What the Hell?

What is wrong with me? I am a mess. One minute, I am thinking, "when is he going to go away for awhile?" and then, when he may be leaving but it is all up in the air, I am thinking, "I don't want him to go..."

This is ridiculous. I feel like I want him to tell me in advance he is planning a time frame for leaving, but he never tells me until a few days before. And then he always says it is a few days when it ends up being two weeks at a time or longer.

I mean, what the hell? I knew he had been around way too long. He hasn't left since July. And the only reason is because I imported his other significant other for a visit at the beginning of September. But what would I expect? He has no friends here. He hasn't expressed an interest in being friends with my friends. I dunno.

Of course, he needs to get out. I mean, I am great and all but I am just one person and I'm sure he needs outside input the way I do. I mean I don't even want to think how my life would be without my friends. I mean what would daily life be like with the Wall around? Yikes!

No one would laugh at my stupidity in that friendly "its OK if you're stupid... we all are in our own way" way.

He needs to go. I need him to go.

I guess it is just that we have such separate lives. Our friends are different. Our lives don't intersect anywhere except where we are.

Maybe that's normal. I don't know what normal is. I was in a relationship for over 20 years. I couldn't get that guy to participate in my life either, really. But to his credit, he didn't want to participate in his own much so, how can I hold that against him?

I'm a fucked up mess. Or maybe this is just me trying to figure out how to be a whole person and not be jealous of whatever comes up in his life. What's the point? If anything else in his life takes him away from me, either temporarily or permanently, that is in my best interest because I don't want someone around me who needs or wants to be elsewhere, ya know?

That would be too frickin' pathetic and I'm pathetic enough.

As a defense mechanism, I don't tell him when I've planned something til the last minute, either. How passive-aggressive is that? Or is it? Maybe it just shows him it doesnt' feel so good? I dunno if he even notices. Besides, I usually don't go anywhere when he's here because I'm such a case.

What does it all mean?

Basically that I've probably learned little... and that this probably is never going to work. Why do I make this more important than anything else in my life?

Because that has been my MO for the past 20 plus years. Back to the putting other people in the center of my circle... which probably is found somewhere under the definition for Martyr and I'm really not wanting to have any part of THAT!

I need to breathe and let go.
Maybe I just need to get laid.

That is entirely possible and also unlikely. That makes the leaving part hard, too. September hasn't really been all that much fun...

But life is like that sometimes. And so it goes...

So Nice I wanted to Post it Twice

graphjam.com

Hallelujah

lately, moreso than ever in my life, I find myself embracing things that cause me pain or worry. i feel so completely detached and bored with everything, that "fixing" something seems good, even when it's bad. this goes in almost every case, of course there are some things that i'd rather be without regardless, but all the stupid minutiae that pops up...it's good. i feel like a fox news reporter, waiting for the next catastrophe. Only in my personal life.

Ouch!

It's that old familiar feeling. Do you know it?

Your chest is getting tighter and your throat feels like it is closing up. You start breathing faster without even noticing and your hands tingle and start to sweat. You might even start to get sick to your stomach.

Yeah.... that's it. High anxiety... your old friend. Back and ready to do business.

It's all over me. I feel like I am about to die, like something bad is about to happen, like someone is about to hurt me and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

It's not a good feeling. "It's bad, bad, very bad," to quote a friend.

In this case, I've done it to myself.

I've only had.... let's see now... a year to produce some paperwork for my lawyer. That should've been done about 9 months ago.

Yet my state of anxiety and upset over not knowing what I'm doing and the emotional trauma of it all and what has happened in my life as a result of my own initiation of a new path in my life has immobilized me. I did some work on it last August. I worked on it again in May.

But not since.

Now I'm in trouble. Why did I do this to myself? I just need to sit down and do it. Even if it is hard, it must be done.

There's just no nice way to say, "Yes. We do have to get divorced. Yes. I do miss you but we have to get divorced because I have moved on. Yes. I realize that you realize that you made mistakes. Yes. I realize that I made mistakes. Yes. I think I'm smarter now and I believe that you believe that you're smarter now. But no... we aren't getting back together."

I always want a happy ending. But I'm part of two other people's stories. And what's the real happy ending for me?

I thought I knew the answer to that question more than once in my life, yet here I am asking the question again.

And then there's the anxiety. The sense of panic.

Sigh. I need to get out of the muck I've created and move on where ever that moving takes me. I am not sure it is going to take me to a happy place.

"All I wanna do is have some fun before I die." Sheryl Crow

Yeah. Righ back atcha, Sistah.

Megan Cosby

I don't remember where Portia and I saw her. Or perhaps Portia didn't, although I remember talk of the technique. Notwithstanding, I stumbled across her work recently on the interweb and love it all over again. See my favourite for yourself here.  

In other news, I've been hammering pellets into wood for what seems like an eternity, building something that belongs in a funeral home. And it lives in my living room. I really should leave this sort of thing to the professionals. 

Missing a Tater Tot

It is one of those days I miss my tater tot. I hear now that I am to blame for some heinous wrong done to my offspring. That, somehow, in trying to be the parent I should be, in trying to do what I thought was the right thing, I got it all wrong.

So wrong.

How do I pay for this transgression? By being held at arm's length and not being given the priviledge of the one thing I always wanted- just to know who he is. Not to tell him what to be, or act disappointed if he chose to be a This over a That, or for him to agree with all I believe... just to get the opportunity to know who he really is.

Maybe this is it.

Maybe this is what really is.

Just emptiness and space and a great quantity of silence.

I miss the pillow fights and tickle time and quiet time. I miss playing tag and going to school plays and playdays and watching him run and smile and laugh.

I miss how he was a self-chosen vegetarian until he was 7.

I miss how he liked tiny red grapes.

I miss how we got frozen yogurt after vaccinations and it seemed to make getting the shot a little less horrible for us both.

I miss seeing a new playground and just stopping spontaneously to try it out.

I miss Toys R Us.

I miss soccer and roller hockey and basketball and t-ball games.

I miss his snaggle-toothed smile.

I miss Halloween and making costumes by hand.

I miss video games and knowing he preferred mustard over ketchup.

The list goes on and on...

I miss a Tater Tot.
My Tater Tot.
I'd like to have that with a side of hugs one day. And a big helping of, "I forgive you."

But it appears that will have to wait.

Class

He said it again last night.

We were talking about feeling separate from others. He said he'd always felt separate. I, too, have always had a feeling of being "an outsider" but, I said, I find other so-called "outsiders" that I bond with; other odd people.

He said he didn't bond with odd people, present company excluded (meaning me). He said he tended to bond with people with who are goal-oriented. People who are educated. People with class.

I said I appreciated people based upon how genuine and authentic they are.

He said people can be genuine and authentic and still not be worth knowing.

I thought about that and realized, he did have a point. If a person's values are genuinely in opposition to mine and are, in my mind, stupid... I really don't care how authentic they are. A white supremecist is still a white supremecist and I can't deal with that. Those values are so wrong, I can't even wrap my brain around it.

But what about this whole "class" deal?

I remember he said something about how he was most comfortable around people with class that October before we "broke up".

Not that he actually broke up with me.
But he did.
He just never said it.
I felt it.
I knew it.

But he couldn't bring himself to say it, probably in part because he wasn't quite ready to let me off the hook.

You know... that thing where you don't quite want something, but you aren't ready to let it go...just....yet. And, if that behavior is something one thinks about, and intentionally drags a person on, then it definitely isn't a classy move.

But, if the behavior is unrecognized and is just someone trying to be honest and figure stuff out, then I don't know. It might be different.

Class is not about money.
Class is not about social status.
Class is not about what clothes you wear.

Some of the classiest people I have known have just been down-to-earth people with kind hearts, gentle manners, who invite you in and treat you like you're one of the family. They are people who would defend you with their last breath.

They are people who stop talking on their cell phone when they go to purchase a pack of cigarettes.

In fact, Class is an very understated characteristic. To have it, you have to just emanate it.

If you say anything about it, chances are, you don't got it.
If you think someone else doesn't have it and you say it out loud, chances are you don't got it.
If you look down on good people because they don't look or act like you, chances are you don't got it.

People with Class are never looking for other People with Class.

They hang out with people whose values are in sync with their own.

Class is about what we value and how we show it.
Class is about who we are as individuals.

Who has class?

Complimenting Guy has Class.

He was a street person who never asked for money. He wasn't threatening. He always had a smile and just seemed to want to interact with people. The way he did it was by offering a sincere compliment to you as you passed by.

Complimenting Guy has Class.

And as a result, he attracted abundace and now he has a job. Why? Because he stood out as a person. He wasn't defined by his lack. He was defined by his abundance. He gave freely of what he had. That could be seen as Class.

So, what does that mean to my discussion with the boyfriend?

Well, I got to say it turns me off. First of all, I am not sure that I would define him as a person of class. I love him for who he is, but classy? I don't know.

Then I wonder if he thinks of me as a person of class. I like to belch. I like to curse for effect. Does he find that a lack of class?

I don't really care. I am not going to stop being who I am... classy or classless.
It took me a long time to get where I am and know who I am. I don't like everything about me, but for the most part I am comfortable with who I am.

I suppose, if pressed, I would like to think I have some class...
but I don't really think about it.

Afterall, that's not a very classy thing to do.

Question Today

Where do I want to be in 5 years? Geodesic incompleteness might lead an uninitiated individual to ponder the intrinsic validity of this question. Speculation aside, one might question if a true answer would offset any already-dictated and directed path. However, when we stir in modern philosophical theorems and generally excepted notions that space-time is an arrow, pointing in whatever direction our psyche produces it, we are able to more soundly justify the existence of the question and our abilities to answer it. Whether or not a true and just answer to the question offsets and detriments the possibilities of its forthcoming can only be ascertained in practice, not conjecture.

Nonetheless, I’m willing to push forward and risk any personal quantum consequences attempting to answer this query with forthrightness and insight might catalyze. So, again I start. Where do I want to be in five years?  I’m prepared to outline my projection in two discrete aspects. The first being the absolute evolution of my personal id and the point at which it can be defined in this earthly time period. The second, slightly more tangible reactant, is the impact I foresee imposing on others during and up until this timeframe negates itself.   

Firstly, in regards to the state of my id. I see it in good standing. Perhaps more physically dissolved and diluted by everyday simulacrum, but nonetheless strong and less-awkward. Overall, I assume and anticipate fully, more action coupled with more questions. Questioning being key to any evolution, assuming it is to continue beyond the window given.. Otherwise, I’d hope to see a dramatic drop in angst and metaphor. Any psychic malnutrition will be met with the protein of reason.

On the second front, we look at my outward impacts-where they will lead and resolve to. I expect and will make adjustments to ensure that I have followers. Not just fans, but in fact, mobilized groups of individuals who believe in what I say and emulate my actions. The impact, of course, will be more far-reaching than direct connection. I expect to dissolve any transparent guides pushing apart logic from action. I also hope to have coined the term laction to refer to this natural evolution. A new divide will form naturally between the “lactive” and the “inlactive.” Those pursuing laction and the illactionites that only further their own domains. This kind of friendly imbalance will lead to a natural balance and pasteurization of overwhelming principles.

In conclusion. Five years, not such a long time from now. 

father's day

swimming in gene pools

bacteria in your eyes

bubbling to the top

the power to leave

when things are going alright-

so empowering.

wretched little kids

spinning and spurring me on

glad to be v-safe

did you hear the news?

yes, the vagrants are coming.

not literally.

Mother's Day

He came in the in-between time. In between when I was outside last and outside next. And left a token of esteem. A kindness that touched me beyond words. Perhaps it was because I was feeling so low. Perhaps it was because I was given a glimpse of myself through different eyes. A glimpse that eased the day's pain and made me smile and gave me hope.

He came in the in-between time. In between my last life and the one that is coming. And became my friend. How fortunate am I. A statment, not a question, intentionally.

--------------------

Part of being a mother is letting go and still loving. Maybe that is part of being human. Or maybe that is part of being in sync with the Divine. It is hard to let go of what one selfishly wants for one's self in order to allow another to breathe without the pressure of added guilt for their own process.

Yeah. It kind of sucks. And it is kind of a priviledge to be entrusted with that responsiblity.

--------------------

He came in the in-between time. In between when I was the mother of a child and when I will be the mother of a man. And I have much gratitude that he is my friend.

vacuous

what happened?

...i had a dream, not sure if it was real or not, but sad. 

Flat Women Rejoice!

"Hey, You Make Me Throw Up a Little"

But maybe it's not you; it might be me.

O.K. so maybe it started out being you. The moodiness and withdrawal leave me feeling isolated, alone and, when admonished for being too loud at midnight, like I should feel bad for being me. Maybe I am as inconsiderate as some think. It isn't intentional, I assure you.

I try to tip-toe around each morning to protect your precious sleep because you are so... so... in need of having things the way you need them. Very inflexible, one might say except that it is wrapped in the presumption that all this is necessary to maintain your good health. So I strive to oblige.

But when I try to sleep, I do not rate the same considerations. Huh. In fact, I'm pretty darn considerate. I am. But why, oh why, aren't you? Do I teach you nothing? And no, it doesn't make it better when you say that I'm just a better person than you. While that may be true, I still expect you make the effort. C'mon. Just do what I do except in reverse.

How hard is that?

Oh, so where was I in my whining about You?

So, maybe it's me. Because I am demanding somehow. You wash my car. I wash your laundry. You cook dinner. I clean up. I clean the toilet. You use the toilet. Oops. Well, maybe that one doesn't seem quite right... You change out the light fixtures and stand on ladders. We both grocery shop but I'm more of a shop-for-awhile person and you're a shop-for-tonight person. These aren't the things that I don't understand.

It's when we act less like we're romantically related and more like we're familialy-related. I don't want to be your sister. I don't have a brother but I'm used to that by now, ya know? You don't have a sister, but if you want one, I suggest looking elsewhere cause that's not the role I want to play. Not that one, not mother and not child. Just so you, know.

Well, you are cute.
And I do love you.
And maybe we're both psycho.

Or maybe you're more psycho than me.

Or maybe this is the most evolved way to be?

And maybe I don't want to be that evolved.

But maybe it's you and not me, at all. There is always that possibility.

Response cuz Response Thing Isn't Workin 4 Me

"If I had a hammer, I'd hammer in the morning, I'd hammer in the evening... all over this land..." As it turns out, I do have a hammer but I don't hammer that often. And I smile less than I'd like some days. But sometimes lately, I think if I used the hammer more, I might smile more, too. So, there's that.

Whether your tool of choice is a hammer or a smile...you can help.

Yes, when I was 14, my then-uncle, took up a hammer to mercifully help a small hurt bird. No one really knew why he chose this method. Later we learned all kinds of weird and absurd details about him as he left our lives. Nonetheless, when given those two choices, it's evident which is more effective.

Love

I love the beach. I love MY beach... the beach of my home. This is it... somewhere over the rainbow, my beach, where I often retreated to try to understand the meaning of life, lies.

I miss the soft, white sand. The gentle ripples created by the wind blowing across the dunes. The renourishment fences which go up whenever a hurricane brings another big dune down. The blue skies and white clouds of home.

I wish I could drive there today. I could stand a little time to search, again, for meaning, for hope, for the sense of optimism that has tinted my dreams for decades but now seems to be fading with time.

Such it is, this life.
It seeks to rob us of our blood, one tiny cut at a time.

And so we must fight this thief in the night for our life's blood, for our dreams to come true.

Eclair-ity

Portia heard her cell signal a text message had been received as she lay on the couch watching a movie while snuggled up next to the Object of Her Affections. She considered getting up to read it. She'd received some distressing texts of late and this could be another to be concerned about. However, instead, she chose to remain where she was and give into the pleasant warmth of the moment.

She felt normal. Whatever normal meant to her any more, she wasn't sure. But this had the telltale feelings of some kind of normality. She felt like things were somehow right. She felt like she knew what was what. This was a feeling she didn't have very often any more and she missed it.

The feeling of Surety, whether real or imagined, was perceived by her senses and she allowed it envelope her. She took a deep breath and submerged herself completely in the moment, allowing it to engulf her.

In that moment, it seemed as if This had always been. As if, This had been the only reality that had ever existed. As if, there had been no other path taken, no other life lived. That somehow, This was all there ever had been and it was Good.

She wanted the feeling to last but knew the Object of Her Affections well enough to know that such a thing was highly unlikely. They were on a journey and such a destination- if, in fact, that was where they were going- was not likely to be reached for quite some time. He was a doubter, a skeptic who required some Proof that she could not provide. Only he could do that for himself... only he would know when he saw it, felt it, tasted it on his tongue and knew the Truth. Only when, or if, that happened would she know if such a destination was ahead on a far-off horizon.

Bottom line: It was completely outisde of her control.

So, she tried to relish this feeling of normality. Perhaps brought on by a well-placed question from the day before that caused her to examine her own journey.

Was she happy in the Now? Or just waiting for life to become something else?

This was an eternal issue for her. A life lesson she was aware was her's to learn for at least the better part of three decades.

She hadn't been that happy in recent months. By all rights, she should've been happier. But now, she fully realized how much she had control over. And for a moment, she began to dwell solely in her feelings about her life and herself and not in the damnable details that spoke their own volumes and told her that her life had been pointless, that everything she had worked for had failed and that she was not likely to recover her sense of belonging again at this late stage of her life.

She had abandoned that Ship of Belonging and now frequently suffered as she felt herself aimlessly floating along in this salty sea of despondency, sadness and uncertainty.

So, as the text sounded, she decided to remain in the happiness of the moment. It was a good feeling and a good evening because of that choice to remain undistracted.

Hours later, before bed, she stopped to check her cell for the text. It was a simple text from Wallace that took her by pleasant surprise.

He was OK.
And she was OK.

In this one moment, they each had somehow released themselves, through some combination of thought patterns, from the prison of their daily pain out into the Yard for a walk in the sunshine.

It made her happier, somehow, to know that they were both OK at the moment, in the moment. It would be nice if they could each learn how to reconstruct that Key so as to unlock their own doors at any given moment.

Maybe that was too much to ask?
She didn't want to think about it any more.

She just wanted to Believe in this moment until it was gone.
And she fervently hoped Wallace was doing the same.

Ephemerality-ism

Wallace haphazardly flipped by this lead-in photo to an article 20 or 30 times. Sometimes, well the majority of the times, he paused briefly to admire the technical qualities of the photo. It was white on white, but still maintained great detail. Not a style he usually enjoyed. The article that followed seemed too long, so each of those times he passed it by.

Then, last night, Wallace gets this esoteric email from a friend. Absolutely nothing in it was extraordinary. But it was thoughtful. He read the article shortly thereafter. Nothing extraordinary about it whatsoever. It was just an almost-bio of a young photographer who has done some nationally recognized work. Par for the course for the magazine. More than the article or the email, Wallace found himself in a state of clarity shortly thereafter. One of those moments that one would love to “put under glass” to coin a Juliana Hatfield song from another lifetime. In the moment, however, he wasn’t trying to hold on to it. It just Was. He was unaware of its ephemeral nature. It didn’t matter. It was one of those moments that bounced around until it found a home and then nestled in for a warm cup of cocoa.

If Wallace was to overanalyze, as he’s want to do. Especially after the moment has passed, he notices some triggers. Perhaps these triggers can help Wallace to feel closer to right more often. In the article, the photographer was flippant about any success. She worked on a few large professional jobs and then had the resources to do the art she wanted to, working again basically when she needed the money. Wallace had a bad memory, so the details are honestly gone because he only skimmed it once, but the message resonated. We hinder ourselves because of “overhead.” In the form of families or commitments. We don’t take the next steps because there’s this idea that doing something mundane gives us more stability. This is an illusion. Financially, you can find yourself in a more lucrative situation with a personal portfolio more infused with risk. The ONLY reason that this is a more rare state is because it takes more guts that the alternative.

Wallace’s moment had past, yet he was still somewhat aware. If this was mania, bring it on.

Mettle Mouth

There’s this girl with metal in her mouth. Firey--you’d think she plays bass. As I understand more A bigger mystery she becomes.

Portions with Gravy

...I would put an ink border around the sign to help make it “pop.”

...I noticed that there is green space above the words but not below.

...it looks like the bottom of the letters in “remove” were cut off. Is that something you could fix?

Dull and Foggy

So. Monday. Yeah.
Portia wasn't sure where the optimism of Saturday had gone. Perhaps it had dissolved slowly into Sunday's bowl of oatmeal along with the strawberries, bananas and walnuts.

She had made a dinner last night of what was in the fridge and cupboard. Something that wasn't as good as it had sounded in her head. But she'd never made brown rice pasta before. At least the bowl of frozen fruit covered in rice milk was up to it's usual yumminess.

She cleaned up her messiness of the previous week. She tried to watch the game but fell asleep. She slept a lot and didn't seem to want to get up in the mornings during the week. But on the weekends, when she could sleep late, she had an annoying habit of waking wide-eyed. It was pissing her off. Not very evolved of her. Not the least little bit.

She had been to see her teacher on Saturday. She was now as attuned as she coud get in this way. She had felt her teacher passing the attunement into her. The energy felt heavy and almost made her nauseous. She wondered about that. Normally she felt happy and fuzzy after. But this was a big deal so maybe that was it.

Her teacher mostly used Portia's mind for her own healing, rather than for passing teaching on. Portia realized this. She was puzzled. She felt good for a couple of days, but Monday was finding her dull and foggy. Maybe she needed caffeine.

She knew her life was a mess. She was s proud of Wallace. He didn't realize how well he was doing. He was living his life and trying to deal with things. Meanwhile, Portia mostly just went from day to day in an envelope of fear- not moving forward.

She had to let go of the past. She often blamed The Man in Her Life for not doing that, but the truth is that he was but a mirror of her own behavior. And the bigger truth was that if she did let go of the past for real, he would either do the same or she would move on because that is the way lessons work, she had heard.

She wasn't thrilled about reality.
She needed to make up a new one. Rumor was you could do that. She'd done it before. Years ago. More than once.

If only she could find the instructions...

Scooters, Vacation, Fall

Wallace found himself sleeping 18-24 hours a day. He reduced his dose. He read a blog about an online fanatic that went to the “psych ward.” He realized what a double entendre conjuring “stones” had become. He stopped drinking water. He started drifting off less often. He was more awake, but it didn’t matter. One message he expected never came. Instead, he was dark and sooty, in a white shirt no less. He wished he could grow kumquats, and balls. He was ephemeral and contrived. Listless. Quick, but not clever. His recent love affairs were with sharpies and estrogen-genetics. Consumed with cartoons. Cautious with fate.

if possbile, we'd like, you know...

Heroic badges
Epic quality: purple.
A new collection.

Trivialize me
Go home, go to bed, go now
Your old ideas suck.

Biblical dreaming
On a Thursday afternoon
Boysenberry junk

Obituary
For your creative nature.
Time to never care.

What follows this scene?
Is it the bus or the crane?
Lively monstering.

Never fade away
When images become real
Expectations met

Goodbye

Graphic designer looking for Asian girlfriend who plays bass…

…or something along those lines.

You may be asking yourself,“Self, is this position right for me?” and if you are, in fact, asking yourself that very question, let me remind you: 1) this isn’t a position and 2) you should probably stop the whole impersonal third-person thing, it’s just weird.

If, by some mercy of god, you have an evolved sense of humor coupled with the competencies necessary for witty banter, I implore you to make yourself known. Prove that intelligent life not only exists, but thrives in the darkened depths of Jacksonville and/or its surrounding counties and sub-communities.

Furthermore, notwithstanding, and in reference to other questions that may arise: Romance, quality-time and quirk all included in the generous benefits package that accompanies this non-position. Chemistry and intangible compatibility required at the outset.

Juno + Underwear

My personality profile

A General Description of How You Interact with Others

You are important. So are other people, especially if they are in trouble. You have a tender heart, but you know how to establish and keep personal boundaries. You are empathetic and compassionate, but you also believe that it's best if people solve their own problems and learn to take care of themselves, if they are able. You are deeply moved by the needs of others, but you know that if you don't take good care of yourself, you'll wind up being of no use to anyone. So yours is a thoughtful compassion. You strive to be fair and sensible, taking care of others while also taking care of yourself. When someone really is in trouble, you like to collaborate with them toward a solution; they do their part, you do yours. You consider carefully, and respond in a sensible way; they do their part, and together you move through the difficulty.  You seldom act impulsively; rather, when a problem arises, you take your time to think through the situation. This contemplative quality usually means that you'll arrive at a diplomatic solution, one that's fair for the other person and also fair to you. It's frequently a win/win situation.

Negative Reactions Others May Have Toward You

For people who are ruled by tender-hearted compassion, your more diplomatic response to problems might seem too cool, too focused on fairness and not filled enough with sympathy and selflessness.  For them, when someone's life is on fire, what is needed is not collaboration but rescue. And the person who experiences their life on fire may resent the time you take to contemplate. "I need you, and I need you NOW! This isn't about fairness, it's about the fire." "All deliberate speed" may seem too deliberate and not fast enough, either to the more compassionate or to people in genuine trouble.  At the other end of the spectrum of compassion, those who believe people should take care of themselves may find even your thoughtful sympathies too soft. They expect people, themselves included, to work their own way out of trouble. They are convinced that the helping hand you lend just fosters dependence and is not good for the development of character, either in you or in the person you assist.

Positive Responses Others May Have Toward You

Many people, perhaps the majority, will come to appreciate your balance as a compassionate person. The more they get to know you, the more they will admire your thoughtful compassion for others and its compliment in the sensible ways you take good care of yourself.  Those whom you help will appreciate the way you leave them with their dignity by expecting them to collaborate in their own rescue. Those who are more tender-hearted will find in you a balance they lack; when they've run out of energy because they fail to take good care of themselves, you will still have enough compassion left to lift others out of trouble.  Even the tough-hearted, those who believe people should solve their own problems, might come to admire your tenderness which they don't find in themselves. So the people you help will be grateful, and the people who see your balance between self and others will admire you. Certainly, balanced is not bad at all as a way to be known among your friends.

"Lost in the Jungle" or "Is it Wise to Let the Tigers Know You've Forgotten How to Get Home?"

Portia's stomach ached.

Too much caffeine was most likely the culprit. That and the fact that she had trouble with loss. She felt like she had lost so much over the past two years. She didn't know what the hell she was doing and, as long as she'd tried, she couldn't get used to this feeling. Sometimes, she just thought she was totally full of metaphysical bullshit. A way of trying to assuage the gnawing feeling that she had totally fucked up her life and there was no undoing it. Hey, if she was on a "journey" and was here to learn some "lesson" then it must be the right thing, right?

In all truth, she was faced with the same old Lady and the Tiger conundrum. Behind this door was Fear. Behind that door was Everything Else. She stood there, staring at the doors wondering behind which the Tiger of Fear paced hungrily waiting to consume her. Then it occured to her, that perhaps, just waiting and wondering, unable to put her hand on a doorknob and turn, meant she was already in the death grip of Fear. Perhaps in choosing either door, she would be Free.

She didn't know anything, anymore, if she ever did. And all that kept sliding through her head was "what if this is all there is?" She didn't like that thought. It made her sad.

It was funny.

She knew that she was living a weird life that did not feel authentic. When asked if she knew she was loved, she would say, "Yes," but the answer was actually, "well, what do you mean by you love me?" Because she was pretty sure it wasn't what she meant when she said those three words. And so, in reality, she did not feel loved. She felt, well, stupid.

"Stupid is as stupid does." Forrest Gump's Momma used to say. Portia knew she did a pretty fair impression of Stupid these days.

Her head ached.

She bought some incense online that was supposed to help clear her head. Like that was going to help!

Bottomline:
Her stupidity couldn't come to the surface and be recognized until she finished one thing so she was completely in the other. Then the truth would surface in the form of "I love you, baby, but..." As any good writer will tell you, nothing before the "but" counts. And then she would be off on the New Adventures of Being Alone for real.

She hadn't been there in awhile and it looked a lot scarier from where she was today than it had 25 years earlier. Now she knew a lot more of what could go wrong. And now she could spot that exact moment when girls really became women and boys really became men. Adults with all their idiosyncratic crap rather than idealistic kids Becoming. Men and Women have Become and it ain't all rosy by a long shot. There's lots of sticky goo there.

She wished she was still Becoming.

And as soon as she wished it, even as Stupid as she was, she knew it was True. But the feeling was fleeting and hard to hold on to because that's just the way Truth is for those who are not ready...

and if Portia didn't know anything else, if she was honest with herself, which she tried to be but seldom was, she wasn't ready for this Truth.

The question was: How long could she stay in this place of indecision without losing everything. She'd already lost so much but there was more that could be lost. Much more...

Is it wise for Rolex to sponsor an event where the median income of the attendants is six catfish?

Pull your pants back up…it’s haiku Thursday

Hard to remember
A catalyst for motion
Satisfied to hum

Elitist rhetoric,
I hate your sympathetic
Placebo mentality

Women taking flight
Shuttles blasting their hair off
Appropriateness

Master skill Bullshit (300)
Artisan skill Photoshop (375)
Apprentice at life (50)

Vacant and deprived
In matters of soul and heart
Eff the rest of you

Pierced tendons
Unemployment
You’re scum

Words are excreted
Like noxious after-thinking
STFU ass

No relationship:
Black suit jackets and rockets
Yet somehow so right

Disparate wandering
Into the forest of self-approval and righteousness,
A place I don’t know.

Snogger me inside-
Outside-all-around until-
No more snoggering.

new gear

Where, Oh, Where Has Wallace Gone?

Catharsis

Some weeks are just seven days strung together. Others are a journey which just happen to be seven days long. Portia had just been on such a journey. One might even suggest that it was part of her quest for her personal Holy Grail. 

As it turned out that's exactly what it was. She hadn't known it at the time. It just seemed like a really bad week, frankly. And on Day Six, she pretty much spent the day crying or trying to hide her crying from others. She pondered and considered the reason for this intense sadness and tried on one explanation after another. None seemed to quite make up enough of a reason. At one point, it occurred to Portia that the sadness was really an accumulation of weariness. She carried so much in her soul. So much of her personal sadness and regret and pain that she tried to hide, or dress up as something else, or deal with on a philosophical-slash-spiritual level. 

But on Day Six, it all just oozed out from under the doors she'd bolted tight and everyone could see her sadness. Even her superficial efforts to cheer herself failed. There was no sushi so fresh and tender, or shoes so cute and on sale, or chocolate-covered strawberry so luscious that would lift the curtain of this- this- grief of hers.

Portia made it through her day, but not without being found out. Though she declined to explain which was quite easy, actually, because she had no explanation to offer. She climbed into her car which was a source of annoyance because it needed to be cleaned inside and out. The car's messiness only further agitated her. She slipped a new disc in the player and skipped through to a song that would contribute to her morose mood. 

When she arrived home, she stayed in the car for fifteen more minutes, listening to music with her eyes closed, crying.

At last she went inside, changed clothes, and quit trying to Not Feel. She let if sweep over her like the tide and once it did, the tide kept coming... wave after wave of sadness... wave after wave of Thing She Could Not Control... wave after wave of The Way Things Are... wave after churning wave washing through her psyche and soul ripping out the Everything is OK foundation which supported her Wall of Denial. 

Portia spoke with her lover about these things slowly. She was wary of trusting these things out in the open where they might be interpreted and judged. But as she did, Truth came upon her and a certain Calm... yet it would be another 24 hours before she began to understand what had happened to her that week. And it was just the beginning... 

Team Building Addendum

Okay, so one last thing on this that I didn't think of until last night. The comment was made "we're doing all this team building because studies show that when you're friends with the people you work with, you work better." I didn't even realize the slippery slope of this until hours later. The core idea is that you work with people all the time, but you aren't friends with them for whatever reason. But, if we contrive a social setting, you are more apt to become friends with these people. I'm not sure why this bothers me so much, it's probably right in line with my dating philosophy. Thinking of any friends I have at work, the statement is true, you work better with people you are friends with. Nonetheless, no artificial situation would have perpetuated the process of me being friends with those people. Perhaps that works for some people, but it's much to akin to speed dating. How often have you met a couple that got married as a result of a speed daing session?

Everyone in the Pool.... Its Haiku Thursday!

always running now
always needing to flush twice
it annoys me so

slit my supple wrist
with your jagged rapier wit
dripping garnet stains

bleach away my wrongs
scrub until my knuckles crack
invisible lies

shrouded gaze falling
turned away, never looked back
failing his harsh light

thumping hollow man
echoing across... across
returning to me

Waiting for Dessert
you were there laughing
those black and white checkered coats
so matchy matchy

houndstooth sisters watch
a cake he would not buy me
sliced or otherwise

leaving the toilet
you approached, searching for me-
or was it the pie?

maybe i was drunk
or maybe i wasn't yet
just kind of tipsy

friday night ended
with coffee and smuggled cake
by the light of a star-bucks

it was nice- your call
checking on my arrival
we were safely home

Poster Child for Doubt

Portia didn't know a lot of things and every day she was more certain that she knew less than she did the day before. Not an uncommon thought for Portia, but a subject she found herself mindlessly returning to with greater regularity over the past couple of years.

On this particular day, she listened to a young, new girl's voice emmitting from her car's speakers searching the songs for any lyrics she could cling to. As she did, something in the girl's voice made her think of all the voices of all the female vocalists her former lover had so admired. She realized that if they were still together, she would've shared this new voice with him. The next realization was that they weren't, and she wouldn't and, for some reason, the loss of this part of their relationship... their friendship, if that is what it had been... made her begin to cry.

And it wasn't even a sad song.

Suffering as she was, though the suffering was self-inflicted in every way, she decided to offer herself a kindness to get through the morning and stopped most inconveniently at a little coffee shop she favored. Not because the coffee was so good, but because it was a local establishment with a cool girl at the counter who was always nice to her. She had a hot pink stripe in her hair, a ring in her nose and never treated Portia like some kind of preppy pariah... although at times, she did masquerade as such.

Portia even persuaded herself to purchase two fresh cranberry walnut muffins that she had no intention of eating just to prolong the morning coffee conversational exchange a little longer thus delaying the inevitable arrival at her workstation.

So, much for comfort, coffee and muffins. Back to the Epiphany.

Oh, I didn't mention that yet, did I?

OK. So, there's this epiphany. Let's call it, "Portia's Epiphany on Being a Poster Child for Doubt." Turns out that, as she is caught up in her Emo-Moment of Loss pertaining to a certain satisfaction she once had, she realized why she is so stuck in the moment.

It was like a closet full of barely used shoes.

Many things in Portia's life seemed to boil down to a shoe metaphor and this was no exception.

She had two pairs of shoes in her closet. One pair looked gorgeous but pinched when she wore them and, eventually, caused a blister. Once the injury was incurred, it took about a week for it to heal. About that time, the beauty of the shoes lured her back for another session of pain.

The other pair didn't really go with anything in her closet. But it was the most comfortable pair of shoes she'd ever worn. So, considering her desire for something comfy on any given day, she would sometimes turn to this pair of shoes. However, every time she did and caught a glimpse of herself, she realized these shoes didn't fit her in any other sense... they didn't even look like they belonged on her body... and she didn't like them at all. Then the comfort dissolved into discomfort as halfway through the day they began to make her feel she was trying to be someone she wasn't.

Those two pairs of shoes seemed like relationships. Some parts of them worked, some parts of them didn't. But until Portia cleaned out her closet and got rid of both pairs of shoes, she knew she'd keep trying to make them fit and work for her- though they never would. They would always be the shoes they are.

So, Portia realized, to find a pair of shoes that complimented her more satisfactorily, she needed to keep trying on new pairs of shoes.

Yet she knew she was in no way ready for that. And this thought made her sadder still. What had she learned in the past three years? It seemed she had learned nothing at all except how to put on a different, yet still somehow inappropriate pair of shoes.

Or maybe there was just no right pair of shoes for her feet. Nothing to protect her from the cold, uneven, stony path. No cushioned insole to ease her march across the days of her life and lift her as she jumped at the Joy of Just Being Alive.

And that thought made Portia the Poster Child for Doubt.

That thought made Portia realize that some kinds of cold have nothing to do with the temperature. This other Cold could seep deep down into every pore of her skin bringing her to the brink of freezing- so deep that she could be shattered into a million splintering shards of glistening ice.

That thought made her believe she should seriously consider the possibility of the life of a recluse, of a solitary life. A life lived without shoes at all... toes wiggling in the dewy, green grass, free and unfettered.

In those moments, she pondered, a barefoot life seemed the best alternative for such a girl as her.

An article about Wallace...

what precisely would it say?

Do You See Right Through Me?

Wallace haphazardly drove into work today, about an hour later than usual. Bitter and cold. Insomnia is getting the better of him. Two, maybe three hours of sleep every night. His mind, a racing playground, his body a lump of slump. Beyond that, he mutters through the cold and slips into work. He tries to slide in his office, only to realize the door is locked. A lock to which he doesn’t possess the key. So obviously, a fantastic morning so far.

When Wallace did sleep, he dreamt of a certain engineer, initialed LR. One that has a lot of offer women. Nonetheless he was at a Best Buy. He brought in a giant glass board. Wallace was there with a high school friend he hadn’t thought about in years. So Mr. R. takes this board to a salesman and asks for ideas to repurpose this glass panel. Wallace immediately things this will end badly and quickly. Instead, the salesman walks over to the TVs and turns over a chalkboard and rounds all the customers up for an impromptu brainstorming session. The salesman acts as if he’s been waiting for this moment forever. Any bits past that point are unimportant.