*Someone recently told me that they don’t understand repressed memories. There was once a time when I didn’t either. But then I learned of a true story and that’s when I started believing...
There is a little girl. She is the most perfect being because she accepts her imperfections. She doesn’t know that she can change them.
She thinks her dad is the greatest man alive. She loves being with her mom more than anything in the world. Her siblings are her best friends.
Put her on a sports team and she’s a great athlete. Give her a pen and a piece of paper and she’ll create something you’ve never seen before. She can handle the spotlight on a stage or the darkness of an empty room. She knows how to eat. She knows how to pray. She knows how to love.
She can't be saved from what is going to happen to her in first grade.
She’s going to be at a sleepover when her friend’s two older brothers will carry her into another room. There is no violence. There is no rape. But they do go into her far enough to steal her security and corrupt her confidence. She is not scared of them. She is not hurt by them. But she is confused because of them. So her mind represses the incident right away. It never happened.
She won’t know why she suddenly has to sleep with her legs crossed tightly every night. Her parents won’t know why she suddenly can't show her thighs while wearing a bathing suit. The doctors don’t know why she’s suddenly wetting her pants.
Years later, no one will know why she hates her body so much that when she finds out she can manipulate it through calorie counting, she stops eating and starts over-exercising. No one will know why she hates her body so much that when she discovers a way to escape it and outdo it, she throws herself into food and then throws it all back up. No one will know why she hates her body so much that she willingly invites males to hit it, bruise it, strangle it, cut it, pain it, and penetrate it without love or respect.
And then one December, she finds herself checked into the last resort – rehab. She is sitting in a chair being introduced to a therapy technique called EMDR. She doesn’t believe what the mental health professionals are telling her – that closing her eyes and listening to various sounds through headphones can cause her brain to subconsciously respond to treatment. But she humors them anyway. She hears ocean waves. She sees the beach house that her family stayed at when she was really young. She sees herself afraid after everyone else fell asleep – afraid that she might sleepwalk into the ocean and being eaten by “Jaws.” She sees herself cross her legs in her bed as tight as possible and BAM! SHE IS NAKED IN THE CORNER OF THE SIDE ROOM AT HER FRIEND’S HOUSE IN FIRST GRADE! And suddenly she feels a pulse beating uncontrollably in her pelvic region. WHAT? No. I’m making this up.
She takes the headphones off. She is convinced she has watched one too many episodes of “Law and Order: SVU” and laughs at herself while hearing the “DUH! DUH!” sound byte from the show in her head.
But the therapist saw the spark and brought her back for a full session. More images come back into her brain from that night in first grade. The vampire movie that was playing in the background – the one that she’s always been scared of but never knew where she actually saw it. The moves of hands and traces of lips - the ones that she's always been scared of but never knew where she first experienced them. The gun that was placed between her thighs – the one that she’s always been scared of but never knew where she first felt it.
“I think I’m making this all up. I don’t believe in these progressive types of therapy anyway. Medicine is science. It’s logic. It’s symptoms and treatment. These memories are all subjective and speculation. There is no proof. People who claim repression of the mind are just looking for an easy excuse when they have nothing else to blame for their behavior.”
But the therapist tells her that the body remembers what the mind forgets and the feelings of sexual stimulation – the fact that I almost had an orgasm on that therapist’s couch while going back to that night – was a sign too powerful to ignore.
I finally call my mom. “Do you think anything ever happened to me in first grade?” “You don’t think it was at ____’s house, do you?” “YES! That’s exactly where.” “Oh my God. I’ve always had the worst feeling about it but I couldn’t be sure… We took you to the doctor’s but they said there were no signs… I can’t believe this…”
All my life I wanted an answer for why I’ve done the things I’ve done with anorexia, bulimia and sex. There it was – sexual abuse repressed for years in a body that was trying to speak for a mind that had muted itself.
But an answer is not automatically an end. Wouldn't it have been great if all my therapist had to do was keep repeating “It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault” and I yell "Don't fuck with me" a few times and then start sobbing into an embrace and then hop into a car and drive off into a happy ending like in “Good Will Hunting?”
Instead it took two and half years of more anorexia, bulimia and meaningless sex before finding myself in a true state of recovery – and this has only been a very recent phenomenon.
I do not blame anyone for what happened to me. I do not need to face those two boys for closure. Sometimes I think it would be funny to hire some seedy private investigator to hunt them down so that I could show up at their door and say: “Hi guys!? REMEMBER ME!?” and then receive a blank stare. “HOW ABOUT NOW!?” as I pull out an enlarged version of my first grade class picture. And then I’d tell them that I do not intend to take any type of action through the courts or the daytime talk shows but I’d really appreciate just one hour of their time for a small favor. We’d all walk over to the bathroom and I’d make them stick their fingers down their throat and continuously make themselves vomit for one full hour. "You like that, huh!? That's what I've been doing for the past eleven years! Thanks a lot boys!"
But I wouldn’t do that because they are not solely responsible. They are not to be blamed. No one is. Not even myself. For some reason this something happened and it resulted in some tough consequences but also some incredible gifts.
Yes. Oddly enough an addiction is the most risky, the most costly, but also the most valuable lesson that any person can withstand. And for those of us who make it through alive, we are granted a firm understanding of the faults of mankind without needing some philosopher’s explanation or some celebrity’s story. We have been to the extremes of the human tendency towards fear, greed, vanity, dishonesty, lust, restlessness, boredom, arrogance, self-hatred and finally, surrender.
Life is what it is. My past happened for a reason and someday I’ll know why and I’ll be grateful for it.
I think I already am.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
The Triple Crown Affair
Once upon a time when I was a little girl, I wished upon a star that I had someone to climb up to my balcony – like Romeo did for Juliet. Or someone to throw rocks at my bedroom window – like Rolfe did for Liesl in “The Sound of Music.”
Of course these fantasies perished rapidly when my family moved out of Small Town, USA into the city limits of one of America’s crime capitals. Though statistically, some man was much more likely to enter my bedroom, he would be knocking me off my feet not so much with romance as with a blunt object.
Still, I can’t help but be intrigued by the possibility of a middle-of-the-night surprise suitor. What I really want is to wake up at the peak of darkness and catch the faintest glimpse of a shadow scaling my bedroom ceiling en route to the hidden safe where I keep all of my precious valuables (*let’s pretend like I have some for the sake of this fantasy). And then I’d turn on the lights to find a strikingly handsome, 50-something cat burglar with enough wrinkles on his face to validate his wisdom but enough energy in his expression to show for stamina. I’d be so calm that he wouldn’t even feel caught. He’d take off his slick, black, thief’s tool belt and open up into a conversation so eloquent and sophisticated – enriching my mind with everything from the underground trade markets of oil paintings in Paris to true legends of tribal treasure maps on exotic islands. He’d stimulate my every brain cell beyond comprehension that my body would have no choice but to percolate with pulsing passion. But just as my sexual willpower was about to surrender, the sky would show signs of light and he’d have to leave before sunrise to keep up his alibi. But by high moon the next night, he’d come again and it would only be a matter of time before he’d break and enter something other than my safe...
But my Clint Eastwood of “Absolute Power” / Pierce Brosnan of “The Thomas Crown Affair” / Cary Grant of “To Catch a Thief” – well, he never showed up in time to be my first middle-of-the-night surprise suitor. Instead that honor went to Triple B.
About a month ago, Triple B asked me out to dinner. I was so shocked that I allowed myself to dramatically fall over into a couch before telling him that I couldn’t go because I was babysitting.
BUT TRIPLE B HAD ASKED ME OUT! WHAT?! After nearly two years of our secret late night rendez-vous routine, I had come to accept that old statement that “you can’t beat a dead horse” (amending it with “but you can certainly ride one!”). But my dead horse now wanted to jump the fence into the public arena!? I immediately summoned my circle of best friends through email and we theorized that he was probably drunk, hungry, cashless, and carless and needed me to pick up him and then pick up his tab. Yes, that probably was the case but I didn’t care since that scenario involved me at some greater capacity than just being his gimp. Thus, I rewarded the dead horse for briefly coming to life with some sugar. Not that a text message picture of my flat chest is that sweet but it’s a little something he could chomp at the bit.
A few days later, Triple B texted me before nightfall – a gesture which I deemed worthy of response. He wasn’t asking me to dinner but at least he was giving his gimp some advance notice to saddle up. Yee-haw!
A few hours later, Triple B texted me that he was having a great time in an empty bar with the friend he's with every single day and didn’t want to meet up with me yet. Woah-nelly!
That was enough to know that Triple B had put me out to pasture. Luckily however, this filly had grown accustomed to that and I didn’t need his crop to take my heartbeat from trot to gallop. After all, there’s plenty of pleasure to be had in giddying yourself up per se. Oh yes, I think I did more jumping alone in my bed than any jockey ever did in the steeplechase. Let’s just say I CAME around the track FOUR TIMES!
Exhausted, I hit the hay pretty hard but apparently somewhere in the distance, Triple B was getting pretty hard too. He called. I didn’t pick up. A minute later, he called. I didn’t pick up. Four minutes later, he called. I didn’t pick up. Two minutes later… This continued for a total of FIFTEEN calls. I was impressed – he actually broke his last drunk dialing record of eleven times – but there was no way that I was answering that phone no matter how many times it rang.
That show of self respect worked well up until there was a knock on my basement room’s back door. WHAT!? NO! THIS IS NOT HAPPENING! I sunk into the middle of my bed and balled up under the covers. If I don’t move, it’ll go away, right!? I was just about to test that old trick of yelling out “NOBODY’S HOME!” but the knocking stopped. Silence! Did he leave? No, he did not. The knocking came back harder and it sounded like he was taking a crowbar to the handle so I unwillingly answered it just to avoid losing my security deposit for door damages.
I put up a fight for a good forty seconds and then allowed him to seduce me into sex. We did our usual bareback fucking like bucking broncos until he fell out of the race and passed out. Then I tried to hit the hay for the second time that night but was unable to because Triple B, whom I am now certain was raised in a barn, had to “pee like a racehorse.” I hate that phrase but what else am I to use when the boy wet my beautiful bed! (Oh and by the way, this is the SECOND time he has done so and if he does it a third, we are officially changing his nickname to “The Triple Pee.” My best friend Hanley already renamed my bed from “A $2,000 Cloud” to “The Litter Box.”)
The next morning, I woke up in a sleeping bag and he woke up drenched. I put up a fight for a good thirty seconds and then allowed him to seduce me into sex. For obvious reasons, we did it on the floor and I think I’m still suffering from third degree rug burns.
Then he passed out again and while he slept in, I managed to laundry my sheets, sanitize my mattress, take a shower, run a quick errand, and skim the entire Wall Street Journal. He woke up while I was attempting the paper’s crossword puzzle and he leaned over and grabbed the pen. I thought he was going to fill in an answer but he wound up drawing mustaches and other facial features all over the Palestinian Prime Minister pictured above. I then suggested we go to breakfast to which my little pony rolled back over and stuffed his head into the pillow and started whinnying his “neighs” to my one request. Right, I should have known – “you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.” I put up a fight for a good twenty seconds and then allowed him to seduce me into sex.
Since that night that Triple B ruined my cat burglar fantasy, ruined my bed, and ruined my Wall Street Journal, he has texted me twice. Both messages were sent on Saturday nights, both sent after 1:00 am, both sent in his drunken aftermath state, and both sent bearing the threat that he was going to just come over to my house. I however was housesitting at a location that I kept classified. Yes, it’s clear that Triple B is not going to change. And that’s fine. No, it’s great! Because every time he horses around with me, I realize more and more how much I have to look forward to.
Personally, I think the best quote from “Sex and the City” comes from an episode in season three that ironically has a horse theme to it. Mr. Big tells Carrie that he is going to marry Natasha and even though Carrie’s heart breaks, she has this powerful breakthrough that the world is made up of simple girls like Natasha and complicated girls like herself. At the very end of the episode, Carrie says good-bye to Mr. Big and watches as he gets into the back of a limousine with his simple Natasha. Then she turns and sees a horse and carriage and the saddled up steed suddenly becomes very rowdy and jerks its mane and thrusts its entire upper body back to reveal its inherently unruly nature. And that’s when Carrie says: “Maybe some women aren’t meant to be tamed. Maybe they need to run free until they find someone just as wild to run with.”
Whoever this wild mystery man is, I’ll keep looking forward to the day when we finally run into each other.
And in the meantime, maybe I’ll invest in a rocking horse. I think it would be a lot more dependable than Triple B for getting wood between my thighs.
Of course these fantasies perished rapidly when my family moved out of Small Town, USA into the city limits of one of America’s crime capitals. Though statistically, some man was much more likely to enter my bedroom, he would be knocking me off my feet not so much with romance as with a blunt object.
Still, I can’t help but be intrigued by the possibility of a middle-of-the-night surprise suitor. What I really want is to wake up at the peak of darkness and catch the faintest glimpse of a shadow scaling my bedroom ceiling en route to the hidden safe where I keep all of my precious valuables (*let’s pretend like I have some for the sake of this fantasy). And then I’d turn on the lights to find a strikingly handsome, 50-something cat burglar with enough wrinkles on his face to validate his wisdom but enough energy in his expression to show for stamina. I’d be so calm that he wouldn’t even feel caught. He’d take off his slick, black, thief’s tool belt and open up into a conversation so eloquent and sophisticated – enriching my mind with everything from the underground trade markets of oil paintings in Paris to true legends of tribal treasure maps on exotic islands. He’d stimulate my every brain cell beyond comprehension that my body would have no choice but to percolate with pulsing passion. But just as my sexual willpower was about to surrender, the sky would show signs of light and he’d have to leave before sunrise to keep up his alibi. But by high moon the next night, he’d come again and it would only be a matter of time before he’d break and enter something other than my safe...
But my Clint Eastwood of “Absolute Power” / Pierce Brosnan of “The Thomas Crown Affair” / Cary Grant of “To Catch a Thief” – well, he never showed up in time to be my first middle-of-the-night surprise suitor. Instead that honor went to Triple B.
About a month ago, Triple B asked me out to dinner. I was so shocked that I allowed myself to dramatically fall over into a couch before telling him that I couldn’t go because I was babysitting.
BUT TRIPLE B HAD ASKED ME OUT! WHAT?! After nearly two years of our secret late night rendez-vous routine, I had come to accept that old statement that “you can’t beat a dead horse” (amending it with “but you can certainly ride one!”). But my dead horse now wanted to jump the fence into the public arena!? I immediately summoned my circle of best friends through email and we theorized that he was probably drunk, hungry, cashless, and carless and needed me to pick up him and then pick up his tab. Yes, that probably was the case but I didn’t care since that scenario involved me at some greater capacity than just being his gimp. Thus, I rewarded the dead horse for briefly coming to life with some sugar. Not that a text message picture of my flat chest is that sweet but it’s a little something he could chomp at the bit.
A few days later, Triple B texted me before nightfall – a gesture which I deemed worthy of response. He wasn’t asking me to dinner but at least he was giving his gimp some advance notice to saddle up. Yee-haw!
A few hours later, Triple B texted me that he was having a great time in an empty bar with the friend he's with every single day and didn’t want to meet up with me yet. Woah-nelly!
That was enough to know that Triple B had put me out to pasture. Luckily however, this filly had grown accustomed to that and I didn’t need his crop to take my heartbeat from trot to gallop. After all, there’s plenty of pleasure to be had in giddying yourself up per se. Oh yes, I think I did more jumping alone in my bed than any jockey ever did in the steeplechase. Let’s just say I CAME around the track FOUR TIMES!
Exhausted, I hit the hay pretty hard but apparently somewhere in the distance, Triple B was getting pretty hard too. He called. I didn’t pick up. A minute later, he called. I didn’t pick up. Four minutes later, he called. I didn’t pick up. Two minutes later… This continued for a total of FIFTEEN calls. I was impressed – he actually broke his last drunk dialing record of eleven times – but there was no way that I was answering that phone no matter how many times it rang.
That show of self respect worked well up until there was a knock on my basement room’s back door. WHAT!? NO! THIS IS NOT HAPPENING! I sunk into the middle of my bed and balled up under the covers. If I don’t move, it’ll go away, right!? I was just about to test that old trick of yelling out “NOBODY’S HOME!” but the knocking stopped. Silence! Did he leave? No, he did not. The knocking came back harder and it sounded like he was taking a crowbar to the handle so I unwillingly answered it just to avoid losing my security deposit for door damages.
I put up a fight for a good forty seconds and then allowed him to seduce me into sex. We did our usual bareback fucking like bucking broncos until he fell out of the race and passed out. Then I tried to hit the hay for the second time that night but was unable to because Triple B, whom I am now certain was raised in a barn, had to “pee like a racehorse.” I hate that phrase but what else am I to use when the boy wet my beautiful bed! (Oh and by the way, this is the SECOND time he has done so and if he does it a third, we are officially changing his nickname to “The Triple Pee.” My best friend Hanley already renamed my bed from “A $2,000 Cloud” to “The Litter Box.”)
The next morning, I woke up in a sleeping bag and he woke up drenched. I put up a fight for a good thirty seconds and then allowed him to seduce me into sex. For obvious reasons, we did it on the floor and I think I’m still suffering from third degree rug burns.
Then he passed out again and while he slept in, I managed to laundry my sheets, sanitize my mattress, take a shower, run a quick errand, and skim the entire Wall Street Journal. He woke up while I was attempting the paper’s crossword puzzle and he leaned over and grabbed the pen. I thought he was going to fill in an answer but he wound up drawing mustaches and other facial features all over the Palestinian Prime Minister pictured above. I then suggested we go to breakfast to which my little pony rolled back over and stuffed his head into the pillow and started whinnying his “neighs” to my one request. Right, I should have known – “you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.” I put up a fight for a good twenty seconds and then allowed him to seduce me into sex.
Since that night that Triple B ruined my cat burglar fantasy, ruined my bed, and ruined my Wall Street Journal, he has texted me twice. Both messages were sent on Saturday nights, both sent after 1:00 am, both sent in his drunken aftermath state, and both sent bearing the threat that he was going to just come over to my house. I however was housesitting at a location that I kept classified. Yes, it’s clear that Triple B is not going to change. And that’s fine. No, it’s great! Because every time he horses around with me, I realize more and more how much I have to look forward to.
Personally, I think the best quote from “Sex and the City” comes from an episode in season three that ironically has a horse theme to it. Mr. Big tells Carrie that he is going to marry Natasha and even though Carrie’s heart breaks, she has this powerful breakthrough that the world is made up of simple girls like Natasha and complicated girls like herself. At the very end of the episode, Carrie says good-bye to Mr. Big and watches as he gets into the back of a limousine with his simple Natasha. Then she turns and sees a horse and carriage and the saddled up steed suddenly becomes very rowdy and jerks its mane and thrusts its entire upper body back to reveal its inherently unruly nature. And that’s when Carrie says: “Maybe some women aren’t meant to be tamed. Maybe they need to run free until they find someone just as wild to run with.”
Whoever this wild mystery man is, I’ll keep looking forward to the day when we finally run into each other.
And in the meantime, maybe I’ll invest in a rocking horse. I think it would be a lot more dependable than Triple B for getting wood between my thighs.
Monday, May 11, 2009
The Nickelback Effect
Up until recently, Nickelback has served me a single purpose and it was not audible enjoyment.
I think every Nickelback song is worth a listening just to get that one over-the-top-ridiculous line out of the lyrics for later use. I mean what could liven up a stagnant social situation more than rasping your voice to match Chad Kroger’s style of rant and belting out in manner of "Figured You Out": “I LIKE YOUR PANTS AROUND YOUR FEET!” Or cutting into someone else’s conversation with "Someday": “INSTEAD OF A HOLLYWOOD HORR-OR!” Or, my personal favorite from "Photograph" shared with my best friend Hanley: “AND WHAT THE HELL IS ON JOEY’S HEAD!?”
But the game of “Teret’s Syndrome: The Pop Music Edition” was recently suspended due to Nickelback’s newest hit: “If Today Was Your Last Day.” Every line in those lyrics is worth repeating for real life, not recreation.
The idea of the song is certainly not new. Sayings and themes like “live each moment as your last” or “there might not be tomorrow” have been so overused that sometimes I wish it was my last moment on Earth just to avoid being told “CARPE DIEM” by one more bumper sticker, tee-shirt or cereal box. Let’s be honest here – if I ate like there was going to be no tomorrow, my breakfast certainly would NOT be a bowl of Special K.
But Nickelback’s song really broke through the bombardment. If today was my last day, what would I do?
Back at rehab, we addicts were told the story of the great philosopher Socrates and how when his revolutionary thinking began to threaten the politicians’ power, he was sentenced to death by the hemlock. Since the hemlock was a deadly poison that took 24 hours to take effect, Socrates knew ahead of time that he only had one day left to live. And how did he decide to spend it? According to the legend, he lived that last day like any other – doing the exact same things he had done the day before. That’s how content he was with himself and his place in life.
When we newly sober addicts were then poised the question as to how we would spend our last day, everyone seemed in agreement that we’d go back to our own choice poison for one last high. I kind of wished I had a drug addiction to be more like my much cooler friends on the heroin and cocaine tracks. While they were planning their final shoots and snorts to be followed by something like skydiving, I was making a list of every topping I could think of to put on my last ice cream sundae.
But things have changed since rehab for all of us. Unfortunately, one of us did spend a last day of life at an all-time high but it’s not likely that was a pre-planned overdose.
Life really is short. I guess it’s a good thing that the bumper stickers, tee-shirts, cereal boxes, and especially the Nickelbacks out there keep reminding us to live each day like it’s our last.
If today was my last day, I know exactly what I would do. I would wake up, get in my car, and drive west. A new, uninhibited adventure has the most potential for me personally to get as much out life as I need to before it’s over. I trust fate to find me every person I need to meet or see again, every place I need to pioneer or revisit, and every experience I need to live for the first time or repeat for the last. Plus, if I drove really fast, I might be able to score three extra hours with the time zone change. I wouldn’t tell anyone however I'm not completely against a literally last-minute mass text message to all my friends and family that reads: “MEET ME IN THE AFTERLIFE!”
But here we are at 10:36 am and I’m not in my car racing time towards the sunset.
Instead, I’m here where I’ve been for almost an entire week – on the floor of my parents’ house - because today is someone else’s last day. Actually, at this point, it’s someone else’s last three hours.
At 2:00 pm, we’re putting our three year old dog down. Both of the ACLs in his back legs have ruptured and he can barely walk. Even if the surgery was guaranteed to work, the recovery would bring him more pain and frustration than any animal should have to deal with. He’s a 200 pound Old English Mastiff so he’s practically the size of a horse and we all know what happens when a horse's legs are shot - they get shot. Sorry, this probably isn't a nice topic to write about as I’m sitting here right now with his giant head in my lap, but I get pretty punchy after a two hour night’s sleep doused in drool on a dog bed...
With my entire family in Florida last week, I stayed home to dogsit. The decision was made partially because I didn't want to go. If one of those vacation days wound up being my last, I’d hate for it to be spent poolside in Miami (and I don’t think that should offend anyone because that’s probably every other mortal’s dream date with death). But I also decided to stay because I put this dog through hell on Earth the first two years of his life. Everyone knows that dogs are one of the most perceptive creatures to human feelings and sometimes when I would be purging secretly in the basement bathroom when everyone else was asleep two floors up, he would be crying outside the door like he knew something was wrong. I’d finally emerge from my addiction to find him passed out in defeat as though he had tried all he could to give unending unconditional love but gave up feeling guilty that he wasn’t able to do enough to appease his master. Yes, I definitely owed this dog the best last week possible.
And it was so simple. We did everything he liked only we made it last longer than the usual “okay, you’ve had your five minutes of play but now we have to go out and do more fun things with our human friends but here’s a treat so don’t get sad.” We instead layed in the grass for hours. We played with the ball and he was applauded with a standing ovation every time he caught the 7 inch throw. We got out the hose and drenched ourselves. We watched hockey games because he loves the Detroit Red Wings and threw a dance party because he loves that new duet by Miley Cyrus and David Archuleta “I Wanna Know You.” Okay, fine, that was all my selfish doing but I swear his head went back and forth following the puck with keen interest and his tail definitely wagged when David and Miley hit the high notes.
Thus, when our dog is put to sleep this afternoon, I’ll be happy that we did all that was possible to make his last few days the best that we could. Sure, I’ll harbor a little guilt for the many times that I chose my addiction over him. I’ll probably also feel bad about laughing at everyone else when I saw “Marley & Me." Normally, dog movies are the only movies that make me cry – I completely lost it when Airbud was abandoned on the island! But when Marley wasn’t even dead yet and all you could hear in the entire theater was echoing sniffles and whispers of “this is just like what happened to [Rufus, Fido, Bailey, Coco, etc.],” I found it almost as entertaining as Owen Wilson hanging out of that little car holding Marley in the middle of the traffic jam.
So it’s 11:30 am now so we’re down to two and a half hours of life for our dog. He’s snuggled here trying to hide his pain and smiling with excitement over the simplest stroke behind his ears. If you consider what’s about to happen in the near future, we have quite a sad situation here. But if you live only in the present, it’s not sad at all. It's nothing but love and life in its purest form. In fact, if I had to finish off Nickelback’s statement: “If today was your last day…” I’d do it like Socrates and opt to stay right here spending each last moment as it is.
Carpe diem.
I think every Nickelback song is worth a listening just to get that one over-the-top-ridiculous line out of the lyrics for later use. I mean what could liven up a stagnant social situation more than rasping your voice to match Chad Kroger’s style of rant and belting out in manner of "Figured You Out": “I LIKE YOUR PANTS AROUND YOUR FEET!” Or cutting into someone else’s conversation with "Someday": “INSTEAD OF A HOLLYWOOD HORR-OR!” Or, my personal favorite from "Photograph" shared with my best friend Hanley: “AND WHAT THE HELL IS ON JOEY’S HEAD!?”
But the game of “Teret’s Syndrome: The Pop Music Edition” was recently suspended due to Nickelback’s newest hit: “If Today Was Your Last Day.” Every line in those lyrics is worth repeating for real life, not recreation.
The idea of the song is certainly not new. Sayings and themes like “live each moment as your last” or “there might not be tomorrow” have been so overused that sometimes I wish it was my last moment on Earth just to avoid being told “CARPE DIEM” by one more bumper sticker, tee-shirt or cereal box. Let’s be honest here – if I ate like there was going to be no tomorrow, my breakfast certainly would NOT be a bowl of Special K.
But Nickelback’s song really broke through the bombardment. If today was my last day, what would I do?
Back at rehab, we addicts were told the story of the great philosopher Socrates and how when his revolutionary thinking began to threaten the politicians’ power, he was sentenced to death by the hemlock. Since the hemlock was a deadly poison that took 24 hours to take effect, Socrates knew ahead of time that he only had one day left to live. And how did he decide to spend it? According to the legend, he lived that last day like any other – doing the exact same things he had done the day before. That’s how content he was with himself and his place in life.
When we newly sober addicts were then poised the question as to how we would spend our last day, everyone seemed in agreement that we’d go back to our own choice poison for one last high. I kind of wished I had a drug addiction to be more like my much cooler friends on the heroin and cocaine tracks. While they were planning their final shoots and snorts to be followed by something like skydiving, I was making a list of every topping I could think of to put on my last ice cream sundae.
But things have changed since rehab for all of us. Unfortunately, one of us did spend a last day of life at an all-time high but it’s not likely that was a pre-planned overdose.
Life really is short. I guess it’s a good thing that the bumper stickers, tee-shirts, cereal boxes, and especially the Nickelbacks out there keep reminding us to live each day like it’s our last.
If today was my last day, I know exactly what I would do. I would wake up, get in my car, and drive west. A new, uninhibited adventure has the most potential for me personally to get as much out life as I need to before it’s over. I trust fate to find me every person I need to meet or see again, every place I need to pioneer or revisit, and every experience I need to live for the first time or repeat for the last. Plus, if I drove really fast, I might be able to score three extra hours with the time zone change. I wouldn’t tell anyone however I'm not completely against a literally last-minute mass text message to all my friends and family that reads: “MEET ME IN THE AFTERLIFE!”
But here we are at 10:36 am and I’m not in my car racing time towards the sunset.
Instead, I’m here where I’ve been for almost an entire week – on the floor of my parents’ house - because today is someone else’s last day. Actually, at this point, it’s someone else’s last three hours.
At 2:00 pm, we’re putting our three year old dog down. Both of the ACLs in his back legs have ruptured and he can barely walk. Even if the surgery was guaranteed to work, the recovery would bring him more pain and frustration than any animal should have to deal with. He’s a 200 pound Old English Mastiff so he’s practically the size of a horse and we all know what happens when a horse's legs are shot - they get shot. Sorry, this probably isn't a nice topic to write about as I’m sitting here right now with his giant head in my lap, but I get pretty punchy after a two hour night’s sleep doused in drool on a dog bed...
With my entire family in Florida last week, I stayed home to dogsit. The decision was made partially because I didn't want to go. If one of those vacation days wound up being my last, I’d hate for it to be spent poolside in Miami (and I don’t think that should offend anyone because that’s probably every other mortal’s dream date with death). But I also decided to stay because I put this dog through hell on Earth the first two years of his life. Everyone knows that dogs are one of the most perceptive creatures to human feelings and sometimes when I would be purging secretly in the basement bathroom when everyone else was asleep two floors up, he would be crying outside the door like he knew something was wrong. I’d finally emerge from my addiction to find him passed out in defeat as though he had tried all he could to give unending unconditional love but gave up feeling guilty that he wasn’t able to do enough to appease his master. Yes, I definitely owed this dog the best last week possible.
And it was so simple. We did everything he liked only we made it last longer than the usual “okay, you’ve had your five minutes of play but now we have to go out and do more fun things with our human friends but here’s a treat so don’t get sad.” We instead layed in the grass for hours. We played with the ball and he was applauded with a standing ovation every time he caught the 7 inch throw. We got out the hose and drenched ourselves. We watched hockey games because he loves the Detroit Red Wings and threw a dance party because he loves that new duet by Miley Cyrus and David Archuleta “I Wanna Know You.” Okay, fine, that was all my selfish doing but I swear his head went back and forth following the puck with keen interest and his tail definitely wagged when David and Miley hit the high notes.
Thus, when our dog is put to sleep this afternoon, I’ll be happy that we did all that was possible to make his last few days the best that we could. Sure, I’ll harbor a little guilt for the many times that I chose my addiction over him. I’ll probably also feel bad about laughing at everyone else when I saw “Marley & Me." Normally, dog movies are the only movies that make me cry – I completely lost it when Airbud was abandoned on the island! But when Marley wasn’t even dead yet and all you could hear in the entire theater was echoing sniffles and whispers of “this is just like what happened to [Rufus, Fido, Bailey, Coco, etc.],” I found it almost as entertaining as Owen Wilson hanging out of that little car holding Marley in the middle of the traffic jam.
So it’s 11:30 am now so we’re down to two and a half hours of life for our dog. He’s snuggled here trying to hide his pain and smiling with excitement over the simplest stroke behind his ears. If you consider what’s about to happen in the near future, we have quite a sad situation here. But if you live only in the present, it’s not sad at all. It's nothing but love and life in its purest form. In fact, if I had to finish off Nickelback’s statement: “If today was your last day…” I’d do it like Socrates and opt to stay right here spending each last moment as it is.
Carpe diem.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Carolina Liar Syndrome
“Save me. I’m lost. Oh Lord, I’ve been waiting for you. I’ll pay any cost to save me from being confused. Please show me what I’m looking for.”
- Carolina Liar, “Show Me What I’m Looking For”
It’s our song! Yes us – the soul searchers, the restless wanderers, the sometimes hopeless, the sometimes hopeful, the often strong, the often weak, and the always mystified – we might not know our place in this world, nor our purpose in life, nor our true selves yet, but at least we have a soundtrack by which to continue making strides in the exploration of the vastly unknown ahead.
If you fit any of the characteristics in the paragraph above, I humbly suggest YouTube-ing Carolina Liar’s “Show Me What I’m Looking For” immediately. As if the lyrics and guitar chords weren’t enough, the music video captures every natural instinct, body movement, and facial expression of what it is to feel so incomplete, desperately yearning for fulfillment but not at all sure where or how to begin.
“Show me what I’m looking for.” We have all been shown what to look for since our earliest days of childhood. It came from our parents, our teachers, our friends, our churches, our government, our media, etc. They said get good grades and you’ll be smart and then you’ll go far. Look nice and you’ll be attractive and then you’ll go far. Act right and you’ll be likable and then you’ll go far. Play well and you’ll be victorious and then you’ll go far. Work hard and you’ll be rich and then you’ll go far.
Go far… But to what end? We looked for what they told us to so why are we lost now? Have some of us not gone far enough yet? Have some of us gone too far already?
Even if our parents were truly settled, our teachers were truly know-it-alls, our friends were truly happy, our churches were truly moral, our government was truly genuine, and our media was truly reflective, is what they found to be success and satisfaction what we would find successful and satisfying?
It wasn’t for me. I did receive straight A’s, I did fit my body into the mannequin mold, I did take in the words of the Bible, I did win athletic awards, and I did earn every cent of my paychecks. But here I am now with a soul so hollow, a heart so unsure, a body so exhausted, and a mind so conflicted.
The only thing I've found so far is that the success of soul searching can only be measured by us alone. Thereby, fully finding ourselves can only be achieved by us alone as well. Others can guide but they’ll never really know what it is that we need to find, or where we should look, or how we will do it.
Back in 1997, I had a great time laughing with most Americans at cults after the Heaven’s Gate mass suicide. I mean why on Earth – or I should say “why in all of outer space” just in case UFO based religion is right after all – would anyone follow that crazy old man with the eyes about to pop out of his sockets while prancing around wearing matching black Nikes and drinking Kool-Aid… or, well, um, drank Kool-Aid – I guess that was a one time activity… BUT WHAT WERE THEY THINKING?!
But over a decade later, I discovered what they were thinking because it was what I was thinking. A soul shrunken by anorexia and a self shredded by bulimia, my life had sunk to a low that I was somehow convinced was the only way to live. And I couldn't keep up anymore. I wanted out – not just from the eating disorders but from life's demand of needing to find my true self. It was too hard. It took too much effort. I was already completely drained but hadn’t seen any hint of progress. I wanted to concede to someone else. Someone who promised salvation, who promised support, who promised a set way of life. And if that meant sleeping in a bunk bed at some compound – so be it, even if that sleep was the eternal one…
No, that’s not fully true. I’m not suicidal nor have I ever been and I didn’t want to join a cult nor would I ever do so. What I wanted was to go back to rehab – where everyone told me what to do and I did it. All the answers to my troubled eating were handed to me on a plate and then cleared away. All the answers to my troubled mind were medically explained and then therapeutically eased. All the answers to my troubled past were calmly explored and then laid to rest. The future didn’t exist on that particular desert compound. It was all determined in your personal schedule by someone else who knew better than you did. All you had to do was walk through the preplanned motions of the day moment-by-moment, in an environment of very little pressure. All together, the routine allowed me to come closer to accepting myself exactly as I was and accepting my place in life right where I was. It was a beautiful life.
Wait, no, that’s not fully true either. It was a beautiful life until about week five when it started to become a boring life. I remember sitting out in the desert watching another perfect sunset over the perfect mountainscape and the only words I could write in my journal were: “STIMULATE ME!” The plateau of peace in my own little world was just not enough. I wanted back into the outside world to look for something else.
And that’s where I am right now, the point of “show me what I’m looking for.” Rehab told me the real work of recovery would begin after discharge, and it did. Rehab told me it would take years to find what I’m looking for, and it is.
The “Carolina Liar Syndrome” is that we cannot avoid the search for self. We can’t control its timing and some of us will be lost a lot longer than others. But when we do find ourselves, the experience will validate the past. And it will stimulate the future. And, best of all, it can be romanticized in the present.
Yes, each moment really can be a glamorous triumph but it takes keeping your perception, willingness, and faith in constant check. In doing that, loneliness and solitude can be reason to celebrate if you’re used to seeking company with your demons. In doing that, the absence of map and compass can be reason to go forth if you’re used to staying put in one dangerous place. In doing that, fear and turmoil are reason to invoke your courage if you’re used to muting all unease through addictive behavior.
The song “Show Me What I’m Looking For” won’t make finding meaning in life any easier or any quicker but it can enhance the journey. We will still wander the earth without a direction but we might take a rhythm. We will still live our days perplexed with confusion but we might unearth a fascination. We will still feel through the nights in silence but we might hear a harmony.
And we will still have to soul search solo to find ourselves but we might become aware that we’re all alone together - hit record artists included. And considering the chance that we could turn on the radio at any moment and share in the significance of Carolina Liar’s song "Show Me What I'm Looking For," well I for one couldn’t ask for a better time in life to feel so lost.
- Carolina Liar, “Show Me What I’m Looking For”
It’s our song! Yes us – the soul searchers, the restless wanderers, the sometimes hopeless, the sometimes hopeful, the often strong, the often weak, and the always mystified – we might not know our place in this world, nor our purpose in life, nor our true selves yet, but at least we have a soundtrack by which to continue making strides in the exploration of the vastly unknown ahead.
If you fit any of the characteristics in the paragraph above, I humbly suggest YouTube-ing Carolina Liar’s “Show Me What I’m Looking For” immediately. As if the lyrics and guitar chords weren’t enough, the music video captures every natural instinct, body movement, and facial expression of what it is to feel so incomplete, desperately yearning for fulfillment but not at all sure where or how to begin.
“Show me what I’m looking for.” We have all been shown what to look for since our earliest days of childhood. It came from our parents, our teachers, our friends, our churches, our government, our media, etc. They said get good grades and you’ll be smart and then you’ll go far. Look nice and you’ll be attractive and then you’ll go far. Act right and you’ll be likable and then you’ll go far. Play well and you’ll be victorious and then you’ll go far. Work hard and you’ll be rich and then you’ll go far.
Go far… But to what end? We looked for what they told us to so why are we lost now? Have some of us not gone far enough yet? Have some of us gone too far already?
Even if our parents were truly settled, our teachers were truly know-it-alls, our friends were truly happy, our churches were truly moral, our government was truly genuine, and our media was truly reflective, is what they found to be success and satisfaction what we would find successful and satisfying?
It wasn’t for me. I did receive straight A’s, I did fit my body into the mannequin mold, I did take in the words of the Bible, I did win athletic awards, and I did earn every cent of my paychecks. But here I am now with a soul so hollow, a heart so unsure, a body so exhausted, and a mind so conflicted.
The only thing I've found so far is that the success of soul searching can only be measured by us alone. Thereby, fully finding ourselves can only be achieved by us alone as well. Others can guide but they’ll never really know what it is that we need to find, or where we should look, or how we will do it.
Back in 1997, I had a great time laughing with most Americans at cults after the Heaven’s Gate mass suicide. I mean why on Earth – or I should say “why in all of outer space” just in case UFO based religion is right after all – would anyone follow that crazy old man with the eyes about to pop out of his sockets while prancing around wearing matching black Nikes and drinking Kool-Aid… or, well, um, drank Kool-Aid – I guess that was a one time activity… BUT WHAT WERE THEY THINKING?!
But over a decade later, I discovered what they were thinking because it was what I was thinking. A soul shrunken by anorexia and a self shredded by bulimia, my life had sunk to a low that I was somehow convinced was the only way to live. And I couldn't keep up anymore. I wanted out – not just from the eating disorders but from life's demand of needing to find my true self. It was too hard. It took too much effort. I was already completely drained but hadn’t seen any hint of progress. I wanted to concede to someone else. Someone who promised salvation, who promised support, who promised a set way of life. And if that meant sleeping in a bunk bed at some compound – so be it, even if that sleep was the eternal one…
No, that’s not fully true. I’m not suicidal nor have I ever been and I didn’t want to join a cult nor would I ever do so. What I wanted was to go back to rehab – where everyone told me what to do and I did it. All the answers to my troubled eating were handed to me on a plate and then cleared away. All the answers to my troubled mind were medically explained and then therapeutically eased. All the answers to my troubled past were calmly explored and then laid to rest. The future didn’t exist on that particular desert compound. It was all determined in your personal schedule by someone else who knew better than you did. All you had to do was walk through the preplanned motions of the day moment-by-moment, in an environment of very little pressure. All together, the routine allowed me to come closer to accepting myself exactly as I was and accepting my place in life right where I was. It was a beautiful life.
Wait, no, that’s not fully true either. It was a beautiful life until about week five when it started to become a boring life. I remember sitting out in the desert watching another perfect sunset over the perfect mountainscape and the only words I could write in my journal were: “STIMULATE ME!” The plateau of peace in my own little world was just not enough. I wanted back into the outside world to look for something else.
And that’s where I am right now, the point of “show me what I’m looking for.” Rehab told me the real work of recovery would begin after discharge, and it did. Rehab told me it would take years to find what I’m looking for, and it is.
The “Carolina Liar Syndrome” is that we cannot avoid the search for self. We can’t control its timing and some of us will be lost a lot longer than others. But when we do find ourselves, the experience will validate the past. And it will stimulate the future. And, best of all, it can be romanticized in the present.
Yes, each moment really can be a glamorous triumph but it takes keeping your perception, willingness, and faith in constant check. In doing that, loneliness and solitude can be reason to celebrate if you’re used to seeking company with your demons. In doing that, the absence of map and compass can be reason to go forth if you’re used to staying put in one dangerous place. In doing that, fear and turmoil are reason to invoke your courage if you’re used to muting all unease through addictive behavior.
The song “Show Me What I’m Looking For” won’t make finding meaning in life any easier or any quicker but it can enhance the journey. We will still wander the earth without a direction but we might take a rhythm. We will still live our days perplexed with confusion but we might unearth a fascination. We will still feel through the nights in silence but we might hear a harmony.
And we will still have to soul search solo to find ourselves but we might become aware that we’re all alone together - hit record artists included. And considering the chance that we could turn on the radio at any moment and share in the significance of Carolina Liar’s song "Show Me What I'm Looking For," well I for one couldn’t ask for a better time in life to feel so lost.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
James Blunt the Second
Huge group gatherings in bars usually turn me off. It’s too crowded, too noisy, too complicated, too dramatic, etc. etc. etc. But last week, I found that huge group gatherings are not too bad. In fact, they turned me on.
Well, it was he who turned me on - the friend of a friend of a friend. We had made eye contact a few times but I didn’t look any further into it. However, when he walked behind me and ran his hand down my back from neck to tailbone, I couldn’t help but wonder – was this guy checking me for scoliosis or checking me out? And if that was a move, what inspired it? The song "Baby Got Back" or the movie "This Is Spinal Tap?"
I turned around and he introduced himself as James which was most appropriate because his accent was British and talking to him was like being serenaded by James Blunt – only I knew that this James was a man without having to Google it like I did after first hearing “You’re Beautiful.”
Like all tragic spinsters, I identify heavily with Bridget Jones which means the world is divided into three types of men. There are the Mark Darcys who take it slow and sophisticated, and like you “just as you are.” There are the Daniel Cleavers who take it fast and frustrating, and like you “in a short skirt.” And then there are the Toms who take it in the ass from other men but like you as a friend.
Out of the three, James Blunt the Second would have to be a Daniel Cleaver but I’d hate to classify him as such an emotional fuckwit. He had bestowed more public affection on me in five minutes than all the blokes I had shagged in the past combined. If he wasn’t holding my hand, he was rocking my waist. If he wasn’t brushing pieces of my hair to the side of my face, he was helping me relock the bracelet I had accidentally unclasped in a state of nervous fidgeting.
Caught up in the romance on the rise, I forgot we were in the middle of a huge group gathering and didn’t realize that my friends had formed an audience – a rowdy one of widening eyes, pointing fingers and laughing out loud. Oh sod off! I was too smitten with James Blunt the Second to care!
He was an artist - a real one - he lived in an apartment in New York where he had developed a dark room for his photography and a studio for his canvas paintings. We started a debate over the significance of what he referred to as “modern art” and what I referred to as “an obscenely overpriced bunch of dots on paper that some fool buys in order to appear culturally adept." Then we traveled back in time. James Blunt the Second’s passion for Van Gogh swirled me straight into “Starry Night.” The detail with which he depicted each brushstroke and the symbolism he sensationalized of shades and shapes left a greater impression on me about art than Musée d’Orsay’s entire collection of Impressionism did. His admiration of Monsieur Van Gogh was so riveting that I had to check both sides of his head to make sure he hadn’t paid tribute by cutting one of his ears off.
By closing time, we had walked through Monet’s gardens, waltzed with Degas’ dancers, and of course, dined at Van Gogh's café terrace - I mean why wouldn’t we just keep going and sleep together?
Because, linked arm-and-arm and locked eyes-to-eyes at the door of that bar, it suddenly happened. It’s yet to happen with art despite my greatest attempts of wandering museums and paging through giant coffee table books, but it happened with the artist. It was the breakthrough of understanding.
In a flash, I saw what James Blunt the Second and I were going to do. We’d go back to his friend’s flat and get into each other’s knickers. Oooo and maybe he’d be overcome with some spontaneous burst of creative inspiration and ask me to pose nude for him and I’d do my best impression of Lady Kate Winslet in “Titantic.” He’d finish his sketch and then we’d make way for England to invade American borders all night long with such revolutionary spirit that a lot more than the Red Coats would be coming.
But then what? I’d wake up tomorrow that damn Yankee tramp with a giant hole in her heart and empty void in her soul, only seeking ways to fill them through the smoke of a fag or the comfort of crumpets or a relapse in the loo.
What if instead I went home alone and remembered James Blunt the Second as merely an exciting evening, a romantic encounter, an innocent flirtation? Really, what was the most that sex could add to our three hour relationship? The honest answer to that question is an unplanned child with dual citizenship and I don’t think two starving artists can deal with that now.
So I bid James Blunt the Second cheerio with a good-bye kiss and we went our separate ways. And on that one starry night, everything finally made sense.
I can't lie though, on most every other night the sky is pitch black and absolutely nothing makes sense. But in my opinion, nonsense is the foundation for modern art and look how far that’s gone among the fools. There's hope...
Well, it was he who turned me on - the friend of a friend of a friend. We had made eye contact a few times but I didn’t look any further into it. However, when he walked behind me and ran his hand down my back from neck to tailbone, I couldn’t help but wonder – was this guy checking me for scoliosis or checking me out? And if that was a move, what inspired it? The song "Baby Got Back" or the movie "This Is Spinal Tap?"
I turned around and he introduced himself as James which was most appropriate because his accent was British and talking to him was like being serenaded by James Blunt – only I knew that this James was a man without having to Google it like I did after first hearing “You’re Beautiful.”
Like all tragic spinsters, I identify heavily with Bridget Jones which means the world is divided into three types of men. There are the Mark Darcys who take it slow and sophisticated, and like you “just as you are.” There are the Daniel Cleavers who take it fast and frustrating, and like you “in a short skirt.” And then there are the Toms who take it in the ass from other men but like you as a friend.
Out of the three, James Blunt the Second would have to be a Daniel Cleaver but I’d hate to classify him as such an emotional fuckwit. He had bestowed more public affection on me in five minutes than all the blokes I had shagged in the past combined. If he wasn’t holding my hand, he was rocking my waist. If he wasn’t brushing pieces of my hair to the side of my face, he was helping me relock the bracelet I had accidentally unclasped in a state of nervous fidgeting.
Caught up in the romance on the rise, I forgot we were in the middle of a huge group gathering and didn’t realize that my friends had formed an audience – a rowdy one of widening eyes, pointing fingers and laughing out loud. Oh sod off! I was too smitten with James Blunt the Second to care!
He was an artist - a real one - he lived in an apartment in New York where he had developed a dark room for his photography and a studio for his canvas paintings. We started a debate over the significance of what he referred to as “modern art” and what I referred to as “an obscenely overpriced bunch of dots on paper that some fool buys in order to appear culturally adept." Then we traveled back in time. James Blunt the Second’s passion for Van Gogh swirled me straight into “Starry Night.” The detail with which he depicted each brushstroke and the symbolism he sensationalized of shades and shapes left a greater impression on me about art than Musée d’Orsay’s entire collection of Impressionism did. His admiration of Monsieur Van Gogh was so riveting that I had to check both sides of his head to make sure he hadn’t paid tribute by cutting one of his ears off.
By closing time, we had walked through Monet’s gardens, waltzed with Degas’ dancers, and of course, dined at Van Gogh's café terrace - I mean why wouldn’t we just keep going and sleep together?
Because, linked arm-and-arm and locked eyes-to-eyes at the door of that bar, it suddenly happened. It’s yet to happen with art despite my greatest attempts of wandering museums and paging through giant coffee table books, but it happened with the artist. It was the breakthrough of understanding.
In a flash, I saw what James Blunt the Second and I were going to do. We’d go back to his friend’s flat and get into each other’s knickers. Oooo and maybe he’d be overcome with some spontaneous burst of creative inspiration and ask me to pose nude for him and I’d do my best impression of Lady Kate Winslet in “Titantic.” He’d finish his sketch and then we’d make way for England to invade American borders all night long with such revolutionary spirit that a lot more than the Red Coats would be coming.
But then what? I’d wake up tomorrow that damn Yankee tramp with a giant hole in her heart and empty void in her soul, only seeking ways to fill them through the smoke of a fag or the comfort of crumpets or a relapse in the loo.
What if instead I went home alone and remembered James Blunt the Second as merely an exciting evening, a romantic encounter, an innocent flirtation? Really, what was the most that sex could add to our three hour relationship? The honest answer to that question is an unplanned child with dual citizenship and I don’t think two starving artists can deal with that now.
So I bid James Blunt the Second cheerio with a good-bye kiss and we went our separate ways. And on that one starry night, everything finally made sense.
I can't lie though, on most every other night the sky is pitch black and absolutely nothing makes sense. But in my opinion, nonsense is the foundation for modern art and look how far that’s gone among the fools. There's hope...
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Reinventing the Wheel
The wheel that squeaks gets the oil.
I didn’t know how this adage came into being for most of my life. When the wheels on my car started squeaking five years ago, my mechanic didn't oil them. And since then, it's only gotten worse but my reaction is simply turning up the radio volume. I much prefer another saying about my wheels anyway - the one issued out by my sound-sensitive friends: "Damn, I heard you coming from a mile away!”
But back to the other statement because my venomous loathing of it began in 1999 – the first summer job hunt. "The wheel that squeaks gets the oil" was all my mom said to me that June. And did mother know best? No actually. I didn't pick up the phone once to squeak and I still landed that job at The Gap.
Being assertive has never been my strength. I guess that's why I never had a date to any dances at my all-girls high school unless my friends came through for me the night before with some guy who just wanted to get in the door. But when you’ve been in Layoff Land for four months and counting, everything you have becomes something to work with, including your weaknesses. Plus, I was getting desperate for a change in communication from the good ol’ cover letter addressed “To Whom It May Concern."
The opportunity came to me a couple weeks ago on page A3 of The Wall Street Journal. There in the black and white print glowed a name I recognized – that of my mom’s best friend from high school and co-founder of a successful company out of Napa Valley. Before my eyes even reached the last word of the article, the wheels had already started turning in my head and nothing was going to stop me from seeking out a reason to pack my car and squeal straight out west.
So I swallowed my pride and made the phone call. No answer. Left a message. The wheel had squeaked.
A week later, she called back having just returned from a business trip to India. We talked. Great conversation but no current openings at her company. The wheel was denied a lube job.
Two days later, she called back and low and behold, THE WHEEL HIT OIL! Well, more like a half bottle of Pennzoil but she greased me up good with a one day offer to be her creative consultant on a Power Point presentation being made to a group of prospective investors. She would be in Washington DC the following week and wanted to meet up.
When making presentations in my former marketing job, I never touched Power Point. My partner would create the slides while I, suffering from massive technological intimidation, longed for the days of oral tradition.
But the squeaky wheel in me put those fears to a screeching halt and this past Monday, I entered the nation’s capital revved up to conquer computer competency.
I couldn’t believe I was back in the Business World again. Yes, I was being paid to hit my alarm clock at 5:00 am. Paid to travel with other business commuters. Paid to read The Wall Street Journal in my train seat and shake it between page turnings like a professional would. Paid to walk the city streets with capitalistic haste among the suits. Paid to turn a fancy hotel bar into a workspace area to carry out eight straight hours of designing a project that would be seen by 150 of some America’s wealthiest private investors. Paid to be instantly referred to her close friend – a senior vice president of one of the nation's largest not-for-profits. Paid to add a nice bullet point to my resume. Paid to be wined and dined à la cuisine française for both lunch and dinner.
And paid whatever I wanted to be paid?! What!? For just knowing how to use basic Power Point?! So much for Microsoft's built-in troubleshooting tools. I never thought I would be thankful to Bill Gates for making that little cartoon paperclip so fucking annoying.
In Layoff Land – where our population is growing every day and only a select few are able to cross the borders back into the Business World – some of us are going to have to concede feeling valued by a steady paycheck and find ways to become rich with experience. Had I not been laid off in December, I'd certainly have a lot more money right now but I would have never had the opportunity to spend a day doing far more significant work in the global marketplace like I did on Monday. Sure, it was one day out of four months, one small check instead of eight larger ones, but I'm convinced it will be worth it.
Typical American times of economic growth and financial security allow us to be typical Americans churning the daily grind and collecting a promised paycheck. Atypical American times call for us to be atypical Americans and take our career paths on the road less traveled where bigger obstacles call for better solutions and, in the end, make for the best journeys.
Should you choose to take that road, make sure your wheels are squeaking because in one way or another, we'll all eventually strike oil.
I didn’t know how this adage came into being for most of my life. When the wheels on my car started squeaking five years ago, my mechanic didn't oil them. And since then, it's only gotten worse but my reaction is simply turning up the radio volume. I much prefer another saying about my wheels anyway - the one issued out by my sound-sensitive friends: "Damn, I heard you coming from a mile away!”
But back to the other statement because my venomous loathing of it began in 1999 – the first summer job hunt. "The wheel that squeaks gets the oil" was all my mom said to me that June. And did mother know best? No actually. I didn't pick up the phone once to squeak and I still landed that job at The Gap.
Being assertive has never been my strength. I guess that's why I never had a date to any dances at my all-girls high school unless my friends came through for me the night before with some guy who just wanted to get in the door. But when you’ve been in Layoff Land for four months and counting, everything you have becomes something to work with, including your weaknesses. Plus, I was getting desperate for a change in communication from the good ol’ cover letter addressed “To Whom It May Concern."
The opportunity came to me a couple weeks ago on page A3 of The Wall Street Journal. There in the black and white print glowed a name I recognized – that of my mom’s best friend from high school and co-founder of a successful company out of Napa Valley. Before my eyes even reached the last word of the article, the wheels had already started turning in my head and nothing was going to stop me from seeking out a reason to pack my car and squeal straight out west.
So I swallowed my pride and made the phone call. No answer. Left a message. The wheel had squeaked.
A week later, she called back having just returned from a business trip to India. We talked. Great conversation but no current openings at her company. The wheel was denied a lube job.
Two days later, she called back and low and behold, THE WHEEL HIT OIL! Well, more like a half bottle of Pennzoil but she greased me up good with a one day offer to be her creative consultant on a Power Point presentation being made to a group of prospective investors. She would be in Washington DC the following week and wanted to meet up.
When making presentations in my former marketing job, I never touched Power Point. My partner would create the slides while I, suffering from massive technological intimidation, longed for the days of oral tradition.
But the squeaky wheel in me put those fears to a screeching halt and this past Monday, I entered the nation’s capital revved up to conquer computer competency.
I couldn’t believe I was back in the Business World again. Yes, I was being paid to hit my alarm clock at 5:00 am. Paid to travel with other business commuters. Paid to read The Wall Street Journal in my train seat and shake it between page turnings like a professional would. Paid to walk the city streets with capitalistic haste among the suits. Paid to turn a fancy hotel bar into a workspace area to carry out eight straight hours of designing a project that would be seen by 150 of some America’s wealthiest private investors. Paid to be instantly referred to her close friend – a senior vice president of one of the nation's largest not-for-profits. Paid to add a nice bullet point to my resume. Paid to be wined and dined à la cuisine française for both lunch and dinner.
And paid whatever I wanted to be paid?! What!? For just knowing how to use basic Power Point?! So much for Microsoft's built-in troubleshooting tools. I never thought I would be thankful to Bill Gates for making that little cartoon paperclip so fucking annoying.
In Layoff Land – where our population is growing every day and only a select few are able to cross the borders back into the Business World – some of us are going to have to concede feeling valued by a steady paycheck and find ways to become rich with experience. Had I not been laid off in December, I'd certainly have a lot more money right now but I would have never had the opportunity to spend a day doing far more significant work in the global marketplace like I did on Monday. Sure, it was one day out of four months, one small check instead of eight larger ones, but I'm convinced it will be worth it.
Typical American times of economic growth and financial security allow us to be typical Americans churning the daily grind and collecting a promised paycheck. Atypical American times call for us to be atypical Americans and take our career paths on the road less traveled where bigger obstacles call for better solutions and, in the end, make for the best journeys.
Should you choose to take that road, make sure your wheels are squeaking because in one way or another, we'll all eventually strike oil.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Halfway House of the Holy
We addicts in recovery have a saying: “Religion is for people who are afraid of going to hell, spirituality is for people who have already been there.”
Well thank God I wound up a spirituality seeking addict because my religious record is about as clean as, hmmm, that of the Catholic Church…?
It all went downhill after making my First Communion. Months of Sunday school, hundreds of prayers, and endless verses of “Ri-ise! And shi-ine! And give God your glory! Glory!” and what did I do at the altar when the priest blessed me with my first piece of bread? I dropped it and made a scene. The sacred body of Jesus Christ became nothing more than an object of “the five second rule.” Forgive me.
Then came my Confirmation. St. Francis of Assisi is the patron saint of animals, the environment, Italy and he was the founder of the first order of friars but none of those reasons were why I chose his name when I made the sacrement. We had watched a movie about him in religion class called “Brother Sun, Sister Moon” and I fell in love with the actor who played him especially during the scene when Francis takes an oath of poverty and rips off his expensive robes revealing partial nudity. HOLY HOTNESS! And then that brown robe with the balded crown on his head made it impossible for me to contain my impure thoughts! Forgive me.
In December of my junior year in college, I read “The Da Vinci Code” and concluded that the Catholic Church was a complete hoax. When my parents made me go to mass on Christmas Eve, I sat there silently protesting every prayer knowing that somewhere the Vatican was spinning out another lie, somewhere else Opus Dei was committing another crime, and somewhere else another albino muderous munk was running around with a barbed wire cilice strapped to his thigh. Forgive me.
Then over Easter weekend of that same year, my mom pleaded with me to accompany her at the theaters for a vigil showing of “The Passion of the Christ.” I guess Mel Gibson is some sort of third messiah because halfway through the movie, I was converted back to Catholicism and by the end of the movie, I was sobbing so hard I couldn’t move from my seat until the credits were done rolling. Like the lost lamb, I wanted back in to God's flock. Forgive me!
This time last year, I gave up sex for Lent. I decided this at about 11:50 pm on the eve of Easter when it became apparent that I would have gone the whole 40 days pious, pure and prude anyway. Forgive me.
This year for Lent, I gave up smoking, diet soda, bingeing and purging. I made it through Ash Wednesday but the cravings struck almost immediately after the black cross wore off my forehead. Having handed over my credit card and cash to my little sister to hide from me during detox, I actually snuck into my parents house while everyone was asleep and scrounged every drawer and emptied every coat pocket for enough cash to buy a pack of Marlboro Lights and a couple 2-liter bottles of Diet Coke. And of course I raided the kitchen creating a whole new holiday called Fat Thursday. Forgive me.
Saying "forgive me" wasn't really necessary last week. Jesus practically did all the work for us. On Good Friday, He died to save us from our sins and then on Easter Sunday, He resurrected to bring us to new life. But in accordance with Catholic tradition, we are called to repent during Holy Week and Lord knows I have a lot of that to do. Instead of kneeling before a priest however, I sought sanctuary in “Se7en” for no biblical parable or fear-mongering prophet invokes my guilty confessions more than Kevin Spacey. Had I been in that movie, serial killer John Doe could have consolidated four of his crimes into one victim. The film’s running time could be cut in half in fact! Think of all the money that could be saved in production. Mmmm is it too soon to shoot a remake? Don’t worry about the script for it has been written:
------------ “4OUR: THE REMAKE of SE7EN” ------------
[Turn on the rain making machines and keep them running at full speed throughout entire movie, pan over Morgan Freedman throwing a knife at a dartboard and Brad Pitt rolling around with dogs but without the headless Gwyneth Paltrow then cut to dark black room with crimson hues.]
JOHN DOE: [Proceeds to feed a victim by the name of Kokes a ton of spaghetti but kicks her stomach only up to the brink of bursting so that he can still give her the option to take the sleeping pills or call the police after he chops off her nose but keeps her conscious so that while she is deciding, the st-st-stuttering man forced into wearing Wild Bill’s leather creation penetrates her private area with a knife on the bed she had been confined to for an entire year skinless, tongueless, and handless.]
------------ THE END ------------
Too bad I don’t struggle with wrath, envy or greed. Considering the options, I’d rather a jail sentence, a quick bullet to the head, or self-mutilation. That last one might sound gruesome to most normal people but cutting off “one pound of flesh, no more, no less” is the equivalent of free liposuction to the eating disordered psycho without health insurance.
So what is a self-centered, over-indulging, sexually-excessive, lazily-unwilling soul to do to be absolved of her sins!? I don’t think that saying a rosary or giving more alms is going to work. At this point, I’m thinking about writing the Pope to add my predicament to the agenda for Vatican III.
Pride. Gluttony. Lust. Sloth. These are the very “4our” sins that bring me the closest to God yet keep me the farthest from Him. It’s as though I’m stuck in some sort of spiritual purgatory – a place that a Led Zeppelin loving addict would call the "Halfway House of the Holy.” Here, you struggle every second to stay sober. Sometimes you make it through the day and all you want to do at night is get down on your knees and thank God for life. But other times, you give into the addiction – the monster – and all you want to do at night is get off your knees because you’ve been kneeling in your own blood and vomit on the bathroom floor for hours. Or you’ve gone the entire day having not eaten anything and you don’t have the energy to stand but you still find a way to admire your rib cage showing through your skin in the mirror . Or you’re about to give some guy that doesn’t even know your name a blow job. Gluttony. Pride. Lust. And all three of those sins lead to the worst one of all – SLOTH – where you neglect to use your God-given talents and take on an attitude of indifference and a spirit of apathy and do nothing. You’d be better off dead but you’re not yet. You’re still in the Halfway House of the Holy where you just must keep trying to find God.
Hence why I went looking for Him a few nights ago. I found myself alone in a huge stone cathedral. It was completely dark except for flickering candlelight casting shadows of holy spirits and heavy crucifixes on the sky high ceilings. It was so eerie and gothic that my mind couldn’t help but fade up Nine Inch Nails. It started out with “Closer” as a tribute to the opening credits of “Se7en” then moved on to “The Hand That Feeds,” or what I consider to be the bulimic’s anthem (its lyrics: "Will you bite the hand that feeds? Will you chew until it bleeds? Can you get up off your knees? Are you brave enough to see? Do you want to change it?"), but then it sporadically spliced into “Head Like a Hole” and that’s when I found God for a fleeting five minutes and one second of a song ironically screamed out from an angry atheist named Trent Reznor. His line “I’D RATHER DIE THAN GIVE YOU CONTROL” – therein lies the struggle of addicts! We would rather die by the insanity of our own addictions than trust in a Higher Power that we’re going to be okay. And, even harder, is trusting that we are okay as we are.
Of course I lost God sometime later that night and even after Jesus rose from the dead on Sunday, I’m still having trouble finding Him again. In the Halfway House of the Holy though, you survive in and out of sobriety through the power of hope. And I know one day I’ll be singing a new line from “Head Like a Hole” when I trust God enough to follow another line from Father Reznor's sermon: "Bow down before the one you serve, you're going to get what you deserve."
And what is it that we repenting sinners deserve? At the very least, I think it's something a Led Zeppelin loving addict in recovery calls “A Whole Lotta Love."
Well thank God I wound up a spirituality seeking addict because my religious record is about as clean as, hmmm, that of the Catholic Church…?
It all went downhill after making my First Communion. Months of Sunday school, hundreds of prayers, and endless verses of “Ri-ise! And shi-ine! And give God your glory! Glory!” and what did I do at the altar when the priest blessed me with my first piece of bread? I dropped it and made a scene. The sacred body of Jesus Christ became nothing more than an object of “the five second rule.” Forgive me.
Then came my Confirmation. St. Francis of Assisi is the patron saint of animals, the environment, Italy and he was the founder of the first order of friars but none of those reasons were why I chose his name when I made the sacrement. We had watched a movie about him in religion class called “Brother Sun, Sister Moon” and I fell in love with the actor who played him especially during the scene when Francis takes an oath of poverty and rips off his expensive robes revealing partial nudity. HOLY HOTNESS! And then that brown robe with the balded crown on his head made it impossible for me to contain my impure thoughts! Forgive me.
In December of my junior year in college, I read “The Da Vinci Code” and concluded that the Catholic Church was a complete hoax. When my parents made me go to mass on Christmas Eve, I sat there silently protesting every prayer knowing that somewhere the Vatican was spinning out another lie, somewhere else Opus Dei was committing another crime, and somewhere else another albino muderous munk was running around with a barbed wire cilice strapped to his thigh. Forgive me.
Then over Easter weekend of that same year, my mom pleaded with me to accompany her at the theaters for a vigil showing of “The Passion of the Christ.” I guess Mel Gibson is some sort of third messiah because halfway through the movie, I was converted back to Catholicism and by the end of the movie, I was sobbing so hard I couldn’t move from my seat until the credits were done rolling. Like the lost lamb, I wanted back in to God's flock. Forgive me!
This time last year, I gave up sex for Lent. I decided this at about 11:50 pm on the eve of Easter when it became apparent that I would have gone the whole 40 days pious, pure and prude anyway. Forgive me.
This year for Lent, I gave up smoking, diet soda, bingeing and purging. I made it through Ash Wednesday but the cravings struck almost immediately after the black cross wore off my forehead. Having handed over my credit card and cash to my little sister to hide from me during detox, I actually snuck into my parents house while everyone was asleep and scrounged every drawer and emptied every coat pocket for enough cash to buy a pack of Marlboro Lights and a couple 2-liter bottles of Diet Coke. And of course I raided the kitchen creating a whole new holiday called Fat Thursday. Forgive me.
Saying "forgive me" wasn't really necessary last week. Jesus practically did all the work for us. On Good Friday, He died to save us from our sins and then on Easter Sunday, He resurrected to bring us to new life. But in accordance with Catholic tradition, we are called to repent during Holy Week and Lord knows I have a lot of that to do. Instead of kneeling before a priest however, I sought sanctuary in “Se7en” for no biblical parable or fear-mongering prophet invokes my guilty confessions more than Kevin Spacey. Had I been in that movie, serial killer John Doe could have consolidated four of his crimes into one victim. The film’s running time could be cut in half in fact! Think of all the money that could be saved in production. Mmmm is it too soon to shoot a remake? Don’t worry about the script for it has been written:
------------ “4OUR: THE REMAKE of SE7EN” ------------
[Turn on the rain making machines and keep them running at full speed throughout entire movie, pan over Morgan Freedman throwing a knife at a dartboard and Brad Pitt rolling around with dogs but without the headless Gwyneth Paltrow then cut to dark black room with crimson hues.]
JOHN DOE: [Proceeds to feed a victim by the name of Kokes a ton of spaghetti but kicks her stomach only up to the brink of bursting so that he can still give her the option to take the sleeping pills or call the police after he chops off her nose but keeps her conscious so that while she is deciding, the st-st-stuttering man forced into wearing Wild Bill’s leather creation penetrates her private area with a knife on the bed she had been confined to for an entire year skinless, tongueless, and handless.]
------------ THE END ------------
Too bad I don’t struggle with wrath, envy or greed. Considering the options, I’d rather a jail sentence, a quick bullet to the head, or self-mutilation. That last one might sound gruesome to most normal people but cutting off “one pound of flesh, no more, no less” is the equivalent of free liposuction to the eating disordered psycho without health insurance.
So what is a self-centered, over-indulging, sexually-excessive, lazily-unwilling soul to do to be absolved of her sins!? I don’t think that saying a rosary or giving more alms is going to work. At this point, I’m thinking about writing the Pope to add my predicament to the agenda for Vatican III.
Pride. Gluttony. Lust. Sloth. These are the very “4our” sins that bring me the closest to God yet keep me the farthest from Him. It’s as though I’m stuck in some sort of spiritual purgatory – a place that a Led Zeppelin loving addict would call the "Halfway House of the Holy.” Here, you struggle every second to stay sober. Sometimes you make it through the day and all you want to do at night is get down on your knees and thank God for life. But other times, you give into the addiction – the monster – and all you want to do at night is get off your knees because you’ve been kneeling in your own blood and vomit on the bathroom floor for hours. Or you’ve gone the entire day having not eaten anything and you don’t have the energy to stand but you still find a way to admire your rib cage showing through your skin in the mirror . Or you’re about to give some guy that doesn’t even know your name a blow job. Gluttony. Pride. Lust. And all three of those sins lead to the worst one of all – SLOTH – where you neglect to use your God-given talents and take on an attitude of indifference and a spirit of apathy and do nothing. You’d be better off dead but you’re not yet. You’re still in the Halfway House of the Holy where you just must keep trying to find God.
Hence why I went looking for Him a few nights ago. I found myself alone in a huge stone cathedral. It was completely dark except for flickering candlelight casting shadows of holy spirits and heavy crucifixes on the sky high ceilings. It was so eerie and gothic that my mind couldn’t help but fade up Nine Inch Nails. It started out with “Closer” as a tribute to the opening credits of “Se7en” then moved on to “The Hand That Feeds,” or what I consider to be the bulimic’s anthem (its lyrics: "Will you bite the hand that feeds? Will you chew until it bleeds? Can you get up off your knees? Are you brave enough to see? Do you want to change it?"), but then it sporadically spliced into “Head Like a Hole” and that’s when I found God for a fleeting five minutes and one second of a song ironically screamed out from an angry atheist named Trent Reznor. His line “I’D RATHER DIE THAN GIVE YOU CONTROL” – therein lies the struggle of addicts! We would rather die by the insanity of our own addictions than trust in a Higher Power that we’re going to be okay. And, even harder, is trusting that we are okay as we are.
Of course I lost God sometime later that night and even after Jesus rose from the dead on Sunday, I’m still having trouble finding Him again. In the Halfway House of the Holy though, you survive in and out of sobriety through the power of hope. And I know one day I’ll be singing a new line from “Head Like a Hole” when I trust God enough to follow another line from Father Reznor's sermon: "Bow down before the one you serve, you're going to get what you deserve."
And what is it that we repenting sinners deserve? At the very least, I think it's something a Led Zeppelin loving addict in recovery calls “A Whole Lotta Love."
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