Just a little bit crazy

Been off the radar for a day or so now, Wednesday at work was one of highs and lows - a high was a excellent feedback report on my job performance, a low was co-workers attitudes and picky little shit.

Then the rock climber called, he was passing through and I offered him a place to stay the night. Since I'm still up in the air over moving and relationships in general, I figured at least to get laid. And I did. He is tender and rough at the same time, and very eager to please me. The best feeling though? To have his arms wrap around me while we slept. It's been a long time since I've had that feeling, and it was nice.

So he left yesterday morning, and I went about my day off, which consisted of laundry and starting taxes. Then he called about 3, his truck had exploded about 80 miles out, and the tow truck had brought him back here. Since I really had nothing better planned, I offered him a ride home. 3 and a half hours away. He said I was crazy then he took me up on the offer. So, drove him home, we went to eat, then back to his house. He is a rock climber, he has tons of ropes and gear.... so we put some of those ropes to good use. I have the rope burns on my wrists and legs to prove it. As well as my hips (and other body parts) are so damn sore today. And again, it was nice to share a bed with someone who wanted me there.

To me this feels kinda like I'm cheating on L. But even in L's words, given the circumstances, the rock climber is closer. I still love L, that hasn't changed. I know that the rock climber isn't "The One", even if I enjoy his company and body.

And the ever on-going question is if L is "The One", and sadly I am no closer to that answer today than I was two days or two weeks ago.

So, slightly road weary, I am heading into work, and will probably spend the rest of the day mulling thoughts over in my head.

art imitates ?

I rented the movie "Prime" - and in it the guy gets his own gallery show and sells his stuff because the gallery guy tells him that he has talent and he's good. This happens a lot in movies and books.

And I wonder - does this happen in real life? Do people look at the art presented to them and go "wow, that guy, or girl, has talent - let's get them shown!" Or do they look at it and go "well.... not so much." What happens to the artists who aren't good? Do they get books and movies made about them where they eventually find happiness even though they suck at art?

What is the definition of talent? To be able to draw a perfect vase with shading, to know the colors and what works, to know art history backwards and forwards? What is the definition of good art? Isn't it all subjective? I like abstract. Some like landscapes. Some like perfect vases. Who gets to choose what is 'good' or what talent deserves attention?

Even I look at my work sometimes and go "It's rudimentary. It's basic. It's simple. Who would want this?" But it is unique, it is mine, and it doesn't matter, because I work with passion. I enjoy it and it is fulfilling for me. The fact that I might be able to sell it? Bonus.

So there will probably not be a movie or book made about my stuff... but I'll make it anyway and see what happens.

Lookin' back...

On the road... to somewhere... anywhere. Ended up heading Southeasterly and spent the night in Kerrville - in my car - thus was actually awake at the bright and early hour of 8am because the sun! woke me up. Crazy!


Wandered lots of shops in Fredericksburg, found a bakery and had a scone and hot tea for breakfast.


No wonder my legs are sore today - I walked just as many hours all weekend as I spent driving.


Proof that I really stopped in little ol' Luckenbach. Lots of sunshine, friendly smiles, and fresh air.


Lunch in Luckenbach, along with a guy pickin' his guitar and singing. Perfect.


The skirt I bought in a total splurge on me mindset - way more than I would normally spend on any one article of clothing, but so worth it. Fits beautifully, and I clean up pretty well, too!


Went and wandered Gruene, signed the Kinky for Governor petition, bought a pretty silver ring at an antique store, and then dinner at the Gristmill.


Next day, after a night in a too expensive/crappy hotel, I went and wandered Boerne. Found this amazing table in an antique store - for $545 bucks... hmmm, maybe someday. I just like this design.


Lunch at The Hungry Horse in Boerne, great burger, then back out for more window-shopping.


Fueled up the car, back on the road, and well - I believe in signs - so I stopped.


I haven't picked strawberries since I was a kid. This was so cool - they give you a box and you go wander the rows and pick your own. So sweet too! I ended up with four pounds of berries. I divvied them up, gave some to A, and then today took some to my grandparents... My grandparents in return gave me some of their old leather luggage...that is a story for another time...


Ahh... what the Hill Country is known for - Bluebonnets in Spring, with cool breezes... very nice.


My dinner companions - A & Wildchild - in Mason. Good food and great conversation, plus small child entertainment - it was fun.


Sigh... heading back. Could've stayed longer. Maybe next time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Good news: I found a store that will take some of my wood carvings on consignment, so that's pretty exciting. It also means I need to buckle down with the art work.

Nice: Back at work today, and a guy I haven't seen in six months comes in, and brings me chocolates - from Germany! - the Whiskey Pralines are strong, and not to be eaten at work in case of a random drug/alcohol test. ;)

And: I'm back. I feel pretty damn good, I feel relaxed, and I feel sure about myself again - which is what I think I needed most. I know I'm lucky to have a decent job and can pay my bills on time, so as long as I have other things in my life to focus on, and can remind myself it's just a job, then I'll be ok.

I like myself again. It's all good. I'm all good.

Hell, yeah!

Odessa to Midland to Rankin to Irran to Sheffield to Ozona to Sonora to Junction to Kerrville to Fredericksburg to Stonewall to Luckenbach to Sisterdale to Borene to Leon Springs to San Antonio to New Braunfels to Gruene to Alamo Heights to Leon Springs to Boerne to Comfort to Fredericksburg to Mason to Brady to Eden to San Angelo to Sterling City to Garden City to Midland to Odessa.

In 49 hours.

Was it worth it?

I don't like myself very much right now

It's no wonder that L hasn't called. I wouldn't want to talk to me either. I'm cranky. My shoulders are knotted and hiked up by my ears. I keep catching myself being judgmental, intolerant, and easily piqued. The tension at work was finally cut when the guys finally apologized to each other for Sunday night - so at least on that front there is no more animosity, just weariness.

Emails and phone calls from a guy friend who's got relationship woes, and I wonder why it's so much easier for me to help others see outside their problems, see the alternate views, than it is for me to see mine. Probably the same reason it's easier for me to work on the muscles in other people's bodies than it is for me to work on mine.

I have two days off this weekend. So I'm leaving work as early as I possibly can tomorrow night, and just driving. Somewhere. Anywhere. I have a jar of peanut butter, a bag of pretzels, a full tank of gas, my sleeping bag and a blanket, an extra t-shirt, and $70 bucks. Now. Where will I go? What will I do?

Greune? Maybe. Antiques shopping and wine tasting.
San Antonio? Maybe. Bookstores, empanadas, and cascarones for Fiesta.
Menard? Maybe. See A, hang out and play cards.
Del Rio? Maybe. See the rock climber, learn to weld, and maybe get laid.
Lubbock? Maybe. See my little brother, visit the holistic shop, and watch a college band.
Alpine? Maybe. Hiking, a writing workshop, live music, and open air.
Dallas? Maybe. Find Caleb and get a new tattoo, find a therapist and get my back fixed.
Austin? Maybe. Live music, vintage stores, and artistic culture.

I don't know. But I know I need to peel off these layers of me. Especially the selfish and petty me that has been in a funk lately, and find the me I like. 'Cause right now I have no idea who she is or where she went. So I'm going off for two days in search of her. I'll be back Monday, hopefully in a better frame of mind. Maybe I'll find myself along the way.

drained

Stop gap measures. A nap. A whole bar of dark chocolate. A margarita.

I'm just drained and tired. I know very well I need an attitude adjustment. I know I need something. Because right now I am sucking fumes and am completely empty of energy. Too tired to exercise. Too tired to eat. Too tired to sleep. I dread getting up because I don't want to go to work. I almost want to go back to landscaping stones at less than half the pay, because at least there I could have fun and my employer and co-workers were nice. They were good to be around, they were encouraging. And right now I don't feel encouraged, I don't feel supported, I feel like a batting cage.

Yeesh. I'm aware of how pitiful and ridiculous I sound. I really do need an attitude adjustment.

Screw it. It ain't gonna happen tonight. I'm going to bed.

then and now

So I got distracted by an email, yet another one reminding me that I've been out of high school for ten years and "oh! won't it be great to get together with all 575 classmates in an old barn and reminisce about how much fun high school was!"

Jeez. So I hit the school link, and it links to all these people I knew and didn't know, and all their myspaces and I spent the last hour just randomly checking out what they've been up to and what they're doing. And I caught myself shaking my head. A lot.

And I realized I have nothing in common with them, not that I really did in the first place, except that we went to school together. So don't be surprised that I will do my damnedest to not go to the reunion. Ohh, unless they have a murder and then make a short-lived tv show about it! Oh, nevermind.

Ya know what else? I like having my own little anonymous blog to vent in and not have a page where people write their own personal ads and encourage stupidity and bad pictures. Ok, I'm being extremely judgmental and intolerant here, and I am aware of this, but you know what? I'm gonna be judgmental anyway - they are, so why can't I???

Sure, the handful of people I knew from classes we had together for six years have changed. I have. I like to think I got better with time. And sure, maybe they did too. But come on, just because we spent three or six years together does not mean that we shared life-changing and emotionally fulfilling experiences. Ok, ok... some people obviously did. Many were married before they graduated, or shortly thereafter, so they shared some experiences there. Many did have close cliques of friends and they've stayed in touch, so good for them.

Admittedly I hung out with several people for a couple of years after graduation, but only actually went to school with one of those. But we drifted apart and went different directions. Or after surfing tonight, I noticed we've gone in different directions, but a few of them still connect regularly. Do I feel remorse or hurt by any of this? No. Just aware that the people in my life at that time and the people I call my friends now are very different energy sources and influences.

Just very aware of where I am right now in my life, slowly becoming aware of where I want to be in my life, slowly figuring out how to get to where I want to be... and am not looking back at the past any further than to remember the things I've learned along the way, and trying to keep looking forward. Even when I know what lies ahead may be tough, I'd still rather look forward than back.

not so

2:15am - Carving. Working on the same piece. It's taking longer than I thought, edging out the designs and letters on it. And I glance down at my wrist and think to myself "I wonder what it would be like to cut along the letters on my wrist?"

Then I immediately go "Whoa. That is not a healthy thought to be having."

I put my blade down and pull off my gloves and look around. Ok. Something. Anything. Else. Now.

Call someone? No. That's the problem with being up and awake at 2am. No one else is. I get up and walk around. Shake it off.

I realize it's not a depression/suicide thing. It's not a pain thing like cutting. This is ... ? The type of thing that as an artist I wonder about different materials and designs. The type of thing where I wondered what it would be/look like.

Still. Not a healthy thought.

Time for a break. Of some sort.

Penis envy - Hah!

Or - Too much testosterone is a pain in the ass. No pun or sexual innuendo intended.

You would have thunk that the 4 male species type humans that were at work today had never done their job before. It was quiet and slow all day, then in the last 45 minutes, when the work came in, they were all running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Not that I've ever actually seen a chicken running around with it's head cut off, but this is what I suspected it would look like.

Anyway, the work calms down, they go about their business, and one guy, the new kid, offers to do some work outside his job duties, and the lead guy freaks. Loudly. Lots of yelling. Not so pleasant words and threats. I felt bad for the kid. I champion the underdog anyways, but tonight I just wanted to slap the other guy for going off like that.

The lead guy came in and apologized to me for the cussing, and I told him I could care less about the cussing, I just don't like the yelling, and that I thought he was tired and should go home. What I really meant was that if he didn't leave soon I'd wind up really slapping him. Thankfully they all left and I went about my work, and finally came home to eat and talk to L.

I feel bad for the kid because these guys are all 10 or 12 years older than him, they've got experience, and he's still learning. These guys bust his balls over the small screw-ups, the not paying attention things, whereas when they screw up, no one better say a word about it to 'em. Again, like I said, I champion the underdog, the one who keeps getting kicked at and picked on.

Yeah, some days they can be entertaining, but then days like today - too much testosterone in one room for me.

Bittersweet personality

She's a cute girl, beyond the attitude She throws around, leaving me paralyzed to stare when She speaks. Does she speak to me? No. I am but a (butter)fly on the bridge as She rants and yells to the empty space around Her. The air seems to stand still for Her, to hear the melody of Her voice, so even the trees settle to listen. The sky is overcast, it's a cool day, and at this moment the only things moving are Her and the water below.

She is upset, that much I can tell. There are tears on Her cheek, dropping to the creek below as She leans over the bridge and lets them fall. The turtle who was sunbathing below has moved to another, less drippy spot. She says things with great emphatic gestures, I fear She'll slam her hand down on me in a moment, so I move up to a branch above and watch from there. Her hair whips as She shakes her head, and Her blue eyes are rimmed in red from the crying. I feel for Her, but how can I comfort Her?

Finally She stops railing at whomever or whatever upset Her so greatly. Finally She slides to the floor of the bridge and leans Her head on the post in front of Her, and dangles Her feet in the water. The water must be cold, because She quickly pulls them back up and hugs Her legs to Herself. She moves so gracefully, I just watch with admiration. Such a beautiful creature, and I am in Her presence.

I fly over and land on her arm. She opens those gorgeous blue eyes and blinks away the tears and looks at me. Her breath catches in a gasp, but I am not afraid. Neither of us move, for fear of moving the other. We just sit and watch each other carefully. She smiles slowly, a smile that transforms her whole face into a work of art, Her eyes not leaving me for fear I'll disappear if She blinks. I just sit, I open and close my wings, and take in Her simple beauty.

Minutes pass, then She whispers "Thank you". She smiles and closes Her eyes. There are no more tears, She has stopped shaking and moving, She is calm now. It is time for me to go on now, and time for Her to go where She must. I want to thank Her for sharing this time with me, so I open and close my wings several times before taking off. She watches me leave, as I head back to the trees and the side of the creek. She slowly stands and brushes herself off, turns around in a quiet circle to take in the view one last time, then walks off the bridge with Her head held high.

Wow. She is a beautiful creature. Sometimes I wish I could be more like Her.

and on that note

I've had two glasses of wine, my arm is sore from carving, and I'm fucking horny. Damnit. This would be one of those times it SUCKS to be single!!!

double sigh and fresh batteries.

sigh

L and I have different schedules, so the talking has been slim lately, and it's gone back to short conversations about work. He has his life there, and I have mine here, and right now they are not compatible. We are good friends, I love him, and we have great sex... so we make excellent fuck buddies... just the actual relationship part - well, I figure we would compliment each other or be at total opposites if we actually gave it a shot.

And yet... Whiskey had stopped by and we talked a little, and he took his hand and ran his fingers along my neck.... and it felt so nice. Damn. I am human. And it hit me, that if L wanted/reacted/worshipped/ me half as much as Whiskey does, then I'd be with L now.

That's so wrong on so many levels, and I acknowledge this, but it is how I feel. I like to be touched - I like to be caressed, I like to know that I am worth the time it takes to be with me. So I'm a little hesitant to committing when I know I want and need, and I don't feel like it's happening. So I continue my life my way, single, which also means I don't have to explain myself to anyone else.

Jeez. I just want to be wanted.

When is a piece of glass not a piece of glass?

This is not a difficult question really. This is more hypothetical. Or rhetorical. Or something like that. No, nothing like that. This is a physical aspect to a memory.

Small. Tiny. A few millimeters is all. Miniscule. A tiny sharp piece of glass. You ever drop a glass and look at the pieces? The big ones that you can line up where they fit? And all the little shattered pieces that fit in between to make up all the spaces and gaps? This is one of those little shattered non-lining-up pieces.

I was washing my face, and as I tend to do, I was picking at what I thought was a pimple or scab, but it wouldn't budge. So I dug my fingernail in, and pulled out this tiny piece of glass. Right there in the hairline, on my left temple where the small scars brush up, a piece of glass from the car wreck over eight years ago.

So... so surreal. Creepy. Bizarre. I just sat and stared at this violent reminder of pain and stupidity. I let the feelings wash over me - anxiety, terror, sadness, confusion, and the luck that I am here today. I cried. Always do when I actually let the memory wash over me like that.

Then I asked myself if this was a sign or something, because I do believe in signs, about my current direction in life. 'Cause a little over eight years ago I was making choices because I thought I was supposed to be making them, doing things I thought I was supposed to be doing. And I sometimes fall back into unhealthy patterns, and have to ask why I am where I am doing what I'm doing. 'Cause then I wasn't doing what I was supposed to be doing.

And after that night I decided that I would change how I do things. I quit wearing a watch because time doesn't matter, I get where I'm going eventually. I tell my family and friends I love them instead of being afraid to say it. I would find the beauty and passion in the everyday - and I still try to - clouds, stars, trees, birds, flowers, laughter... just a few that I really do enjoy, even when I try to point it out to others, and their reaction is like I'm crazy. That's another one - try not to care what people think, but I do tend to care. Too much. Got to work on that one some more!

But now am I doing what I want, or doing what I think others expect me to? Am I choosing to move or not move because I want to, or because it's what I should be doing? This I still don't know completely. This is still decisions and feelings to figure out and work through. This is me knowing I want to be wanted, I want to be trusted, I want to be supported... and while I love him, I don't always feel wanted, trusted, or supported.

Did this tiny piece of glass answer anything? No. Just a reminder of what could've been, and what could be. It is a reminder that the past is always there, something I will continue to work through, and it will continue to work through me, or work it's way out, as the case may be. I learn and remember my lessons, these lessons I've learned the hard way, these lessons I've learned along the way. And I look forward to enjoying the sunsets and wildflowers, to painting and creating with passion, and making the rest of my journey in one piece

eh.. yeah.. that.. oh, fuck it.

Had I actually been informed that I had these two days off, I would have gone out of town, but since they called me last night to say I had today off - well, going anywhere was pretty much shot. I spent more money than I have to get my fuel pump flushed out on my car anyway. Here's hoping it runs better now, cause I really am going out of town the next chance I get.

So I spent today painting. Outside. With Cory Morrow turned up loud. I really want to go dancing. Hell, I'd settle for going to see a live band (that isn't Tejano). Nice day, sun behind the clouds, and a long wall all for me to paint. I also got started on a new canvas, put down the base layer I wanted, and let it dry. It'll be several weeks till I can finish that one, and I already know it. Then it got dark, as is wont to do when the sun sets, so I stopped and cleaned brushes. Now to finish the design I've been carving on so I can start coloring it.

All this artistic Zen has been nice. No real thinking going on beyond "More orange here." "Another line this way." "Fuck, I just put the blue brush into the red paint." So much so that by dark I realized the only thing I ate was a bag of Fritos. No water either... not good. Gonna have to pack a bottle or two next time. Oh, yeah - my neck is slightly pink, as is the top of my forehead, which would explain the fever I now have. I'm so bad. I know better, and yet I still do stupid stuff like not put enough sunscreen on or take enough water.

I had a friend stop by to visit, and he had a camera, so as soon as he emails me the photos I'll post one or two. I think there's one with me working so hard that I stuck my tongue between my teeth to concentrate... makes it look like I actually put some thought into the work.

Well, since I'm sun-pinked and dehydrated anyway, I'll finish off my glass of wine and put on a movie and carve till my arm goes numb.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Updated: Photos were emailed...


Getting started - and I didn't know the camera was there...


Working in progress...

That's one of my grandfather's old work shirts that I wear when painting. And about half the time I end up wiping the excess paint off onto it or my arms, so it really doesn't do much beyond keep my t-shirt protected. But I still wear it.

Part of me would really do this, if I like won the lotto or something...

A road that you had to be lost or had to know where you were going to be driving down. A building that is a cross between an old roadside bbq joint and a dancehall, and in its lifetime probably served both chipped beef sandwiches and fiddle music. The tables are round and rectangular, old wood. The weathered gray wood from being left sitting in the sun too long. And these are indoors. Aged, weathered, grays and browns, polished so smooth with use. These are gathering tables.

How many years has this been empty of people? Two or ten? There doesn't seem to be dust. The lights and stove work perfectly. There is the scent of spices and the feel of energy in the air. I want to touch every surface and just soak it in.

Clapboard. That seems to be how it's built - boards clapped together to form a wall. Surrounded by trees. Oaks and pines, with the leaves and needles covering the ground outside. On the side of the building is a wall vined over in honeysuckle. The front and back walls are the sections of boards that push up and open to be windows. Ventilation from the architecture of the old west. Built to catch the breezes off the river down back. This is a place built for function with what was available at the time. A large kitchen on one side with wide waist height counters to prepare meals in large quantities. Open walls to cross breeze, open doors to invite people in, and tables to sit, eat and chew over the food and conversation.

The small action of opening the door has already brought this place back to life. Three or four people show up every few minutes - to see who bought the place, to see if we're open, to see what everyone else is up to. I am in awe. I don't do anything but watch these folks move. An older man, wearing a well-worn sweater, a white beard, and the greenest laughter filled eyes, goes ahead and opens the windows. Pushes those boards up, placing a stick in each to hold them in place. He nods at me as if I'd asked him to do this, then finishes the back wall. There is no need for lightbulbs as the daylight reverberates inside along with the breeze to air it out.

Several people sit at tables, chatting, and since I know none of them I look around the kitchen. Seems there are several canned goods and amazingly several loaves of fresh bread someone set on the counter. Somehow I make a meager but satisfying lunch with this to serve the twenty or so people now gathered.

"What is this magical place I've found?" I think.

I don't know. But it's beautiful. I call my parents, I call my friends, I want them all to see it. Afternoon comes, some folks leave, some return, and I wonder if there will be enough for dinner. My parents show up, and have brought food. My dad puts a roast in the oven, and I start with vegetable cutting.

My mom walks out the front door and says "Come see this!" I follow, everyone follows. She walks the length of the front, all the open windows and the spacing of pines, to a corner past the road and parking lot. This is where she stops and I kinda wonder if she has gone crazy. Then I see it, or them, rather. Hummingbirds. Five or six hummingbirds at the honeysuckle vines and around the fence. So busy, so fast, so pretty.

Minutes, hours later, we've all drifted back inside. To eat. To talk. By now I know a few names. After dinner the old man with the green eyes pulls out a harmonica and starts playing. Someone else has his, now two harmonicas. Night falls, lights come on, and music flows in with the foot tapping and thigh clapping.

I wrap my arms around myself in a hug. I do not understand this little old building I just bought, but I do know it's the perfect place for me.

the first cut is the deepest

Several years ago, when I first started using hand tools to carve with, I had many (emphasis on many) cuts across my hands and legs till I learned exactly how sharp these tools are. Then I started to wear jeans to protect my legs, cause I often work on small pieces and balance them on my thigh while working. Then I invested in a good pair of rubber/leather work gloves to protect my hands, after all, I still did massage therapy and my hands were what I worked with.

Along the way I've figured things out about this art. How to find the flow of the grain of the piece I'm working. How deep or shallow to make a cut. How to work with or around knots, which to me are part of the wood's natural beauty. How much pressure to apply to make the design flow and to avoid sliding off the side and gouging into my leg. Safety techniques as well as performance techniques.

In some way this is probably stuff I could have learned in an art class somewhere, but I didn't work that way. I saw an art show where the artist had cut into wood, ran ink over it, and pressed it to paper. It was called "relief printing", but I didn't care about that ink pressing part of it. All I saw was the chance to make art with cuts and lines in wood. I saw this as a chance to work with wood. I figured this was a good starting point, because I liked carpentry and would like to eventually make bigger things.

So I picked up some hand tools. I picked up some wood. And I just cut. I made designs. I then painted these pieces and gave them away to family and friends. And yes, more than one of those first pieces had my blood stained into it. So I learned by doing. I learned the hard way as my family likes to say. And I learned to get gloves and protect my hands, and to wear jeans to protect my legs.

I picked up new blades the other day. I pulled my gloves on to work last night, slid the blade into the handle, and started working. There is just something about the feel of carving into the wood, the give and the stalls of trying to cut with the grain. And the smell of wood, the smell that is released when wood is cut, to me is both at once intoxicating and relaxing. Relaxing for me, creativity from the blade to the design and color on the wood.

To me, this is what the art is about. I just try not to stain it with my own blood anymore.

I be me

Let me tell someone else's story and I have no problem bringing that character to life. Ask me to tell my own story and that's where I falter. My desires are my own, my ideas are my own, but voicing any of them takes courage that I don't always seem to have. And why? For the very people who ask seem to be the very ones who voice their opinions and ideas for me, suggesting that whatever it was I think or feel should actually be a different thought or feeling. So it comes as no surprise to me that I just don't share myself with people I don't know well and certainly don't trust. I keep what I think and feel to myself, because it really is nobody else's business. And when it comes to people I know and trust, then they can hear when I feel like sharing. That too can be tough.

When I talk with my best friend, we know how each other truly are, know how we joke about the serious stuff and cry over the even more serious stuff. She will not judge me, she will not condemn me, she will love me anyway. When I talk with L I still do not know him well enough to know how he will react to what I say or do. He's told me he loves me the same, does not judge me for what I feel, and wishes I had more confidence in myself. When I talk with my mom, I know not to tell her everything, because she already worries too much, if I shared more she would seek psychiatric help for me, or her, or both, because I'm not following the/her standards of society. When I talk with my dad, I can share more, he tends to be open-minded, but he also thinks he has to be in control, to fix everything, including my issues. He also feels that when he has to stop at a red light it means that the whole world is against him, thus everything means the world is against him, thus he yells alot, thus I learned many years ago to steer clear of numerous topics, because while I may not be the direct cause of a blow-up, I always feel like I am.

Something a director told me once, a long time ago now, was "You're always on audition." Meaning someone is always watching you. Meaning I had to set a good example for the younger cousins, otherwise I would get the punishment to set that example by. Meaning how I took care of assignments meant the teachers knew I was a hard worker and could trust me with errands. Meaning if I did a good job and performed beyond expectations in a small part in a show, that I had a better chance of being cast again. Meaning that if I fulfilled my job description, and didn't piss off my boss, I'd move up. And all of this - this "submissive" attitude of sorts, seems to be a contradiction in me.

But it's not. I am both. I am a hard worker and independent. I am passionate and reserved. I know what I like, and when I feel the fight is worth fighting, I will stand up. When I don't feel like it's worth the extra drama or feel like fueling someone else's fire, then I will shut up and keep to myself.

Course then I'll just write about it.

Crazy Wind

It's a song, by a band called the Backsliders, but I know it as re-done by Pat Green. This song came on while I was driving home tonight, while I was driving home in the middle of one of the lovely West Texas spring wind storms. So thick with dirt, couldn't see twenty feet ahead, and tumbleweeds slamming the car from every direction. So the irony was pretty laughable. Laughable when I wasn't concentrating on trying to stay on the highway.

Ahh, the wide open plains combined with a desert region and a dry cold front = don't go outside if you can help it, otherwise be prepared to eat dirt.

Dealing with thoughts and feelings and emotions yesterday, then a conversation with L where I was still emotional last night, well, I didn't sleep all that great. And what came of the fitful sleep was a design that I needed to finish a project, giving me focus on at least one thing. And the moving or not moving dilemma has been tabled by me for now (again). Because I have a hospital bill I need to pay off, because he's going to be working all the time, because I think we're more comfortable sharing snippets of our lives over the phone. Because those are all the practical reasons, and the gut feeling reasons should outweigh the practical, but logic seems to overrule (right now anyway).

Answers can come of a sleepless night. While not always the best answers, I at least have a time line now.

The truth is... I'm scared. I'm scared of moving 2,000 miles away from my family. I'm scared of getting out there and basically starting new, in a different place, only knowing a couple of people. While L is the incentive, and he would be worth it, would be worth every minute actually, I am still scared. For those very same practical reasons - finances, finding a job, his work schedule, and we know each other by voice, by physical, but not by the day to day. So I know the better - saner - idea would be for me to line up a job and an apartment, to have my own space to work from, and for us to try having a relationship in the same area code. Oh, I think we'd still spend more nights together than apart, but at least we'd have that choice.

Fears unleashed are easier to figure out.

On a lighter note - hey, I was amused - a customer (male) told me tonight that he had a dream about me last night and that I was "very bad, (wink, wink)". I said "I must have been pretty good 'cause you're grinning."

I'm all for sexual harassment - equal opportunity of course.

et cetera, et cetera, etc...

My cousin is having a baby. This means there will be a baby shower. This means they've registered for all sorts of pretty shiny things, usually way out of my budget range. So I do what I usually do - get them practical things. Onesies, baby wash, socks, diapers... Things that will actually be used when the baby is here. Cause I can't see how practical it is to get an infant a lighted toy, a silver plated hairbrush, or a bouncy leash. Yeah, I can see him using that bouncy leash when he's two weeks old.

Wow. I am bitter tonight. And I'm taking it out on shopping for a baby that isn't even here yet.

Meanwhile I'm cleaning house, in a half-hearted attempt to clean my soul and mental state out. Took the curtains that have been hanging for nearly three years to the cleaners, and hung some lighter ones, make it a little more airy in here. Sorting through books I've read to give away or sell, pulling sweaters and clothes I'm not wearing in an attempt to clean the closet out. Getting down the shorts, putting away the sweaters, it's like I have a while new wardrobe again. It's already warm, only March, and I want to shave my head, or at least cut some of the weight off (and it's barely at my ears as it is).

And yet...

I need a deadline, a timeline or something. I started a new project this week, one that I'm not sure how long it will take, it's outside on a wall, so it will be a) days off, b) non-windy days, c) when I feel like it. And I don't know if I'll be here to finish it, or if I will be here to finish it. What am I getting at here? That I kinda feel up in the air about the possibility of moving. I've looked for apartments, I've looked up job possibilities. But do I take the leap, pack my stuff, and move now? Or do I sit back here, fill my time with homework and projects till... ?

I have to have something to focus on, and right now I'm unfocused.

Annddd... Action!

Lately I feel like I'm always 'on'. This feels oppressive and I don't like it. It's wearing to smile all the time, to say 'fine', or a cheesy 'wonderful', when someone asks how I am. The answer I really want to give, the one that gets stuck on the back of my tongue, is "I'm a creative, passion driven woman, stuck in her life at this moment in time, and unhappy with my job because it drains me emotionally more days than it fulfills me, and because the sun is shining and it's a beautiful day outside and I'm under fluorescent lights with recycled air and guess where I'd rather be?"

No wonder it gets stuck on the back of my tongue, it is a mouthful to say.

It's not as if I don't have plenty of other things in my life that are pleasant. I have my painting, the carving, designing, knitting, coloring, and decorating. I have three really good books I'm reading. I have a boyfriend who is caring. I have a best friend who is sweet and compassionate. I have family that is just a little bit crazy as well as loving and usually supportive. And I am lucky enough to have a job.

Count your blessings as they come.

I miss doing shows. Rehearsing and creating and building and putting on a play. Having a break from my real world for a few hours a night to create a new one. And then after a few weeks, when I'm tired of that routine, when the show has run it's course, we strike the set and go back to our separate realities. But here lately, I feel like I'm in character all day, every day, except on my days off, which are scattered and at someone else's whim. And maybe, just maybe, that is what drives me nuts. Because doing a show, I'm a volunteer, I get to be expressive and creative, can exchange ideas with the director, and get to drink backstage. Work, well, basically none of those things. I get paid, I am discouraged from being creative, and hell no to the expressing, and the people in charge don't want any ideas that could be helpful, and gosh darn it, there is no drinking allowed.

Why is it the free things are often better?

Sigh. I still am no closer to any solutions for the apathy. And perhaps that is my downfall, I can only try to express how I feel, what the symptoms are, not offer myself alternatives or exit strategies. Although it feels better to just take the skirt and shirt off, kick off my shoes, and be surrounded by things that are good for my soul. And it did feel better when at one point this afternoon, when the boys had just gotten past my breaking point of annoyance, I told them to watch the desk and went out and took a walk. If I could make that an everyday occurrence, it would help.

I give myself great advice when I quit thinking.

So the last thought of the night - "Shut up already!" Exit stage left.

raw focus

Like the air has been scraped open. The ozone singed by the lightning, saturating my senses the moment I open the door. My eyes try to adjust to the light as it shifts from bright to clear to ominous. The clouds move in and out, the landscape changing from second to second, greener, browner, bluer, whiter. I want to pull up a lawn chair and sit and watch it all afternoon, watch the shadows shift.

I feel as if I'm back in San Antonio, not even in my own apartment, but in the apartment of a friend. A place I'd stayed numerous times when visiting. A small room, on the second floor, white walls, ceiling fan that spun at it's own speed, and large windows on two walls. These windows were always open, winter and summer. Spring was beautiful, humid and thick with new growth outside. It felt great in the summer, breezes drifting in, helping the fan do it's job. The winter didn't matter so much, the apartment just seems to radiate heat from all the people and artists in and out and working and living there. This is to imply that artists aren't people, and in some cases this rings true, especially in this time of my memories.

It was in this said apartment that I remember waking up and feeling content, the bright white of the walls complementing the greens of the trees seen through the windows. To me this always seemed like waking up in some coastal beach town, in a little bungalow away from it all. The season perpetually spring, with plants growing, trees blooming flush, the afternoon storms rolling in leaving humidity in it's wake. This slight cooling of the air as the clouds obscure the sun, the biting scent of wet dirt and sharp ozone becoming the memory of rain. A memory that evokes again when the clouds roll in and the air changes weight.

The debate now, as it was then, is to go to work or to sit and watch the landscape change. The landscape of people as well as the transition from dark to light. The plants move in the breeze, the leaves rustle, the sun moves behind the clouds reminding me the clouds are the ones in charge here, not the sun. The landscape of people is alternately more and less fascinating. The people who walk their dogs and wave, the joggers in the heat of the day sweating to feel better, the kids playing chase or tag or hide and seek. And me sitting until I feel proactive enough to pull some weeds or trim the shrubs or sweep the garage out, until I decide I really don't want to be useful at this moment, I just want to sit and watch.

Instead I go to work, sit and stare at a computer for eight hours, do about 25 pages of reading, listen to people give me their ideas on what I should do, listen to people tell their stories when all I want is quiet, and feel completely drained by the end of the day. I grab my sweater and purse, walk out the door into the dark night where thankfully, the moisture, the wet-dirt scent, the spring time humidity, are right there waiting for me.

The sun may be set, the people to watch may be at home, but I pull up a patch of grass and stare at the moon move behind the clouds, because the moon is like the sun, it knows the clouds are the ones in charge here.

love. literature. loony.

He sounds so exhausted. His voice so soft. He says sleep and talk, too tired to make a full sentence. My heart goes out to him. I want to curl up with him, to sleep side by side, instead of in different beds 2,000 miles apart.

We talk of the future, and remind ourselves to try to stay in the here and now instead. My days pass, and I call to share these things and thoughts with him, all to hear his voice at the end of my day. And I still wish I could be there, to help him with the things I can. I can print the photos, I can help set up and tear down, I can run and get food to make sure they eat. And I can be there when he crawls into bed, to massage his back, and to set the alarm to do it all again tomorrow.

Nothing like a man to bring out my nurturing side.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile I've found a new book - just started it, and it's pretty good/funny so far. If I still like it when I get farther into it, I'll endorse the author heartily. If it's not as good as it started, then I'll just forget about it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have a friend who is just plain mean. She called, got my voicemail, and started singing "This is the song that never ends, it goes on and on my friends, someone started singing it, not knowing what it was, and they'll continue singing it forever just because...This is the song that never ends...."

So I check my voicemail and this is what gets stuck in my head all friggin' day. I love my friends. They drive me nuts. (more so than I already am.)

Spring-ing

Lime juice on burritos. Key lime pie. Sangria. Strawberries. Celery by itself, not in a bloody mary. Pistachios. Nectarines.

Shorts. Or better yet, jean skirt. Tank top. No bra. No underwear. Shaved legs. Flip flops, retraining my toes to get used to that thong between the toes. Tuck a flower over my ear.

Breezes. Sunshine. Windows down. Humidity. Clouds thick on the horizon. That threat of a rolling afternoon storm.

Music. Anything with the Texas twang. Cory Morrow. Robert Earl Keen. Charlie Robison. Pat Green. Texas Road Trip. Kicking in the feeling to drive here, there, anywhere.

Painting. Outside. Walls. Designs. Colors are vibrant in the sun. Colors like Roasted Pepper, Turquoise, Ivy, Taupestone, Baked Brick. Pinks stand out now, no quiet pastels, no shiny iridecents, nothing muted or well-behaved here. Greens of new plants - although the only things I've managed to grow successfully are a sweet potato plant and a rosemary bush, neither of which need anything from me and take care of themselves. Blues of swimming pools and oceans and marbles.

Relaxed and content. New paints. New brushes. Dance while running errands. Pay the bills. Stick my arms out and feel the air brush my arms. Close my eyes in yoga and stretch. Oh, so that is what my back is supposed to feel like when it's released. Beautiful.

Lighter

Sometimes I wish I could be a songwriter. Sometimes I wish I could evoke a feeling and image to the listening audience all within a three minute song. To be able to make short sentences rhyme and easy to remember and flow along with the music.

Sometimes I wish I could handle the monotony of a desk job. To be able to smile and answer the phones and make arrangements for other people, because I like to make people happy. I have one, and some days I handle it, but in the long run, it's not me and I know it.

Sometimes I wish I could travel the world out of a backpack. To be able to see new places and find fascinating people and things, to wander open-minded and open-hearted.

Sometimes I wish I could be a dancer. To be able to choreograph movements to music, blend and display with emotion.

Sometimes I wish I could be an archeologist. To be able to research and dig through history and put the pieces together.

Sometimes I wish I could be accepting of being me. Sometimes I grill myself on why I don't do things better, why I react the way I do, on why I can't be more like someone else, and it all frustrates me.

To be able to accept myself, my reasoning, my ideals, my feelings, as my own. And some moments I am depressed and in a funk over who I am and what I do. And some moments I am the free spirit flying and loving what is and who I am.

To be able to embrace the latter, those are the moments of lightness.

quit feeling sorry for myself

For any reason I have - flipping channels, and Murderball is on A&E. Yeah. While I don't automatically have the desire to go play rugby or anything, at least I know I've got it pretty good.

Damn the man.

Or woman. Equal oppurtunity here.

Reasons I want to work for myself, or go back to working non-corporate.

Paperclips. I could truely care less where the hell the fucking paper clips are supposed to line up on the page.

Anal retentiveness. I'll readily admit I can be anal about some things - like I put the charge slips in order so I can match them to the closing report, that just makes sense. But sometimes anal goes too far.

Having my schedule screwed around with because she needs these days off, and yet when I'm sick, being denied the extra hours to make up for it.

Having my office sent mail opened.

Grrr. I know. Little things. Little nit-picky things. And they all add up and aggrivate me.

I do the paperwork, I clean the mistakes at the end of the day, and accounting likes what I do, they know I do my job well. I have no problem giving up my day off, or weekend off, when someone is sick, or got a chance to go out of town. But the fact I had to barter two of my weekends off to go to NY, and lost the few hours I was trying to make up, makes tough going. The fact that I dare to bring this up, or ask questions, or whatever, it kicks her off and makes it a tougher atmosphere.

I like my job most of the time. It does pay the bills. But so what? I can go back to landscaping and rocks. At least there I can wear jeans, don't have to deal with paperclips, and my schedule is mine to make.

Sheesh. Rant over. For now.