These Things are Perfection
Watching the steam rise from my tea in the morning, pleasant undulations rising then disappearing. The first sip, and being pleased that both tea and honey are in balance. The sound of the waves. The straightness of the line that divides Lake Michigan and the sky. My head, now open to creation.
The moment when sleep comes, and you can do nothing but surrender happily and be glad that the day is done.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
Right Now
Right now, I'm making the first fire of the year, and I'm listening to what I believe is Brian Eno. It’s all very ambient, ethereal stuff, perhaps cleverly conceived to make one stop and breathe, and be in the moment.
What I’m really doing right now is trying to make time stop. Perhaps not stop…more like slow down. I’m at the end of a Sunday and normally I’ve given myself too much to do for the weekend: cooking, laundry, errands, etc. Sure, everyone does it – and we don’t really get around to getting everything done, do we? Well, I do. I have to. I’ve discovered that in the last few years I’ve inadvertently programmed myself to multitask to the point of imminent explosion. I suspect it was a fear of being bored, but I’m pretty sure I went through a mad exploration of potential interests and passions. As a result, I started my own business, got into a successful indie rock band, and also try and write when I can, which unfortunately has not been very often. And since they discovered all sorts of usefulness for me at work, I’m pretty overtaxed there, too.
Hence my new mission in life: relax the opportunity arises. I know what I want to do, but I don’t have to do them all in one day, or even in one week. The plan, should I stick to it, is to pick one or two major things to accomplish, and make sure there’s some days where I just don’t do anything. Oddly, this is hard for me, but I have had to really rethink what it means to be accomplishing something. Isn’t doing nothing an accomplishment of sorts? Oh, yes. I think so. You make time stop, you make a fire, and you listen to Eno until the water is boiling so you can make spaghetti for dinner. That’s it.
Life doesn’t have to be that tough, now, does it?
What I’m really doing right now is trying to make time stop. Perhaps not stop…more like slow down. I’m at the end of a Sunday and normally I’ve given myself too much to do for the weekend: cooking, laundry, errands, etc. Sure, everyone does it – and we don’t really get around to getting everything done, do we? Well, I do. I have to. I’ve discovered that in the last few years I’ve inadvertently programmed myself to multitask to the point of imminent explosion. I suspect it was a fear of being bored, but I’m pretty sure I went through a mad exploration of potential interests and passions. As a result, I started my own business, got into a successful indie rock band, and also try and write when I can, which unfortunately has not been very often. And since they discovered all sorts of usefulness for me at work, I’m pretty overtaxed there, too.
Hence my new mission in life: relax the opportunity arises. I know what I want to do, but I don’t have to do them all in one day, or even in one week. The plan, should I stick to it, is to pick one or two major things to accomplish, and make sure there’s some days where I just don’t do anything. Oddly, this is hard for me, but I have had to really rethink what it means to be accomplishing something. Isn’t doing nothing an accomplishment of sorts? Oh, yes. I think so. You make time stop, you make a fire, and you listen to Eno until the water is boiling so you can make spaghetti for dinner. That’s it.
Life doesn’t have to be that tough, now, does it?
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Ode to Thomas Wiloch
Door
Through his dimming awareness of the passage of time, a door would open, then steps. A voice, familiar and repulsive to his ears, would speak to him. The words, like his knowledge of the world, became less important and more like dust motes floating in a shaft of sunlight. But the door kept opening, the words still came, and the door would shut again. Day after day, grayness into dark, dark into blue awakening.
After a time, the door opened and the words were brief and unemotional. He lay there, a shining, twisted slug of his former self. The door closed.
He heard the dust motes in the sunlight, the universe swirring above him, and his slow, slow breathing. The door was there, and he begged it to open again, just once more, just once before he crept into gray stillness. It refused, even in his dreams, which were flimsy rags of thought betraying nothing more than a dying man’s last wish for a door to obey.
That was my attempt to write in the poetry prose style of Thomas Wiloch, a writer a friend of mine turned me on to that I absolutely love. He lives in Michigan and he probably thinks I'm stalking him right now, but you know, if he didn't like the fruit basket I left on his porch then that's not my problem. I'm kidding, of course - I gave up stalking a long time ago, now that I have the internet to harass strangers.
Anyway, check him out if you're interested in some deliciously creepy stuff. He has this way of making your skin crawl right at the end of each story. I love it! http://www.codeschaos.0catch.com/
Through his dimming awareness of the passage of time, a door would open, then steps. A voice, familiar and repulsive to his ears, would speak to him. The words, like his knowledge of the world, became less important and more like dust motes floating in a shaft of sunlight. But the door kept opening, the words still came, and the door would shut again. Day after day, grayness into dark, dark into blue awakening.
After a time, the door opened and the words were brief and unemotional. He lay there, a shining, twisted slug of his former self. The door closed.
He heard the dust motes in the sunlight, the universe swirring above him, and his slow, slow breathing. The door was there, and he begged it to open again, just once more, just once before he crept into gray stillness. It refused, even in his dreams, which were flimsy rags of thought betraying nothing more than a dying man’s last wish for a door to obey.
That was my attempt to write in the poetry prose style of Thomas Wiloch, a writer a friend of mine turned me on to that I absolutely love. He lives in Michigan and he probably thinks I'm stalking him right now, but you know, if he didn't like the fruit basket I left on his porch then that's not my problem. I'm kidding, of course - I gave up stalking a long time ago, now that I have the internet to harass strangers.
Anyway, check him out if you're interested in some deliciously creepy stuff. He has this way of making your skin crawl right at the end of each story. I love it! http://www.codeschaos.0catch.com/
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Macaroons, anyone?
My first time posting a photo! I know, lame. I just didn't think about doing this until now - I'm sort of lazy when it comes to computer stuff. Anyway - more to come, now that I know how to do this (man, now there really isn't enough time in the day!)
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Letters
Remember those? Pieces of paper, carefully selected or written on the nearest stack of clean sheets you can get your hands on? Boy, them were the days.
I had an acquaintance once who used to write me the longest letters on paper that seemed a crime to use. It was usually the handmade looking stuff - rough in texture and the color of old memories. Opening a letter from him was like Christmas. I couldn't wait to unfold the treasure in my fingers, that I knew he had written for me with a steady hand that was the voice of his thoughts. And I'd read the letter, over and over, just to feel its weight and linger on the words that lay on that great ivory landscape citied by his hurried paragraphs.
Reading an email is not the same. You see words on a background that never changes, and you have no way of sensing the person who isn't present to talk to you in person. A letter tells you that the person took care to fold it carefully before inserting it into the envelope, addressed by the same focused hand that composed the letter. A letter says they were thinking of you for a long time, enough to spend a good part of the day to put it together and send it off.
Though they may say the same thing, a letter is an entirely different animal than an email. Of course it is: one breathes, and the other does not.
I had an acquaintance once who used to write me the longest letters on paper that seemed a crime to use. It was usually the handmade looking stuff - rough in texture and the color of old memories. Opening a letter from him was like Christmas. I couldn't wait to unfold the treasure in my fingers, that I knew he had written for me with a steady hand that was the voice of his thoughts. And I'd read the letter, over and over, just to feel its weight and linger on the words that lay on that great ivory landscape citied by his hurried paragraphs.
Reading an email is not the same. You see words on a background that never changes, and you have no way of sensing the person who isn't present to talk to you in person. A letter tells you that the person took care to fold it carefully before inserting it into the envelope, addressed by the same focused hand that composed the letter. A letter says they were thinking of you for a long time, enough to spend a good part of the day to put it together and send it off.
Though they may say the same thing, a letter is an entirely different animal than an email. Of course it is: one breathes, and the other does not.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Learning to Relax
So this week I made a point of clearing all errands and random tasks which I usually delegate to the weekend. Call me a freak, but it was amazingly hard for me to do that. I'm a person who is constantly in motion at her job and at home, and to just sit outside on my so far neglected patio and type out a blog seems like some laborious task. What's my problem? I think I've programmed myself to be unable to relax, or still my mind. I'm also compelled to do, and not just to be.
How's that for existentialist blather?
I don't want to wait until retirement to figure out how to do these things, because that time of my life is a long way off. I try to practice mindfulness when I can. At work, I go down to the Detroit Riverfront, sit on the steps and listen to all the activity around me. I feel the wind on my skin, the stone steps pressing againt my bum, and the shift of my muscles when I adjust my position. It seems like a very easy thing to do, but when the mind is constantly churning out thoughts and ideas, it can be challenging to focus on one thing. Plus they pay me to multi-task, so I can't help myself.
Right now, I'm listening to some people singing in a backyard nearby. They're doing alternate versions of known children's songs, and it's slightly disturbing because I can't hear what the words are. There is bird chatter, the sound of cars passing intermittently, and occasionally the wind speeding through some high branches, making the leaves rustle like little chimes.
So maybe I should just write one thing today. Maybe it's this, maybe it's a story I started for a friend of mine that I could finish. I have my notebooks for this week's plans, but why plan? Maybe just once, I'll focus on the now and make it a long one. Maybe one that lasts the rest of my life. Now that would be something, wouldn't it?
I like this place I'm in right now. In fact, I should visit it more often. Sounds like a plan to me, but one I'll gladly take action on.
How's that for existentialist blather?
I don't want to wait until retirement to figure out how to do these things, because that time of my life is a long way off. I try to practice mindfulness when I can. At work, I go down to the Detroit Riverfront, sit on the steps and listen to all the activity around me. I feel the wind on my skin, the stone steps pressing againt my bum, and the shift of my muscles when I adjust my position. It seems like a very easy thing to do, but when the mind is constantly churning out thoughts and ideas, it can be challenging to focus on one thing. Plus they pay me to multi-task, so I can't help myself.
Right now, I'm listening to some people singing in a backyard nearby. They're doing alternate versions of known children's songs, and it's slightly disturbing because I can't hear what the words are. There is bird chatter, the sound of cars passing intermittently, and occasionally the wind speeding through some high branches, making the leaves rustle like little chimes.
So maybe I should just write one thing today. Maybe it's this, maybe it's a story I started for a friend of mine that I could finish. I have my notebooks for this week's plans, but why plan? Maybe just once, I'll focus on the now and make it a long one. Maybe one that lasts the rest of my life. Now that would be something, wouldn't it?
I like this place I'm in right now. In fact, I should visit it more often. Sounds like a plan to me, but one I'll gladly take action on.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Things I'd Do If I Really Wanted to
1. Self publish my hand written and illustrated children's book about two young manatees
2. Accept life as it comes and not obsess about the things I don't have control of
3. Save all my blog entries halfway through so I don't lose them to disconnection
4. Learn how to meditate or relax in general
5. Become mistress of my destiny!
6. Dress as corporate pirate at Halloween, using man's tie around my head in place of ragged scarf.
Ok, just a little peeved at myself for not saving my last two brilliant posts. Dad blast me!
2. Accept life as it comes and not obsess about the things I don't have control of
3. Save all my blog entries halfway through so I don't lose them to disconnection
4. Learn how to meditate or relax in general
5. Become mistress of my destiny!
6. Dress as corporate pirate at Halloween, using man's tie around my head in place of ragged scarf.
Ok, just a little peeved at myself for not saving my last two brilliant posts. Dad blast me!
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Argh
What better way to immortalize the events of today than throug my blog?
I'd like to think that when things like this happen, I'm avoiding a catastrophe of such vastness that I would most likely have to undergo some kind of therapy or intense drug treatment to overcome it. As it is, I'm using an improvised martini (vodka + pomegranite lime juice, shaken then poured) to drown my sorrows. I'm still a little shaken up, but I have to keep reminding myself it wasn't completely my fault.
Who thought a Subaru could run over a car?
I think the details of the incident are minor compared to the staggering disbelief of what I almost did today. Luckily, amidst the blasting classical music and thoughts of how I was going to get to my nephew's confirmation ceremony on time, I had the wherewithal to back up and not completely run over this poor woman's non-descript car. She was probably the worst woman I could have run into, Eastside and ready to rumble, but she at least calmed down after throwing a multitude of expletives at me. I guess it helped that I started bawling like a little girl and apologizing incoherently through my tears.
Perhap I should try and twist this into a positive light. She didn't have kids in her car (maybe if she did she wouldn't have stopped her car so close to mine on the turnaround) and maybe this was supposed to be one of those painful metaphors that present themselves so you can learn something about yourself. Maybe the Subaru is me, and I just don't know what kind of power I have until I try to um..run over someone. Yeah. That's it.
Oh, this is just the pom/lime martini talking. Back to reading prose poetry by Thomas Wiloch (fabulous stuff) and letting my soul drink in the sunshine. It is spring at least, and that's something.
I'd like to think that when things like this happen, I'm avoiding a catastrophe of such vastness that I would most likely have to undergo some kind of therapy or intense drug treatment to overcome it. As it is, I'm using an improvised martini (vodka + pomegranite lime juice, shaken then poured) to drown my sorrows. I'm still a little shaken up, but I have to keep reminding myself it wasn't completely my fault.
Who thought a Subaru could run over a car?
I think the details of the incident are minor compared to the staggering disbelief of what I almost did today. Luckily, amidst the blasting classical music and thoughts of how I was going to get to my nephew's confirmation ceremony on time, I had the wherewithal to back up and not completely run over this poor woman's non-descript car. She was probably the worst woman I could have run into, Eastside and ready to rumble, but she at least calmed down after throwing a multitude of expletives at me. I guess it helped that I started bawling like a little girl and apologizing incoherently through my tears.
Perhap I should try and twist this into a positive light. She didn't have kids in her car (maybe if she did she wouldn't have stopped her car so close to mine on the turnaround) and maybe this was supposed to be one of those painful metaphors that present themselves so you can learn something about yourself. Maybe the Subaru is me, and I just don't know what kind of power I have until I try to um..run over someone. Yeah. That's it.
Oh, this is just the pom/lime martini talking. Back to reading prose poetry by Thomas Wiloch (fabulous stuff) and letting my soul drink in the sunshine. It is spring at least, and that's something.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
I am a Recovering Perfectionist
I mean, really - what's the point?
Ah, work bitterness. Does it ever end, or does it just recycle itself at every new place I go to? And does every change of authority figure always have to turn into a desperate situation? Well, clearly I'm not meant to work. That must be the answer. Damn, it was so simple!
Ok, tomorrow's Monday, the worst day of the week, (though Wednesday afternoon at 3:00 is pretty close as well), and I just don't want to sleep yet because that will bring on tomorrow too soon. This makes me realize just how pathetic I sound so I will concoct a strategy against being grumpy tomorrow:
1. Wear something smashing (and edging towards innappropriate)
2. Change the quote on the message board to something that makes you laugh
3. Eat something good for yourself
4. Put out the flowers!
5. Make someone happy about being who they are
Great. I'm ready - bring it on!
Ah, work bitterness. Does it ever end, or does it just recycle itself at every new place I go to? And does every change of authority figure always have to turn into a desperate situation? Well, clearly I'm not meant to work. That must be the answer. Damn, it was so simple!
Ok, tomorrow's Monday, the worst day of the week, (though Wednesday afternoon at 3:00 is pretty close as well), and I just don't want to sleep yet because that will bring on tomorrow too soon. This makes me realize just how pathetic I sound so I will concoct a strategy against being grumpy tomorrow:
1. Wear something smashing (and edging towards innappropriate)
2. Change the quote on the message board to something that makes you laugh
3. Eat something good for yourself
4. Put out the flowers!
5. Make someone happy about being who they are
Great. I'm ready - bring it on!
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Fog: Work in Progress
trees emerge from still white nothing, become dead towers
white grey promises winter but there is the sense of magic
first standing smoke then a tree skeleton emerges
sentries wait for spring
out of vapor a street lamp takes shape
also waiting
for the sun to give it identity on the cinder block wall
nothing, then the city
quietly speaking of time and decay
I wait for red lights and get this down
out of the fog of blank paper come words
like trees, like street lamps
like a city that now speaks quietly of destination
white grey promises winter but there is the sense of magic
first standing smoke then a tree skeleton emerges
sentries wait for spring
out of vapor a street lamp takes shape
also waiting
for the sun to give it identity on the cinder block wall
nothing, then the city
quietly speaking of time and decay
I wait for red lights and get this down
out of the fog of blank paper come words
like trees, like street lamps
like a city that now speaks quietly of destination
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Sleep is for Sissies (yawn)
I'm tired. I'm tired and I want to do more, and that makes me grumpy and that's just not good.
But that's alright. Just like the slogan I thought of for Starbuck's once, sleep is for sissies.
Things I would do if I wasn't so close to unconsciousness:
Start an essay
Plan my next strategic move for my cake company
Finish my fog poem (I wrote it in the car on the way to work - I was very moved by the whole experience of driving through a thick fog, and then suddenly having the city of Detroit appear, whilst listening to "Thick as a Brick" by Jethro Tull)
Write my resignation letter (ooh...I should do that just for fun sometime, anyway)
Either way, I'm probably done for the evening. I'm super cranky and I have to do things in the morning that require some level of awareness. Some, not a lot. And then, more stuff. What else am I going to do with my time, right?
But that's alright. Just like the slogan I thought of for Starbuck's once, sleep is for sissies.
Things I would do if I wasn't so close to unconsciousness:
Start an essay
Plan my next strategic move for my cake company
Finish my fog poem (I wrote it in the car on the way to work - I was very moved by the whole experience of driving through a thick fog, and then suddenly having the city of Detroit appear, whilst listening to "Thick as a Brick" by Jethro Tull)
Write my resignation letter (ooh...I should do that just for fun sometime, anyway)
Either way, I'm probably done for the evening. I'm super cranky and I have to do things in the morning that require some level of awareness. Some, not a lot. And then, more stuff. What else am I going to do with my time, right?
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
New Levi's
So I splurged on some new Levi's a few weekends ago, and though I used to never pay more than $30 for jeans I thought it was time to buy some that really fit me well. They were $60, and boy, were they worth it.
The moment I put them on, everything was right in the world. They were tight, but still comfortable, and they clung to my legs like a second skin. And I could finally show off my bum, which is hard to do in jeans that don't fit so great but were on sale at Loehmann's for $20. They were worth every penny. There's just something about a great fitting pair of jeans that gives you confidence, makes you feel like a sexy bad-ass diva, and gives you a little trampiness and a little toughness all in one package. Throw in your favorite boots and you're practically invincible against whatever the world hurls your way.
And Levi's beats any of those high-falootin' designer jeans any day - jeans were made to be worn, not displayed like some kind of body bling so the world can see you can afford thin denim with an expensive logo. Whatever made me think of turning away from Levi's in the first place? Whatever it was is now a thing of the past, and I can embrace the future in something I know will give me what I need: a nice booty, and a healthy boost to my ego.
Levi's rule!
The moment I put them on, everything was right in the world. They were tight, but still comfortable, and they clung to my legs like a second skin. And I could finally show off my bum, which is hard to do in jeans that don't fit so great but were on sale at Loehmann's for $20. They were worth every penny. There's just something about a great fitting pair of jeans that gives you confidence, makes you feel like a sexy bad-ass diva, and gives you a little trampiness and a little toughness all in one package. Throw in your favorite boots and you're practically invincible against whatever the world hurls your way.
And Levi's beats any of those high-falootin' designer jeans any day - jeans were made to be worn, not displayed like some kind of body bling so the world can see you can afford thin denim with an expensive logo. Whatever made me think of turning away from Levi's in the first place? Whatever it was is now a thing of the past, and I can embrace the future in something I know will give me what I need: a nice booty, and a healthy boost to my ego.
Levi's rule!
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Soon, my Darling
Eeek. I'm going to be 40 next year.
I've been coming to terms with it as of late. The usual rationalizing, I suppose - I've done a decent amount of stuff in my life so far, I've got plans for myself, dreams yet to fulfill. But I have a feeling that once I'm 39 I'm doing to do a lot of unnecessary panicking up until the day of the big one (well, the first big one, since no one really takes 30 that seriously anymore), and so I've decided to start the celebrations early.
Phase I - I Must Add a New Vice
Alcohol is really too easy a path to follow, though a fine and noble one. And I'm not much of a drinker these days. The events that usually merit this kind of debauchery are few and far between, and if I counted making it to five o'clock without getting escorted from my job by security I'd be quite the lush in a matter of days. No, I think there should be an equal and possible wilder substitute for boozing as I sashay down the black path to middle age. Oh, whatever shall it be? What, what, what?
Ah. I know. I shall become . . . a slacker.
You have to realize this goes against my character. I was brought up by hard-working people who instilled a good work ethic in me by osmosis, and to slack off is to disrespect the pillars of my existence. But I have since found out that keeping your nose to the grindstone doesn't necessarily pay off. Instead, it convinces people that you'll do anything that needs doing as long as the job gets done, and even if the job wasn't that important in the first place (yes, marketing!). So what care I that the presentation slides aren't in color and they're bound together with stained clothes pins? I'm off to take a two hour lunch. Just hold all my calls - I'll be back when Honest John's runs out of Bushmill's.
And now to ponder Phase II...
I've been coming to terms with it as of late. The usual rationalizing, I suppose - I've done a decent amount of stuff in my life so far, I've got plans for myself, dreams yet to fulfill. But I have a feeling that once I'm 39 I'm doing to do a lot of unnecessary panicking up until the day of the big one (well, the first big one, since no one really takes 30 that seriously anymore), and so I've decided to start the celebrations early.
Phase I - I Must Add a New Vice
Alcohol is really too easy a path to follow, though a fine and noble one. And I'm not much of a drinker these days. The events that usually merit this kind of debauchery are few and far between, and if I counted making it to five o'clock without getting escorted from my job by security I'd be quite the lush in a matter of days. No, I think there should be an equal and possible wilder substitute for boozing as I sashay down the black path to middle age. Oh, whatever shall it be? What, what, what?
Ah. I know. I shall become . . . a slacker.
You have to realize this goes against my character. I was brought up by hard-working people who instilled a good work ethic in me by osmosis, and to slack off is to disrespect the pillars of my existence. But I have since found out that keeping your nose to the grindstone doesn't necessarily pay off. Instead, it convinces people that you'll do anything that needs doing as long as the job gets done, and even if the job wasn't that important in the first place (yes, marketing!). So what care I that the presentation slides aren't in color and they're bound together with stained clothes pins? I'm off to take a two hour lunch. Just hold all my calls - I'll be back when Honest John's runs out of Bushmill's.
And now to ponder Phase II...
Saturday, January 20, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
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!
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!
Monday, February 20, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
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!
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!
Thursday, February 02, 2006
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.
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.
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