and body. And darn it, I'm worth it.

Ohmmmm......

Exactly What Do I Fear?

Boredom. Loneliness. Sudden demise of my person. These are some things that come to mind when I think about what I'm afraid of. All justifiable things, so I think if I compare the little fears to these somewhat major ones, I might be able to conquer them.

I think I'm afraid of the work involved in writing this novel. Or perhaps I just need to set a deadline, because that has been the number one motivator as far as completing anything. Of course, then I have to take the deadline seriously. . .

I think I better. I think music and I have had our time together and it's time to focus on something else. Not to say I'm done with being a musician, but why be one thing all the time? I suppose I already know that I have a lot of dimensions to my character. I always overlook that - it always takes someone else to point it out to me. Things are just too quiet right now and it's making me a little crazy. Heh. What else is new?

Hmm..this entry is getting a bit personal, but so be it.

I think it's time to accept what I've done and what more I can do in life. There will be other paths at some point, and I need to be observant so I don't miss them. Something always happens after these periods of inactivity and restlessness.

Something.

Okay. I Give.

GM has its yearly shut down between Christmas and New Year's, and if you didn't schedule any time off during that week or choose to use up your vacation days, then you're in for the long torturous task of getting through the week.

I suppose it's pretty much like this in companies all over the place. I shouldn't feel like it's my own personal doom for being employed by a contracted digital media agency for GM. I'm sure there are many others (like the five other people that came in today) that are suffering as well.

I think today I'm just going to embrace my misery and make art out of it. Write some poems, some sad little stories of lost ponies and unmotivated sheep. This is the week for it, I suppose, though the slower things are the harder it is for me to actually do anything. I need stimulation! Excitement! Bushmill's!

Okay, maybe not Bushmill's. Besides, it's only 10:30 am and I should wait at least until lunchtime. I believe I have some vases to clean...

An Open Letter to Old Man Winter

Dear Sir:

I would like to take this opportunity to inform you that while I would gladly blame you for my lack of motivation and inspiration, you are not at fault. Though your endless grey days, freezing temperatures and chill winds may compel me to just go home after work, put on my flannel pajamas and scarf down pasta until unconsciousness hits, it is up to me to rebel against these urges and somehow be productive. So, to retaliate I will continue to go to the gym, I will force myself to write, and I will will myself to keep a sunny disposition though it would certainly be best for family and friends if I just avoided them until my mood improves.

So screw you, Old Man Winter. You can kiss my patootie, 'cuz you certainly ain't gonna beat me this year!

Sincerely,

About to Lose it in Ferndale

Pillow Book

Things that Make Me Feel That All is Right in the World

D major chord
My husband's robe
My favorite jeans
The smell of my mother's cooking
The fact that 98% of what I worry about will never happen
Knowing my girlfriend in Portland is unemployed but happily married
Baby pandas
That hug I get when I arrive home from work
8 hour jam sessions in Kalamazoo
Red wine and good conversation

Aftermath

So I'm done with my so-called novel, and I think it was a bit anticlimactic. A friend has offered to buy me lunch and celebrate, but that's about it. But I did get a lot of congratulations from people I had emailed, and quite a number want to read my book when it's done - so that's pretty special.

I think what I really need to do is reward myself in some way. A message? Facial? Male escort? Hmm...male escort..

Really, though - I owe myself something. A special moment of joy that's just for me. Maybe I'll take a survey amongst my friends and take suggestions. Meanwhile, I'm afraid and at the same time eager to see what I've created, but the advice is to lay it aside for two weeks and just rest. So that's what I'll do. Then I'll open a bottle of cabernet, sit on the couch and read my novel. There must be some salvageable stuff - the fact that I could even send a summary of the story is a positive sign.

Writing is hard work, dammit!

Where did this come from?

I have introduced the theory that the combination of cathode ray emissions and theta brainwaves can produce a portal to another world.

Great. I'm so proud of me. Onward, nonetheless! My word count is 27, 024!!

Must..write..100 more ..words...

Okay. This is hard. My "novel" is getting interesting but my imaginations is getting away with all sorts of things, but I'm told that's okay.

Today I found myself going back to paragraphs and beefing up some sections to get a reasonable word count for the day. I felt naughty, yet they were legitimate sentences that really did have something to do with the paragraph they were inserted in. Really.

I'm currently at 22,148 words. I feel like wrapping things up now but I'm only almost halfway through. I can do it. I can do it!! I CAN DO IT!!

Delirium is setting in and before I resort to inserting song lyrics, I best turn in. Writing is hard work. I am currently only armed with mango juice and a bowl of pomegranate seeds, and both are starting to run low. I had thought I might need some Xanax (being Sunday night and my usual day to have unnecessary anxiety attacks) but I'm pretty tuckered from making shite up on the fly. And now it's 11:30 and too late for sleep enhancers.

Good night, all you November novelers, wherever you are!

Because I am Clearly Insane

Since I don't have enough going on with work, music, my cake business and life in general, I thought I'd do this write a novel in a month thing organized by www.nanowrimo.org. Here is an exciting excerpt!

A presence was in the room, and she wanted to see but exhaustion was keeping her from opening her eyes. But she must be asleep – yet she knew something was standing on the left of her towards her feet, and it wanted her attention. She felt her chin dip slightly, and her head tilt to the left, but with the utmost effort. She was like taffy hardening –it was getting harder to move anything, and she felt so very heavy. Somehow she managed to open her eyes (did she? Was she really opening them?) and as she suspected there was something standing there. It was the figure of a boy, and the boy was, impossibly, made of glass. Or something like glass. He needed something, and he couldn’t quite find a way to communicate. The substance he was made of was mesmerizing; it swirled with iridescent colors and seemed to be glass and highly polished silver all at the same time. But he was trying to say something, his mouth moving, struggling as if trying to keep something inside but also wanting very much to free it. Her dream mind zoomed in to his face, and his eyes, full of fear now and terror, let her know that he couldn’t hold what was inside of him any longer. Her anxiety quickly turned to panic as his mouth burst open and became wider than his head as a torrent of sound and light came forth like the sound of Armageddon.

She screamed as well, but no sound would come out of her and she prayed for it to stop, and tried to will the apparition away and her maddening dream to end. But it kept going on until she surrendered to it, and the boy screamed as she watched, helpless and mute.

Honestly, I have NO idea what I'm doing, but apparently it doesn't matter. Just get to the 50,000 words at the end of the month, and I'm a winner! (Hooray for me!)

Chocolate

They say you respond to chocolate the same way as you do when you're in love. Does that mean if I keep eating it I'll keep myself in a state of curious excitement/giddy hopefulness mixed with despair and confusion? Maybe I'll just see what happens if I take another wee candy bar from the office manager's plastic pumpkin...

Yes, again the day is flat-lining on me and I need to amuse myself at work. Hoping some tea will revive my drooping interest in staying awake.

IDEA!!! I think I'll write some work-related topics (well, loosely related) and put them on the bulletin board. That's an outlet, right? And it might make things a little more interesting around here. It's positively driving me insane right now.

Right. Tea. Writing. How to Cuss in Other Languages has been a topic of interest to me for a while...

Outlaws

Once upon a time, you could watch a movie, the news or your favorite television show, and someone would inevitably light up a cigarette, hold it elegantly between their first and second finger, and no one would say boo about it. The cigarette was often followed by a scotch or martini, thus completing the image of worldly, cosmopolitan jetsetter. The lights would just illuminate the otherwordly wafts of exhaled smoke which would linger affectionately around Walter Cronkite's head, and one would think "Gosh, he's so sophisticated! When can I light up?"

Not so in our supposedly more health-conscious times. I was walking into my office this morning and as I passed the unofficial smoking area, which was either in front of the restaurant or right outside the entrance, I couldn't help but notice how the smokers were positioned. One, a policeman, was lighting up next to a bush, looking positively shady, and several others were in random spots surrounding the entrance. There were a couple leaning against the wall, one leg bent to lend a more deviant vibe to the scene. These people looked neither cool or sophisticated, but rather more like outlaws pondering their next crime. What would it be? A puff between conference calls? Perhaps one right after lunch? Or maybe one in the car on the way home to ease the day's tensions away?

Alas, the long-ago image of elegant, satin-gloved women and smartly dressed executives snapping open monogrammed metal cigarette boxes is pretty much over. I suppose this isn't a total loss, but I do wish certain elements of those bygone days were still around. Perhaps I'll try and get everyone to wear hats and gloves again. It' s a start, anyway, since we can't drink martinis at work. Damn!

Fie on Working!

I have been instructed to find something to distract me from my current state of grumpy and bored. So a-blogging I will go!

My mind at the moment can best be described as an immaculate highway disappearing off into the horizon. The destination not visible to my eye is the end of my work day -I must walk the pristine, uninterrupted pavement to get to this five o'clock place and thus end my torture. During this journey there is nothing but steady walking; nothing to distract me or make the trip more pleasant or exciting. Just putting one foot in front of the other as my glazed eyes follow white lines, lulled into a mental state not unlike that of a plodding mule.

I quietly observe the sun change position in the sky. I keep walking, and torment myself further by periodically looking at my watch.

3:30 pm. Two more miles.

Damn, I hate Mondays!

Hoy.

So I've decided to learn my native language this year. I think it's going well. The text book is well-written, the instructor is funny and pushes the group to start using what we learn right away. And, some hidden knowledge is resurfacing, which I find reassuring.

I'm having fun, too. But one lesson I didn't expect to learn has been humbling.

In the last class, those of us who were a little familiar with the material discussed how we knew what to say, but were afraid to for fear of saying something incorrectly and enduring our parents' merciless ridicule. This made me think of my mom. Sometimes she would say certain English words with incorrect inflections and we'd laugh and make fun of her, being kids and generally thoughtless and insensitive. But people tend to do that - find amusement as someone speaks in broken English, trying their best to be understood only to be met with bemused looks or outright laughter.

After struggling through two classes I must suggest this to those who laugh: Take a month to learn some simple conversational phrases in say, Swahili. Then walk over to a group of people exceptionally fluent in Swahili and be part of the conversation. Speak Swahili, with no trace of an accent or hesitancy. Pray that you don't call someone's grandmother a boiled root dish by putting the accent of a word in the wrong place. Who's laughing now, eh? See - it's not so easy. It's another case of putting yourself in another's shoes and this was the unexpected lesson.

I do harbor a fear, like David Sedaris when he was learning French, that when I eventually try and speak my native tongue it will sound like a hillbilly version of what is actually a very melodic and joyful language, and the person I'm talking to will assume I suffered some closed head injury as a child. But hopefully they will be sympathetic, ignore my strong Midwest American accent and maybe support my efforts to learn. So I'll just forge ahead. It will most likely be my mom, anyway - and I guess she's entitled to laugh all she wants.