Living in the Now, an Extension of the Existential Journey

So my experiment has proven as difficult as expected.  At work, I find I want to stick my shoe up every one's ass and at meetings, well a room of alcoholics could piss anyone off.  Tonight Hunter got out of school 45 minutes early and I was planning on writing and exercising with that alone time.  It's not his fault but loving kindness is still rough.  Although I smiled and did the best I could, I would say the day was successful.

I am finding it hard to "live in the moment".  My head wanders so easily it's difficult to just concentrate on what is going on right now.  We were actually talking about that at my meeting tonight and I started thinking about the importance of living in the now and realized that if I want to enjoy the holidays I should dress up our apartment a little more.  I started thinking about how much more present I could feel if I had some yummy smelling Yankee candles from Target and perhaps a wreath and a Christmas throw for the sofa.  I also thought it would be helpful to buy a Christmas clock so there is Christmas music playing all day long.  Than I realized that I would benefit from a shoe rack like my mom has, it's doubled up so there is a lot of room and this could help make the living room look more organized.  Then I thought about buying a funky colored Christmas tree and started wondering what colored lights would best express my personality.  Multi-colored, definitely.  I bet Jane Austen would use white, simple and classy.  My friend from work went all red.  I do not like all red lights, too Moulin Rouge for my holiday likings.  Why is it so hard to find black, low rise, boot leg pants these days?  Skinny jeans have taken over the world and I can't wait for the day to come when we look back at skinny jeans and coach purses and ask ourselves what the hell everyone was thinking?!  My purse is falling apart.  I need a day off to go thrift store shopping.  But I always feel inadequate at those places.  I don't think I have a solid enough sense of self to wear 1960's patterns anymore.  They are very much, "stare at me!" and I am very much "close your eyes and put your ear plugs in".  I wish I had a nose plug to wear at night, Hunter gets really bad gas and it wakes me up sometimes, the smell is like nothing I've ever experienced before.  Funny thing is, practically nothing wakes me up on Seroquel, that's how pungent these fuckers are.  He suggested he fart on me in the morning to make getting out of bed easier.  I'm not sure I am down for that idea.  This thought process started 7 minutes into the meeting, the next thing I knew we were standing up to do the lords prayer.  I definitely have a problem with being present.

The Existential Journey

Ahhh, the written word.  When my whole life is a series of stammered vocalizations and missing phrases and aphorisms, supplemented by the assumption that whatever I have to say could never quite be good enough for the listening ear and accompanied by the feeling that each sentence faces the possibility of becoming the catalyst to my social downfall, I can breathe so much easier in the comfort of verbal composition.

I just spent the last week back home for Thanksgiving.  I've had the song, River, by Joni Mitchell, in my head since the beginning of the trip; as I was packing to head home, "It's coming on Christmas, their cutting down trees, their putting up reindeer. . .";  as I helped my mother prepare Thanksgiving dinner, "singing songs of joy and peace. . ."; and as I sat in the airport, crying over my boarding pass, "oh I wish I had a river, I could skate away on. . ."; and right before I boarded the plane and took one last breath of the fresh Chicago air, preparing myself for my return to the city of smog and internal loneliness, "but it don't snow here, it stays pretty green, I'm going to make a lot of money then I'm going to quit this crazy scene, oh I wish I had a river, I could skate away on, oh I wish I had a river so long I would teach my feet to fly. . ."

 I left behind everything that ever really mattered to me when I moved out here.  I know I had to, if I stayed I would have always wondered.  Most of my life, California was my Utopia, I was so sure that I would find my place in this world through it's ocean breeze and beautifully polluted sunsets, but instead I developed a bittersweet affair with humility,which I did not know until now that I needed badly, and I fell in love with Hunter.  I look forward to the world of retrospect, when I can look back and understand completely what my experience here was meant for.  I know that it's not time for me to go back home yet, one day, but not yet.  If I went home now, within a year I would be restless.  I know that the happiness I seek is within me and no other force but my own brain can lead my thoughts to a place of self-acceptance, maybe even love.  Something inside of me feels as if there is still more to accomplish and explore out here.  Lately, I've begun to realize that it really isn't Orange County or L.A. or my boss or the people I work with, it's not even my financial instability; it's me.  It's always been me; it's my incessant lack of gratitude which dwells inside of me like a desert, draining me of the nectar of contentment; it's my dependence on outside circumstances to satisfy the illusory needs that bind me; it's the pitiful intrusion of self-loathing that incarcerates me.  I have so many good people in my life although I have spent most of it thinking only about myself.  Deep down the love that I need so badly has always been right here, within me, yet, all my energy has been put on the placement of my reliance on those around me and it's really never been fair to anybody; such a heavy weight of responsibility. Wherever I go I'll be faced with the shadows of my own perception and we have a choice to see what we want, although, it's no grand revelation that when it comes to perception, it has always been a struggle for me to see the brighter side of things.

I think that our sense of self was strongest during our childhood; long before we always questioned everything and became too busy to play; during a time where terms such as jaded and disillusioned were not in our vocabulary; when our hearts had not yet been broken and our dreams had no bounds; when we believed we could do anything and our own understanding was ours to enjoy.  Now, I look back at my youth, jealous and sad and I find myself desperately searching for the brighter side that I could see so effortlessly as a little girl, I long for those days when I could see what's in front of me and honor it as it is, rather than what I think it should be.  I find I either think the worst of a person as a means to prepare myself for their judgement or I think so highly of somebody that their own sense of humanity is like a deadly weapon.  Either way, I end up feeling isolated and alone.  

I am on an existential journey to do what ever I can to become the person I'm supposed to become.  I intend to execute this process through simple acts that I have avoided in the past out of fear of discomfort such as, calling the people I care about on a weekly basis, paying attention to how I can make any single person, friend or foe, more comfortable and bring to the table a greater sense of ease in the lives around me.  This is actually more difficult than one would think, when it entails a person like myself.  I find I don't even listen to people when they are talking to me, my mind wanders into the world of A___, which makes it difficult to be there for people when I am not even present.  These are things I don't like to admit.  Now, I understand that these actions resonate the Chicken Soup for the Soul mentality that the average cynic like myself normally shuns, but my intentions are not to "feel good" for a minute, but rather, I am hoping that if I can manage to permanently alter my destructive behavioral patterns through distracting myself from self-obsession and placing the focus on non-ego related issues, it might result in the firm, lasting removal of my head from my own ass.  If anybody wants to be involved in this, please feel free to hop on board, and let me know how it works for you. I will be checking in.

Battling Villians and Overcoming Cancer: A Story Based On A Series of Semi-Factual Events

There's a serial rapist in our neighborhood.  Sometimes I find myself fantasizing that I'm the one that catches the bastard, well, let's be honest, I don't want to catch him, I want to kill him.  I guess he has been roaming in and out of the area, sneaking into women's homes late at night and attacking them, for the past 2 years.  How does that work?  What keeps an attacker like that in one place for so long?  How, after after all this time, has he been able to continually get away with it?  I have to keep the chains on all the doors when I'm home alone now and I can no longer cut through our alley to get to the apartment.  I hate all the limitations I face as a woman, the dangers that threaten my everyday life, and the fear that I'm always experiencing when dusk hits and Hunter isn't there with me.  It's so frustrating.  I know there are self-defense classes and pepper spray is a definite must in regards to utilizing the best forms of safety methods, but, still, the extent we need to go to in order to avoid victimization in this world is overwhelming. 

I've never been raped before.  I am one of the lucky ones.  I've had some unsettling experiences, one having occurred in a bar parking lot by a co-worker, but I was able to get out of the situation safely.  His name was Warthog and he wouldn't let me leave, he yelled, tried to block my way, complimented, threatened and than, eventually, he came from behind me, threw his arms around me and pulled me into him so I wouldn't be able to get into my car.  Crying, I kept begging him to let me go and once I realized he didn't intend to, I reminded him that there were cops across the street and that I was going to scream.  That's when he let go and told me I was crazy and should be locked up.  That seems to be the direction a guilty man always goes-we're the crazy ones.  It's the Sexual Predators National Anthem, cry insanity from across the rooftops and even the most confident woman will be faced with self-doubt. 

Anyways, it could have been avoided, but I was so afraid of what everyone else thought of me I landed myself in a one on one situation in a sleazy, gravel parking lot with Warthog.  I invited drama, I guess I still do, to some extent.  Not to say I'm proud of it, but there really is nothing like a lump on your breast or an alleged neighborhood attacker to get the heart pumping.  I've already decided to keep a knife under the mattress and in the shower, just in case.  And in regards to the lump on my breast, well, who needs an ultrasound when I have symptoms.webmd.com?  I'm ready to start writing my autobiography, covering my cancer days and how I killed the serial rapist well I was washing my hair.  I have a few ideas for the title: Fighting Cancer and Being a Hero in Today's World or Battling Villains and Overcoming Cancer, A Story Based On Semi-Factual Events.  Oprah will eat it up.

The Stepford Wives of SOL

They all walk into SOL the same way, every single one of them; slowly, hips swaying; their lips finely shrouded in the latest plumping gloss, hair extensions grazing the exposed cracks of their once fat asses that seem to fit superbly well in the latest Gucci Antiqued Denims; always their false pride, practically dripping off their stiletto heels.  I sometimes wonder what they keep in their Birkin bags, maybe there's a universal pouch for Pediphilio's girls; lube, some $5 perfume to spray themselves down with, condoms, hand sanitizer?  All of their breasts are like down payments for the rewards that follow.  They are the Stepford Wives of SOL.  Black, Hispanic, Puerto Rican, he never goes after white women; it's like a multi-cultural whore house on the water that serves brunch 7 days a week; a hodgepodge of America's most beautiful rejects, dried ethnic potpourri served shamelessly glazed over with SOL's finest cheap champagne.

How do I even begin to describe Pediphilio?  Pedophilio is my other boss, D's, older brother and co-owner to the restaurant.  There are certain things in this world that are prevalently repugnant and discomposing, for example, extremely overweight men in Speedos on a hot summer day, the smell of menstruation in a woman's locker room, motel room remote controls (think about it),  exorbitantly gassy old men on air planes, maggots, necrophilia, port-o-potties, etc, etc. the list could go on for miles, but of all the disgusting, despicable, and distasteful circumstances that day to day life can be threatened to comprise of, Pediphilio will always take the cake in my book.  His body reminds me of one of those drip candles they sell at psychedelic stores, you know, the ones that sell black light posters and always seem to have an abundance of teenage boys in the back inspecting their pipe selection.  When I see those drip candles I think of Pediphilio; except the candle has 2 legs and is made of old, hammered leather.  I can't imagine how much of his life was spent beneath the sun, with a face like a deflated football, my guess is his mother had a sun lamp up her coochie from the moment he was conceived.  Every so often he takes off his panama hat and sunglasses, which always remind me of a child molester, and you get can see the bags under his eyes and his receding hairline and for a split second, humanity.  Don't get me wrong, Pediphilio has never been mean to me, one time he even stood up for me to a customer.  I don't think the man is evil, but he's definitely not capable of much.  I imagine that there was a time when he was driven by money, power and women and that drive eventually transcended into an anesthetized indifference stimulated by the mere force of habit.  He does not laugh or even smile and he manages to maintain the utmost monotony when he speaks to you.  He wears tropical, button down shirts and kackys, with a pair of loafers on his tanned, leather feet.  That's Pediphilio.

A few months back there was an incident at SOL.  A thin, flashy black woman came into the restaurant and walked towards Pediphilio screaming "YOU GAVE MY DAUGHTER GONORRHEA!  THIS MAN PAID MY DAUGHTER FOR SEX AND GAVE HER GONORRHEA!! HE HAS STD's!  HE PAYS FOR SEX, PEDIPHILIO PAID MY DAUGHTER FOR SEX AND GAVE HER AN STD!!!!  She continued on like this for a little longer.  Pediphilio tried to escort her off the patio but she pushed him away, so then his niece, Wife Beater, came out and started screaming and swearing at the lady, "IF YOU DON'T GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE I'M GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS!  YOU NEED TO LEAVE RIGHT NOW!"  This then led into an even bigger battle, so D's aunt, Marge, who was managing that day, came out and told every one that was enough and began clapping, which compelled all of the customers to break out in applause until black mama finally ran off with her hands in the air muttering something about prostitution.  This is my job.  I suppose I should be grateful for this day to day life, as it always gives me something to write about.

Pediphilio brought in a new recruit yesterday.  A little African American girl who surely wasn't over 19.  She trotted in wearing cut offs and a pair of sandals.  Her face was freshly painted and her hair had been styled.  Not very big in the chest, though I'm sure that will change.  Pediphilio's friend, Gout, was actually the one that brought her.  She had this awful, plastered smile on her face that made me want to pull her aside and warn her that none of this was necessary, to run before it was too late.  I got the feeling that no one bothered to ever tell her that she had options.  Pediphilio and Gout kept ordering more rounds of champagne for her and Gout kept trying to feel her up under the table well she sat there with that same awkward smile on her face, staring off in the distance avoiding making eye contact with him.  Once, when I walked over there I looked down at his hand stroking her upper thigh and he pulled away when he saw my eyes glaring down at the scene.  Later he kept trying to hold her hand, again, she sat there like a dead fish staring, smiling, nothing to say.  I wondered if black mama put her up to it, hopefully she handed her some condoms.  Oh well, give it a few months, she'll be driving one of Pediphilio's cars,  wearing designer jeans and stiletto heels in replace of those sandals.  The transformation never ceases to amaze me.  Well, that's all I wish to reveal about The Stepford Wives for now.  Stay tuned.

The Wiley Coyote Generation

Attention:  I apologize, this gets a little political, that will happen sometimes, but don't worry, I will always warn you.  P.S. I tend to lean to the left.

God, there's been so many teen suicides this year.  What is it about our culture that leaves so many young people making a conscious decision to either take their lives or take the life of another?  Between Facebook, MySpace, and the endless layers of self-expansion that our new found multi-media seems to bring to the table, I can't help but wonder if it's just an over all sense of immortality that gives our youth such an immense lack of value for human life today or are we honestly going to blame "bullying"?

I'm calling it the Wiley Coyote Generation.  It's as if they believe that they could drop a piano on someones head without any real consequence due to the illusion that they will wake up the next morning and find that very person in the exact same condition he was prior to the piano-head situation.  Let's face it, "bullying" is nothing new.  Kids have been brutal to each other as far time can tell.  They're not nice, in fact, they are assholes.  But that is the nature of teenagers, that's what they do.  Now suddenly, every poor, terrified mother in America is launching a crusade against meanness?  But what are we telling these disillusioned children who are being bullied, if you end your life we will make these kids pay for their cruelty?  Bullying is just a symptom.  The problem lies in the very thing that is teaching these teens that the solution to their problems is suicide?  I spent my whole life contemplating ending it-depression, unbalanced meds and a lack of tools was the dilemma.  But I never actually succeeded and I believe the reason was because I had a sense that there were repercussions to my actions; death is eternal, and I knew deep down that it was not an illness one can recover from.  The same goes for murder; there are some people I would love to kill; 95% of Orange County is just one example, conservative republicans and Sarah Palin is up there too, but I won't do it for three reasons, one, 1000 more will pop up in their place, let's face it they're like fleas, two, I am afraid of the consequences of my actions and, three, the enormity of it all is enough to deter me from taking any real action that would result in the elimination of an existence, even if it were Sarah Palin.  These are some of the dilemmas that people in my generation and before have faced, an overall sense of value for human life and fear of the consequences one might confront if that life were taken.  But these issues or dilemmas do not seem to phase today's youth.  I would rather us look at that than the fact that there are some assholes out there bullying each other, because, frankly, there will always be assholes, that will never change, it's how we choose to handle it.

It really isn't funny at all and I hope I didn't give anyone the impression that the recent teenage suicides that have taken place in the past year are to be taken lightly.  Sometimes it's just easier to laugh, I guess.  But really, it's sad and infuriating.  If the minimum wage wasn't so pathetic, maybe both parents wouldn't be forced to work well children were being raised by the Internet and their television sets.  The modern day America seems to demand much but offers little.  How are we supposed to raise our children to be happy, healthy human beings when the cost of living is so high and they are surviving off fast food and basing their primary development on online social networks.  It's no wonder children feel alone and alienated when we place so little value on our education systems and demand so much of parents financially, where are kids supposed to look for examples?   The breakdown of the family system has nothing to do with gay marriage or the fact that we eliminated prayer in public schools, the breakdown of the family system is a direct result of the large multi-million dollar corporations paying their employees $9.00 an hour, and than making a 210% consumer profit.  Perhaps if their wasn't such a tremendous imbalance in the distribution of wealth, families could afford to actually live the traditional American dream, honoring the so-called family system and raising their children to value their lives and the ones around them.  But I suppose this is the very reason it's called a dream.  Until something changes, I guess The Wiley Coyote Generation will have to settle for The American Nightmare.  I think I'm done for the evening.  Sorry this isn't perkier.  Now I want a drink but I have to settle for chocolate.

Riding the Storm Out, Although When It's Over Please Tell REO Speedwagon to Eat My Ass

I've been thinking about becoming a nurse.  Not because I love medicine or people for that matter.  I just am so tired of working dead end jobs and barely making ends meet.  I can't help but wonder if maybe dreams are only meant for the overly-ambitious, cut-your-throat-for-the-part, brilliantly-creative, die-hard artists that somehow seem to reside in the coolest parts of the world and never seem to run short of food or clothing.  Perhaps I need to work harder at making wise decisions on how to spend my money.  But I'm scared, insecure, timid and confused 96% of the time.  The other 4% is spent reading books, having sex, or cleaning the bathroom.  Hunter says I should do some research before making an emotional decision.  It seems like the majority of big decisions I have ever made were either driven by emotions or by the need to please others.  Either way it leaves me unsatisfied and regretful.  For example, choosing to get a degree in Interior Design; I had an artist friend over at my very first apartment back when I was 20 and she said that I had a knack for decorating and should go into Interior Design, so I said, "o.k."  End of story.  Now I have a degree in a field I could do without and I'm waitressing at a job I hate.  So, for tonight, I'm taking Hunter's advice and I'm going to make a calculated decision, based on research and questions and I am going to leave my  people-pleasing, passion-driven resolution reaching process for someone slightly less medicated.  I'll let you know how it all works out.

Chasing The Fantasy

I have an idea of what my life is supposed to look like; of the kind of person I'm supposed to be; how my relationship should appear to the rest of the world.  I think, in some sense, we all do.  What I notice is that the more i try to mold and perfect that fantasy, the more unhappy I become.  It's like swimming against the current, although it's exhausting and unnatural I can't help but wonder what I might be missing out on if I were to stop.  Those around me might be telling me to stop thrashing and just float, but I have already created an image of what the results will look like if I only swim a little harder.  My fantasy paints a fabulously vivid picture of what I will accomplish and possess as a result of this endeavor.  But, eventually, I drown.  Really, life is hard enough as it is, why do I feel the need to make it more difficult?  Perhaps I just get scared; the idea of going with the flow and embracing what I already have seems slightly too easy and suspicious, reminding me how skeptical I really am.  Not to mention I also begin to find that this idea of what my life is supposed to look like is actually not that fun for me.  I live in a fantasy world where relationships are characterized by their boundless passion and lovemaking, wisdom is defined by a person's travels, friendship is a group activity with Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha, and true integrity involves oil paint, canvas and an acoustic guitar.  My fantasy involves confidence I don't have to work for, love I don't have to give, fashion as the catalyst for my bohemian disposition, and money as the solution to my life's problems, oh and, also, in my fantasy I am not materialistic or vain.  Funny thing, I don't like big groups, I do better one-on-one, and I'm lazy when it comes to being fashionable, a pendant and t-shirt are usually adequate when choosing an outfit for the evening, passion is really a poetic word for drama and it makes me feel confused and sometimes manic, and limitless amounts of sexual intercourse usually results in a yeast infection.  I don't have the patience to paint and my guitar skills are unimpressive.  Traveling sounds wonderful but I'm realizing that I am afraid of new things and would want to do it with a close friend, somebody free of drama and excess passion who accepts me for who I am.

Every time I try to chase these fantasies they leave me emotionally hungover and under the impression that if I could only alter my circumstances, even just a little, my life would become what I think it's supposed to be, but instead I just find myself repeatedly seeking shelter from my own shadow, tears in my ears crouched up on my imperfect apartment floor, wondering what exactly it was, or who for that matter, that lead me in the wrong direction this time-if only my boyfriend was more chivalrous, my mother paid more attention to me, my dad was capable of caring about me, my friends called more, my job was better, skin clearer, body more tone, income higher, bipolar non-existent, etc. etc. etc.  My world really consists of a variety of imperfect things that are, in fact, perfect for me.  Deep down, the reality of every challenge and defect is that growth, change and advancement of self that leads me to becoming the person I'm really supposed to become, not the person I think I should be.  When I lay my arms out and take a deep breath, letting the current take me where it wants me to go, I find myself in a position where I have everything I need, I guess it's just a matter of appreciating it.  I'm a real ungrateful bitch sometimes, when I'm chasing the fantasy.

Proposition 8

The general elections are tomorrow and they have me recalling what California went through in 2008, after proposition 8 got the vote, banning same sex marriage across the state and leaving millions of homosexual couples furious and fighting for their rights.  I'm really hoping 2010 is slightly less disappointing.  Do our civil rights really even exist, or were they just created by the Christian Right Wing as a security blanket for U.S. citizens when injustice found it's way into the harsh cold realities of the ever-changing American circumstance?


November 7, 2008

I watched as my neighbors were arrested today; some of them beaten and kicked by the very people who are there to protect us and our rights as citizens of this country.  I observed innocent protesters, as they were handcuffed and shoved in the back of squad cars and police vans.  The sad irony of their confinement seemed to resonate against the American Flags and Protest signs that filled the streets.  How has our government manipulated its way into the hearts of innocent Americans?  When California overturned the ban on Gay marriage in early 2008, it was believed that the gay sector had made a large leap in the development of a more tolerant and just nation.  Unfortunately, as the polls closed at the end of this election day, in spite of the excitement of our newly elected, African-American President, Barack Obama, it is clear that we still have a long way to go before we can refer to our people as civilized. 

 I don’t believe anyone has the God given right to decide who can marry who.  Nor do I believe it is our place as a society to determine what characterizes a family.  We are a nation that has raised, by far, the most confused and disillusioned generation of young people in American history.  41% of first marriages end in divorce.  The rate of school shootings have increased on an annual level.  Who are we to sit in judgment on the family system, or the deterioration of it for that matter?  I was genuinely impressed by the government’s decision to utilize our childrens education as a veil for the actual intentions of Proposition 8’s overturn.  We wonder about the corrosion of our youth’s moral, yet never seem to question how children might be affected when they are repeatedly exploited by the Republican Party in order to achieve their own personal gain.  For example, the issue of teaching children about gay marriage in school; leave it to the Republicans to generate fear through the utilization of child development and how it could be effected if children are taught about the marriage ceremony of same sex partners .  The part that I find most agitating is that I don't recall ever being taught about marriage , gay or straight, during any of the years of my education, yet this is what they are supposedly trying to protect us from.  Perhaps we should hire an exorcist to be on site at our local schools, in case some poor defenseless child might suddenly be possessed by the gay devil.

The point is, it is completely unconstitutional to remove a right that has been granted to someone; in addition, these are people we are dealing with, not animals, and to separate a classification of American citizens based purely on their sexuality is inhumane and it violates our civil rights. Wikipedia defines Civil Rights as a “class of rights ensuring things such as the protection of peoples' physical integrity; procedural fairness in law; protection from discrimination based on gender, religion, race, sexual orientation, etc; individual freedom of belief, speech, association, and the press; and political participation.” If we let this breach in the freedoms and liberties of our marriage laws settle into a forgotten issue, than where do we draw the line?  What next?  Will a woman’s right to vote be robbed from her because it threatens the family unit?  Will the abolishment of Jim Crow Laws be overthrown out of fear of interracial marriages compromising the importance of maintaining a distinguishable level of cultural diversity?  As Bob Dylan once asked, “how many times must a man turn his head and pretend that he just doesn’t see?