Schedules

I’ve found that most of the good things don’t go by the clock.

Babies don’t pay attention to due dates.

Beautiful days don’t heed your calendar.

There is no universal law that says that you have to wait exactly 180 days before you can officially pronounce that you are in love and that it is real.

There is no doctrine that says you have to search for houses for three months before finding your dream home.

Same goes for jobs. Or careers. Or a good pair of blue jeans. Or a story, blog post, novel, poem. All of it.

There is no logic. No rationale. No formula. No reason.

Simply put: you know when you know. You know?

Of course, you might move. You might move on. You might find another passion. Eventually.

That’s not the point.

I’m not talking about forever, no one can claim forever. In case you hadn’t noticed, ‘forever’ is in this vague, non-tangible, surreal thing we call ‘the future’.

But anyone can claim today. Right now. Exactly how you feel. When it feels right.

Anything right with you right now that you want to write about?

Credit image: jacob martinez

That’s just me.

There’s an old adage that goes something to the tune of, “If you want to find out everything you need to know about a man, watch how he treats his mother.”

It has legs, that one. But, I’d like to take it a bit further.

Think, if you will, about your stories. Or the stories that you know about people in your life. Not just any stories, but the defining kind.

For example:

Once upon a time, I was accused of being a lesbian by a scary-ass, punk rocker, skin headed girl. She wore rolled up jeans, white undershirts and black combat boots, she smoked cigarettes and listened to the Violent Femmes. It was 1984. And we were eleven. It was ‘tales of a 6th grade nightmare’.

There was nothing okay about being called gay in the 80′s. To this day, it’s a horrid thing for an adolescent kid to bear. But then, I dare say, it was even worse. There was nothing about it that was okay or, seemingly, survivable.

I remember crying for exactly one afternoon. And then I just started to fight. I literally steamrolled my way through. I took no prisoners. I made it out of this particular hell, but there were casualties. And I made it because I had to.

I could go on. I could provide intense details. I could bare my soul to you.

Literally, I would be baring my soul.

It’s come to my attention—reflecting on my own stories (and this one, while soul-defining, is only the point of the pencil) and looking back on stories other people have told me about themselves, and then comparing the ‘us’ in the old stories to the people we are now—that, for better or for worse, we are who we are.

For life.

Of course we can change, grow, become. We can learn how to run a business or translate our skills, we can stop liking overalls and start liking short skirts and tall boots, we can crave time alone—when before it was unbearable. Surely, I can’t deny that there are certain parts of me that are the poster girl for one’s ability to transform.

Or can I?

There’s a pretty good chance that these changes are purely reflections, evidence even, of me just becoming more me.

Which is why I think that if you want to really know who someone is, I think you might want to look beyond ‘mom’ and go straight to the stories, the history, the past. The moments when, once upon a time, the shit hit the fan.

How did you/he/she start it? How did you/he/she act during it? And how did you/he/she leave it?

Because as much as I love storytelling, the details of the stories aren’t the important parts. The important things to note are the M.O.’s that poke out surreptitiously from under the carpets of these tales like police search lights.

I have more of those stories. We all do. Some of them, I’m proud of. Some…not so much. I’ll possibly share them with you over a dirty martini sometime…

But, if I piece together who I was—beginning, middle and end— during those early stories, I get an awfully accurate picture of who I am now. The good, the evil, the promise, the demise, the capabilities, the shortcomings, the beauty, the fug.

That’s just me.

Same bones—plus or minus some density, same face—plus or minus some elasticity and wrinkles, same hair—plus or minus some fullness and color. And the same basic self—plus or minus some scars, lessons learned, experiences ignored and victories tucked in deep.

The core of our physical selves doesn’t change. Which begs the question, why would the core of our metaphysical selves change? Last I checked, no one was growing new DNA.

Image credit: meerkatjes

I’m in a hurry, too.

For the last three days in a row, when I’ve gone out to my car in the morning, I’ve found the same things all fluttered about.

Leaves.

Just three or four. But leaves all the same.

Though not just any old leaves. These are leaves with some green…and some noticeable amounts of orange, red and brown.

And two weeks ago when I put my babies to bed under my skylight at 7:30, it was bright enough for me to worry they wouldn’t fall asleep. Last night at 7:30, it was pretty much dark.

I’ve checked the calendar. ‘August’ was still at the top of it.

Still…

• I will wear jeans, long sweaters, my red shiny clogs, boots, scarves.
• I have several exciting trips planned.
• Two minutes, let alone one hour, of rollerblading will no longer leave me looking like I just stepped out of the ocean.
• My runs will be (partially, then fully) in the dark and very, very quiet.
• This island where I live will get lighter.
• That island where I work won’t smell as noticeably like week-old, sour vomit.
• Canoodling will become less sticky and a new ‘purpose’ will be added to it: to get warm.
• Butternut squash will be on most menus.
• So will lamb stew. With potatoes. And peas.

I totally get it, trees. Fall sounds good to me, too.

Image credit: mary.w.e.

Because periods can’t be captured on a pad

Just like my post about choosing a word, Andi Fisher is likewise and entirely to blame for today’s post. Because she just sent me the most extraordinary book. I highly recommend it for women AND men, really. It’s called Flow: The Cultural Story of Menstruation. Mind-blowing is the only way to describe this book. I am bamboozled.

Plus, authors Elissa Stein and Susan Kim make such a point of talking about how no one talks about menstruation (except me) and how it’s so taboo that even the ads that sell products for it don’t actually mention the word. Nor do they utter the words: vagina, ovaries or blood. Which is like talking about writing without discussing words, pens, paper, computers…you get the point. Anyway, as a result, I felt compelled to climb up on my blogbox and shout MENSTRUATION at the top of my lungs.

Aren’t you lucky?!!!

Note: this post is not just about menstruation, though I’m thinking I could just change my tagline to “WRITE WHERE YOU WANT TO FLOW”, but—in this post—menstruation does serve as my, er, petri dish.

Did you know that doctors and scientists still don’t understand everything about menstruation? It’s 2010 and they don’t know exactly why women menstruate (not all living things do, you know, though all living things manage to reproduce ~ think about that for a minute) and they don’t know how menstruation works, exactly.

See? I told you. Bamboozled. No one knows. Because:

• It’s a woman thing. So who cares?
• It’s so extraordinary and miraculous and mystical, it can’t be known.

I’ll let you do the math.

It has also become abundantly clear that we (people) have become solely focused on the portion of menstruation that we can, um, see. (Well, some of us, anyway). Which would be the ‘messy’ part. The part that is external. So focused on this, we are, that menstruation has become synonymous with ‘getting your period’.

Yet, however, though, wait a second and back up folks—menstruation is not just 4-6 (on average) days of bleeding. It never stops. There is no petits vacances. Every single moment is part of the ‘cycle’.

Yes, Julie. We all know this. We didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.

Yeah, but have you really thought about it? From ages, let’s say, 12 to 50, a woman’s body is doing extra work —either building up or tearing down, preparing for a party or taking down the decorations—a vast, complex, mysterious work. Never stopping (unless to do something relaxing like growing a child or producing 100s of gallons of milk).

No wonder we get cramps, no wonder we bloat, no wonder we’re exhausted, no wonder we get a little fucking bitchy.

And writers, artists, masterminders? For as far back as I can remember, my imagination has been working overtime. Writing stories in my head about people I see walking down the street, babysitters, teachers, what I want life to be. From, and I’m estimating here, about age 5 until I die, my body has done and will continue to do extra work—either building up or tearing down, preparing for a party or taking down the decorations—a vast, complex, mysterious work. Never stopping (even while growing a child or producing 100s of gallons of milk or ______. Please, insert your own pursuits).

No wonder we get cramps, no wonder we bloat, no wonder we’re exhausted, no wonder we get a little fucking bitchy.

In both cases, though, creating. All the while.

Image credit: recycled stardust

That little voice…has escaped from inside my head.

There’s nothing quite like having an echo and a mirror and a conscience all wrapped up into a pint-sized 4-going-on-27-year-old-female.

“Sophie! I need you to come upstairs and brush your teeth now!” I say.

“You don’t need me to, you just want me to.” She says.

________________

“I have to go to work.” I say.

“You don’t have to go, you just want to go.” She says.

________________

“Sophie, time for dinner. You need to come on up to the table.” I say.

“I don’t need to, you just want me to.” She says.

More disturbing than the fact that she’s come up with this existential response, is the fact that I serve up these softballs on a regular basis. Who knew that I was so hellbent on need and have to?

I’ve tried to justify my claims to both of us:

• You do need to brush your teeth so that you don’t get cavities or lose your teeth by age 10.
• I do need to go to work so that I can make money so that we can all eat and have a roof over our heads.
• You do need to come to the table to eat so that you stay healthy, continue to grow and don’t get food all over the floor or have the dogs steal it from your hands (or mouth—cough, cough, I’m looking at you, Baloula).

However, none of it really holds up. I believe these things to be true, I want them to happen, my intentions are pure…

…buuuuuuuttttttt. That dang little voice is making me question—everything.

Image credit: art attack

Movement junkies

I’m a card-carrying member of the RSSC (Radio Station Switching Club). It’s a disease. Like finger tourettes. Or something.

It’s car-specific. I’m either driving or riding in the passenger seat and I Constantly, Continually and Compulsively switch from radio station to radio station. These being the 3C’s of the RSSC.

If I happen upon a song I like, I stick with it for a little bit. But after about 30 seconds, I get that feeling again and I have to swing through the other stations–even if just lightening-quick, before I land back where I was.

Sometimes, to my detriment, I leave a perfectly good song to swing through many, many perfectly bad songs. And by the time I get back to the perfectly good song, it’s over and I’ve missed it. But, at least I tried. At least I made sure there was nothing better. See how this works?

The feeling can only be described as the Darwinian itch to, wait for it, see if there’s something else out there that would behoove me more.

Wait.

Did I say that it was car-specific? Of course it isn’t. Nor does it have anything to do with music.

I’m a movement junkie.

I sat on a bus to NYC a month or so ago next to a lovely lady who unabashedly watched me work for awhile. She stared, goggle-eyed. And then, finally, remarked on my multi-tasking abilities, and my speed.

“I have to go this fast,” I told her. “Otherwise, I’ll fall asleep. Or run off to the circus.”

So…it’s a good thing for a freelancer juggling a zillion writing and web projects along with the chaos of social media. But, there’s another place where it gets a little sticky.

By definition, being a movement junkie means that you have a hard time sitting still, just being…with what is. Metaphysically, emotionally, cognitively. I’m practically the anti-Buddha.

• Head hurts? Drop something on your foot!
• Feeling empty? Call an old boyfriend and open up a can of worms, crap, whoopass.
• Tired? Make a list of all the things you have to do.
• Totally content and at peace? No problem, we’ll find something that itches or needs to be dealt with.

Wherever you might be, whatever you might be feeling? No worries. The movement junkie will find a way to something else.

Some people might see this as a negative. There’s agitation, there’s dissatisfaction, there’s an endless search. Some days, even I see it as a negative. I just want to be. For once, I don’t want to feel compelled to do.

Truth be told, it’s a very uncomfortable feeling to not be able to just sit and observe your state without doing everything you can to scramble out of it—primarily because it feels so damn uncomfortable to just sit in the feeling in the first place. Which is, duh, why we do everything we can to hop out. Immediately, if not sooner.

It doesn’t matter if the hopping out lands you somewhere worse. Victory is yours because you aren’t where you were. Again, see how this works?

But. (and that’s a big, bold but) There’s also, artistry, determination, energy, thrill. Change, growth, development, adventure, newness, opportunity. Granted, some of those words are rather vanilla and certainly overplayed. Yet, they’re what live in this compulsion. They’re what push the movement junkie on.

They’re what we find, quite frequently, when we jump to a different station.

All wrong

Yesterday morning nothing felt right.

It really started about 1/4 of the way through my rollerblade. My right hip felt like it was up by my shoulder. My legs were kind of numb. My lungs burned. My breathing was out of sync. My heart felt like it was wrapped so heavily in gauze that feelings of any sort were cripplingly muffled. My neck felt like it was sporting a croquet ball just left of that boney lump at the bottom of the cervical spine. My ears felt like they were stuffed with tube socks. The air didn’t feel soft on my face, it was just…irritating.

Everything was irritating. I wanted bed. I wanted to climb out of my skin.

I could nap, and did. I couldn’t climb out of my skin, but I scrubbed it pretty hard in the shower. And I made an appointment with my chiropractor.

Still, as I write this 32 hours later, I feel so out of whack, so disjointed, so off-kilter that I’m surprised I can walk in a straight line.

The annoying part is that there is no reason for this to happen. I didn’t do anything bodily to throw myself out of alignment. I didn’t fall, I didn’t bang into any foreign objects, I didn’t do any activity that I don’t normally do.

You must know by now that I’m a firm believer in the physical/emotional/mental connection. So, I started looking into the unphysical spots to see if I could make everything that was wrong feel right-er. But, I couldn’t really find a thing wrong in my heart or head, either.

Everything’s ticking along quite nicely. Of course I have stress and worry, but it’s the same stress and worry that I usually have, maybe even less.

Maybe even less.

You know, I wouldn’t put it past me to react to everything going so well by completely falling apart. Maybe my neck hurts because I’m constantly swooping my head around to look over my shoulder, searching for the tragedy that must surely be about to strike.

So, like any good writer, I’ve taken to concocting terrible, horrible stories in my head. I’m nothing if not preemptive. I self-disparage so that I can say bad things about myself before anyone else, for Pete’s sake. This is a long-honed skill. As such, when I was in the City last week, part of the severely annoying taxi TV loop included a segment about melanoma. I saw it so many times over the course of the 48 hours I was there, I was convinced it was a message. From God.

Mind you, right after the disease bit came the three NYC-themed Jeopardy questions (complete with ATD (Alex Trebek Delivery)) that I had the pleasure of watching just as many times, and it never occurred to me that God was telling me I should try out for America’s favorite game show.

Aha! The classic blueprint of how a mind looking for devastation works.

From the depths of my fabricated despair, it occurred to me that though I was playing the role of the victim perfectly, it was completely unnecessary. I could, really I could, sit right down at this computer, take my own advice and write the story the way I really want it to go and believe I deserve to live it.

Maybe I’m mourning the fact that I might never know heartache again. It’s been a companion for so, so long. The pain—it makes me feel so…alive. It gives me something to fight against, I like fighting. And it (pain) hasn’t been hanging around much lately. So I worry: What if happiness kills me? or What if loves walks away? or What if I do have a horrid, terminal disease? or What if I lose all of my work tomorrow and my career crashes into the shitter?

I’m so good at this! (So good I even used a detested exclamation point. For emphasis.) I’ve brilliantly replaced the irritating feeling that I’ve had lately with a hefty serving of the depression blah’s and a side of greasy anxiety. And that, my friends, is a much more comfortable and aligned and familiar state for this writer.

For now.

But I’m going to work damn hard at making it feel all wrong.

________________________________________

Image credit: nickwheelroz

Relapsing

Last fall I was with some friends, hanging out, chatting away—when I said something that made them stop dead in their tracks. It was only for a millisecond, but in it, the confused looks they gave me were palpable, pertinent.

The conversation continued on, and I with it, but my brain was busy flying backwards around the earth, trying to reverse time so that I could figure out what I’d said right before their faces looked at me like I was a martian. (and not the good kind).

As soon as I could the next morning, I asked…because I just couldn’t figure it out on my own. I thought maybe my friend would ask me what in the world I was talking about, proving that this was all in my head, but instead her reply came out readily—sharp and blunt.

“It was because you self-disparaged,” she said. “And it was in such sharp contrast to how you normally hold yourself, how you talk about things you love—your writing, your passions, so many parts of yourself. Then, you sneak in these horrible tidbits of self-loathing where you cut yourself down. It’s jarring to witness. To be honest,” she said, “I felt embarrassed for you.”

Embarrassed.

I felt embarrassed for me, too. And humiliated, ashamed, emasculated. This friend does not mince words, and ‘to be honest’, this was a blessing.

When I heard my voice/actions/message shot back at me like an echo in a 2 x 2 torture chamber, I actually heard it all for the first time. And that was it all it took. I stopped self-disparaging. Right then and there. Once I’d experienced it, I was ready to never set eyeballs or eardrums on it again.

Fat singing

Imagine creating a masterpiece—let’s say a beautiful song. Many people love it, they ooh and ahh over it, they want to hear it again and again. But you just walk amongst them, interrupting their reverie, shouting things like, “I WAS SO FAT WHEN I WROTE THIS SONG!” What is your point? Who are you hurting? What are you hoping to accomplish?

After I stopped, I would still feel horrible diatribes about myself, my body, my work, my parenting well up in my throat, but I’d just let them out with the carbon dioxide and used air, without letting them take shape as words. And soon, the internal parade of mean started to get quiet.

Mind you

To Not Self-Disparage does not mean that you gloat, boast, show off or wax poetical about how great you are—these are not its antonyms. It simply means that you don’t say mean things about yourself.

I noticed a monumental difference in myself and my life and my way of being immediately. As it turned out, my self-disparagement had been following me around like Pigpen’s dirt cloud. Constant, smelly, blurry-making to the point that neither I, nor those around me, could even see me clearly anymore.

Without it, the good bits could shine.

Me: Wagon: Floor

And so it went. Until a couple of months ago when I relapsed in the typical fashion—I’ll just try it once, I can handle THAT, I said to myself, and then, quite quickly, the self-inflicted barrage came tumbling out in a lurid gush. About nine months worth.

You see, my original Sober-inducing Environment was filled with people who didn’t respond to, “I suck” with “No! You’re wonderful!” It was filled with people who cringed and thought about walking away. Now, the Relapse-inducing Environment was filled with people (okay, just one people) who was telling me how wonderful I was in an unbridled, unprompted, unaskedfor, onaregularbasis way.

So, like any good addict, I thought, hmmmmm….I’ve been dieting for quite some time…what if I just have one bite? Before the question was even fully formed, I started rolling out the insults, shamelessly begging to be absolved of my self-manifested fat/ugly/worthless/mean/bad sins.

It worked like a charm. My self-loathing was turned into beauty and perfection at every turn by this ‘one people’. Sometimes, I’d even double dip—emphatically shrugging off the first compliment-ridden rebuttal just loudly enough to get another dose/hit/high.

Too aware

But, dang, my conscience. It knew what I was doing was wrong. And it told me so. My own self now capable of stopping dead in its tracks, for only a millisecond, but with enough weight to make the look it threw my way both palpable and pertinent.

And with enough weight to help me fill the air around me with blessed silence once again.

Image credit: Raizo

Going the way of the peanut butter

I had an affair once. A deep intense affair. It would start with a craving. Though ‘craving’ is way too meek a word for how this felt. It was a deep, gut-gnawing need that had to be filled. I’d drive great distances for it—in rain or snow. I’d break other commitments for this rendezvous.

The consummate union was intense and soul-filling and always exactly what I needed. Bliss, satiation, heaven.

But after each ‘date’ was over. Things got bad. From gut-gnawing to gut-wrenching. There was pain, a hangover-like stupor, vomiting and spasms, the feeling that my insides were glued together…and shut.

And even though I knew that the aftereffects were going to be horrendous, I couldn’t stop myself from going in again. I was addicted.

To peanut butter.

I thought it would never end…until one day, the glob on the end of my spoon didn’t look as appetizing and the taste didn’t thrill me like it used to.

I didn’t believe it, of course. So I wolfed the peanut butter down anyway. On at least three more occasions. Until I finally realized that I was done. And when I was done, I was really done. I went from saying that it was the best food in the universe and daydreaming about it, to never eating it and saying mean, nasty things about it to other people.

And these people were shocked. One day, I loved peanut butter passionately, and the next not so much. Why?

Well, for starters, it was just so available. In my kitchen cabinets, on every grocery store shelf in the universe, even on restaurant menus, in ice cream, on waffles. It was just too easy.

I have to admit, other things have gone the way of the peanut butter. It’s also happened (though perhaps not quite as intensely) with my favorite salad dressing, onions, a few boyfriends and, today, my once beloved Whole Foods salmon, avocado, brown rice sushi. And for all the same reasons.

The relationship with all of those things is forever changed. I detested them, then I was able to appreciate them from afar, then I let them in every now and again, but the passion? Gone.

Is there a lesson? There must be, but I’m guessing it depends who you talk to.

Some might say that I didn’t exercise caution, that I lived recklessly without moderation, without balance. That I had too much of a good thing…and now it’s gone.

But, others might claim I took full advantage of the passion, the desire, the honeymoon period. And so, I played it out until the end. With gusto. Sucking it up like a vacuum. Until I was full.

Image credit: Diane Jacquay

Word…to your mother

This post is entirely Andi Fisher’s fault. (I ‘spose I could give Elizabeth Gilbert some credit, too…but she gets enough as it is. So I’m giving it all to Andi.)

You see, Andi wrote this GENIUS post yesterday. About how every city has a Word. And so does every person.

My brain took off in a torrent of thought. Faster than I thought my synapses could fire, I thought, yesofcoursethat’sbrilliantwhat’smyword

firethatwasmyfirstthoughtbutthat

can’tbeititmustbesomethingelse

butwhatbutwhatbutwhat.

And then! There was brain silence. So much so that I could hear the air moving through my teeny, tiny ear tube fuzz.

And then, the questions came pouring in. Why was the first word that popped into my head ‘fire’? Who do I think I am that that would be my word? And why is it so hard for me to claim my word? Because that’s really the issue. It feels pompous and egoful. Though, oddly, on Andi it seemed nothing short of vibrant and lifeful. Hmmm…

And then, I thought: This whole discussion is egoful. So is this blog—because I’m writing about me and my life and my writing and my experiences. Which, I suppose, makes sense because it’s my blog.

But, luckily, because all of you are egoful as well, you take everything that I say and you try it on your own brains/hearts/bodies/desires. I’m just The Gap, but you’re in the dressing room trying it all on for size—and finding the pieces that fit, kicking the ones that don’t to the side, even picking out some items that aren’t your style…but you’d like to see if you can pull off. (Maybe in the dark, maybe somewhere no one knows you, maybe in your own kitchen, maybe on your keyboard.)

But, I digress. And I have a word to suss out. Why, when I’m so, so, so full of words…can’t I find the one that defines me?

I wondered, what if I’m not just one word? What if I’m a phrase? A sentence? A paragraph? A poem? A blog post? A short story? A novel?

I started making a list of words. I wrote about ten down, but I just couldn’t claim any of them. I felt like now I was the one dressing up…in the Big & Tall men’s store. They didn’t fit right and didn’t feel like they were mine. (Though they smelled nice.)

So, I stared at my computer screen trying to pull it to me, I want it, you know. I really want my Word. My ‘Julie’ Word. And then that was the only word I could hear. My name. My favorite name. I’ve never met a Julie that didn’t fit the bill. There’s a certain something to us Julies. Just ask us.

And when I say it, JULIE, out loud. I can claim it. I get it. It fits. I’d be proud to wear it around my neck, on a t-shirt, tattooed on the inside of my wrist…I mean, it already surrounds me like that fuzzy glow around streetlights on wet nights. An amorphous halo.

Most people fill up their names. They become synonymous with them. To the point where you can’t imagine them being called anything else—often by the time they’re a few months old. A person’s name isn’t just what you call them. When you hear the name, your mind/eyes/heart/hands fill up with a ten-dimensional image.

And so, I searched the Worddom, and this is where I landed. My Word is Julie.

I did, however, take a poll of those that I love and that love me back. I asked them for their thoughts on my Word, and here’s what they had to say: determined, creative, passionate, trouble, unpredictable, aggressive, independent, appetite, compelling, vivacious, glowing.

‘Trouble’, ‘unpredictable’ and ‘aggressive’. Those words came from the mouth of my very own Mother—interestingly enough—since she also and originally gave me the Word that, in the end, I feel defines me best.

She saved ‘Julie’, kept it close—on her way to motherhood, then through the two sons that came first. She knew I was coming. She knew I would be Julie.

She thought, I’m sure at the time, when I came out all small and pink and loud from the get-go, that it would be that simple. “Julie!” She proclaimed. Apparently, she got a little more than she bargained for.

Well, at least more than one word…

Image credit: biphop

NOTE: I did not search far for this image, it came straight to me. Not only is it cosmically in honor of Andi, my favorite Francophile, but the translation couldn’t be more fitting. I knew that ‘mot’ means ‘word’ in French which is why I thrilled to find the image, but (here’s the good part), according to Andi and her French hubbie (and my online french/english dictionary), the definition of ‘mot’ on this paper is: “fit, like a glove that is returned’. If that’s not poetic bamboozlement, I don’t know what is…

So…what’s your word???