How'd she get into my head like that?

Every so often I hear a song and the lyrics are the exact description of what I'm feeling right then...and it's kinda creepy and kinda cool at the same time. Point in case: Alanis Morissette's song "That I Would Be Good." Here's most of the words and then I'll continue my rambling:

That I would be good
Even if I did nothing
That I would be good
Even if I got the thumbs down

That I would be good
If I got and stayed sick
That I would be good
Even if I gained 10 pounds

That I would be loved
Even when I'm not myself
That I would be good
Even when I am overwhelmed

That I would be loved
Even when I was fuming
That I would be good
Even if I was clinging

That I would be good
Even if I lost sanity
That I would be good
Whether with or without you

That could be me talking and it blows my mind that someone else has had those exact thoughts. Searching for acceptance in a sea of judgemental people is probably a common theme in a lot of alt-rock music, but those words are a perfect description of someone who is trying to be happy with who they are regardless of public opinion. And I love her for writing my thoughts so perfectly. Thanks, Alanis.

Releasing the silenced artist

The other day I was telling someone jokingly that I was doomed to spend all eternity in the Chinese Hell of the Silenced Artist. Since I haven't had anything to inspire me lately, I've been in a creative slump. I have all the stuff - the canvas, the paint, the sketchbook, the pens and pencils, the new easel (thank you Santa!)....even empty wall space in dire need of filling - but I haven't had the motivation. I've heard of famous artists going through dry-spells, but you never hear how long they last or what they do while they wait for the muse to return. Is there some method I don't know about to get the groove back? Is all of the writing I've been doing sucking my will to create anything else? Maybe I just need to look for internal inspiration rather than external.....use my emotional sponginess for artistic good rather than self-depreciating evil. As long as it'll make me stop painting crap, I'll try anything....

Donating my brain to science

There was an article from the NY Times posted on another blog I'm involved in and after reading it, I decided to sign on for the science project. The jist of the study is to investigate the six degrees of separation theory by having random people sign up to be targets and random people sign up to "find" them by forwarding an e-mail from the web site to a friend who then forwards it to one of their friends and so on until it gets to the target. The e-mails are tracked at the web site and the only rules are that 1.) you can only send the e-mail to one person and 2.) you can't cheat by looking the target up on the internet and sending the e-mail directly to them. I signed up and got a target in Bali, Indonesia....wild. So, being the first link, I had to really dig through the mental rolodex to come up with a good next link to send to - I didn't want to just pass it on to the first person who popped into my head - I wanted to send it to someone who I really though could get the e-mail closer to the target and who has a broad base of contacts. So off the e-mail went to Chris, who's got a website with members all over the world and who I knew would be interested in helping the cause. And so the game begins.....

Me vs. Me

Here's the dilemma: I've been invited to a birthday party next weekend and I don't know if I should go. Under normal circumstances, when I've been invited to someone's birthday, I don't even hesitate to say yes. I have a thing about birthdays where I do whatever is in my power to make that person's day what ever they want it to be. Birthdays are special and I guess after having so many crappy ones myself, I try not to let that happen when it's someone's birthday I care about. So what's the problem? Well, it comes down to the fact that being around the birthday boy makes me sad. Every time I visit said boy, I get sadder and stay that way longer when I get home. What's worse is that the last time I visited him, he said he gets sad when he comes here, so he's stopped visiting me. Now the question is: do I continue to be the bringer of glad tidings and happy birthdays and come home depressed as hell or do I skip the shindig and suck up the guilt that I'll lay on myself for being selfish? As long as I'm stuck here between a rock and a hard place, I can avoid accepting my fate for a bit longer and at least enjoy wallowing in the mud...

Reality check...

In some parallel universe, I'm a rock star. I have a billion fans and a personal stylist and an entourage and a closet the size of a small country full of designer creations made especially for me. I have a famous boyfriend and I close night clubs for my parties and I just finished an interview and photo shoot for the cover of Rolling Stone. I stay at the best hotels and I get weekly spa treatments and I only have to mention that I liked something I saw and it's waiting for me when I get home. But I never throw tantrums or demand silly venue riders or whine about the brand of water I was just handed. I never bought a mansion or super expensive cars or flashy diamond jewelry. I don't get drunk and make a public scene or talk trash about my peers or trash my hotel rooms.

On the flip side, in this universe, I'm a girl who goes to an office for 8 hours a day, 5 days a week and can carry a tune at a karaoke bar. I have a few friends and my own sense of style and a family who'd do just about anything for me and a decent sized closet that fits most of the clothes I got off of sale racks and as hand-me-downs. I have no boyfriend, famous or otherwise, and I haven't thrown a party since 1995 and I don't like having my picture taken. I stay at random motels and hostels and I wash my face every night before bed and if I want something I wait until payday and then get it myself. But I never throw tantrums or demand anything but honesty or whine if someone is nice enough to give me anything. I never wanted more than the apartment I have or any car or any flashy jewelry. I don't get drunk and make a scene or talk trash about my friends or trash my motel rooms.

.....good to know that the parallel me isn't that much different - just a change of scenery....

It's snowing!!!!!

Is it just me or is snow the coolest natural phenomenon ever? I think growing up on Guam and spending so much time at the beach with no changing seasons gave me a hightened appreciation for fall and winter. I remember the first time I ever saw snow falling - 7th grade, sitting in my English class, just recently moved to Santa Fe, bouncing up and down in my seat and squealing, "It's snowing!! It's snowing!!" - and everytime I've seen it since, I get the same warm, awe-struck feeling. There's just something about throwing on a sweater, coat and hat and walking down the street while it's snowing...and if the wind isn't blowing too hard, the surreal quiet that comes with the big, white, fluffy kind of snow...it's like being a kid again and seeing it for the first time. And even if I'm inside by a fire or wrapped up in a warm blanket in my pajamas, just knowing that it's snowing outside is enough to give me that same feeling. I just hope it lasts a little while and I can float through the rest of the winter on a child-like cloud until spring....

Is that so wrong?

Several times over the last few years I've been informed that my friends and I are "cliquey." It's always said in a disdainful way and for some reason that bugs me. I know how the word "clique" is defined (an exclusive group of friends or associates) and frankly, I don't like the way that portrays us or the negative connotations that go along with it. I think it's the "exclusive" part that bothers me the most. Exclusive implies that we specifically set out to leave particular individuals out of our social activities based on some unwanted trait or behavior those individuals display or posess. Like we have a background investigation and reference check process before we deem them worthy of our friendship or some such nonsense. I'm here to tell the world that such is not the case. When we all first found each other, we'd talk to any and everyone with complete disregard for race, socio-economic or religious background, differing opinions or value systems. And to this day, we still do that. We are all pretty accomodating, open-minded people and we found the acceptance that most of us weren't finding elsewhere in each other. The only difference now is that we don't go seeking random people to talk to because we have a history and comfort level established with our friends. I see nothing wrong with wanting to socialize with my friends as opposed to random strangers and since the rest of the world functions with that concept being the norm, I can't figure out why it's wrong or bad when we do it. I guess it's all a matter of perspective and when you're on the inside looking out, it's just as easy to feel persecuted as when you're on the outside looking in...

Being sick blows...but I digress...

...cough....sniffle....cough..... what's a girl gotta do to get some friggin' sleep? Can't sleep because I can't breathe. Can't breathe because I'm laying down. It's a conspiracy. And if I have to blow my nose one more time, my nostrils are gonna be hamburger. Ok, enough whining and on to the normal hoodlyhoo... So, I was trying to fall asleep last night by listening to the radio and became mesmorized by that Incubus song "I wish you were here." Something about that guy's voice just makes me feel all warm and fuzzy....and it's not just that song, it's his voice. It's hard to explain but some people's voices just have this effect on my brain....I get that melty feeling....like eating milk chocolate. So, that's what I need: an man with a melty voice to tell me a story or sing me to sleep every night....aaahhhhh....

The fun never ends...

Just when you think you've come to an understanding with your father, everything goes to hell in a matter of minutes over a ridiculous conversation. It constantly amazes me how often that man says something without thinking and then is genuinely surprised by the response his words receive. That surprise and the frustration that comes along with being misinterpreted and assuming everyone always knows exactly what he's talking about turns into anger and that's when it gets ugly. My mom is convinced that all men communicate the same way (or rather that they are unable to communicate effectively) and that's why we end up arguing. I think part of why we argue is this: I don't find that my ability to think and speak logically is impared when I'm frustrated to the point of tears (when I'm crying, that's when you know it's bad) and I am able to stop for a second, take a breath, and try a different tact to make myself understood; when my father gets frustrated, the connection between the logic circuits in his brain and his mouth apparently experience interference from the testosterone circuits and the result is mean, vengeful, non-constructive, condescending and ultimately makes it very difficult to like him. I love him because he's my dad, but I really have to work at liking him as a person. You can only help people who are receptive to it and while he says he is, his behaviour doesn't reflect that sentiment. He would rather cease all communication than stay in the room long enough to find common ground. He lacks the self control to calm down when he starts to get angry and can't seem to see any other perspective in an argument than his own. Now, I used to want to help him be a better communicator - better communication skills = less arguments and stress - but you can only give and explain and care to the point of being hurt for so long, and at some point, you have to say enough is enough. Since I'm creeping towards 28 years of this crap, I'm starting to wonder when I'm finally going to say enough...

Do you ever get that not-so-fresh feeling?

Spent the weekend taking internal inventory and found that something was missing. Lessee what's on the checklist: family (check), job (check), domicile (check), friends (1/2 a check), mental well being (this box remains check-free). So, after a 3 hour walk in the wee hours Saturday night, I stumbled across what might be the answer. I was by myself and having a really good time watching people - Saturday night, college town, school's in, bars are open and hopping - and I decided to cruise through Broadway and check it out before it's reopened to traffic. The restaurants had all locked up for the night and the random pair of girls on their way to a club or group of guys on their way to find the girls were few and far between. Since I had the street pretty much to myself, I was stopping and looking in windows of new shops and art collectives and happened by a door with a sign that said: "We're sorry but no one has volunteered to tutor at this time. Please try back later." A phone number was underneath and the sign on the building informed me that I was outside the Literacy Advocates of Lane County office. For some reason, that sign on the door made me incredibly sad. Something clicked in my head and I realized I could easily give about 10 hours a week to this group and I'd be helping people experience the world of knowledge that comes with being able to read. Reading is something I love to do more than anything - I take it for granted now (started reading at about 3 years old) but can't imagine what life would be like if I didn't have that ability. So, I called today and signed up for the tutor orientation. And I can see that mental well being box with a checkmark in it any day now....

Adrenaline Junkies

I live in an amusement park-less state. Both metaphorically and literally. The only one that bothers me is the literal state (Oregon). What this means is no roller coasters, no bumper cars, no heart pounding, eyes bulging, screaming at the top of my lungs, just about to pee my pants, twisted metal excitement to be found in the whole entire state (and it's a damn big state). Now for most people, this doesn't seem to be cause for anguish, but most people are not adrenaline junkies. I, on the other hand, am and I'm jonesing - hard. I've discovered that there are few things in life that give me as big a rush as riding roller coasters. Even fewer things have all the required elements to make the rush so all-encompassingly overwhelming as to render me speechless. Now, I've recently made plans to visit some friends in Detroit some time in June and in the planning of this trip, it was suggested that we all go to Cedar Point. Cedar Point has been picked by Amusement Digest as the world's best amusement park for 3 years running and has the top ranking roller coasters in the world for fastest speed, highest drop, and longest total track length/ride time. What all that means to an adrenaline junkie is the ultimate fix. So I just need to hold out for a little while longer, deal with the withdrawl for just a little while longer, and maybe throw myself out of a perfectly good plane in the mean time just to take the edge off....

Where's the off switch?

Most of my working days start about the same way: the radio clicks on exactly 47 minutes before I actually have to get up (if you do the sleepy-time math, that's 5 x snooze + bed-to-room temperature conversion and adjustment + bed-to-bathroom equilibrium assessment....it's all very scientific), 30 minutes of pre-departure prep time and an 8 minute walk to work. That's only 85 minutes of "slow time"- the alternate reality we float through before our brains completely wake up and everything happens on auto-pilot in slow motion - each day, which is a precious commodity in my world. I used to have an abundance of "slow time" and never really appreciated it until about 4 months ago when it was violently stripped away by work and the holidays and family obligations and out-of-town visitors and new friends and old friends and, well, you get the picture. Those 8 minutes between my house and work are amazingly quiet....completely unencumbered by the blaring noise that is my normal brain activity. Cars go by and birds chirp and the wind blows around me and I have internal quiet for exactly 8 minutes. If I could capture the feeling I have for those 8 minutes and save it up for especially stressed out days or moments of emotional turmoil, I'd never question my sanity again.

She always seemed like she had her shit together...

I guess I'd better start this thing with this: Hi there. Welcome to my mindpurge. Take your shoes off and stay awhile. Just so everyone stays honest, here's a confession - contrary to popular belief, I really don't have my shit together. I've never actually said that out loud and I make a good show of hiding that fact from everyone who knows me. It's ok though, because I'm working on it. And one of these days, I really will have my shit together. But not today. Today, I'm still pretty lost. I'm hesitant to trust people. I'm afraid of getting my heart broken. I get frustrated when I don't have the words to express how I'm feeling. The list goes on and on. And I never tell anyone any of this. I guess I don't want to disappoint anyone. Anyway, like I said, I'm working on it.