Dear Writing: the Death of Ideas + Content

It's pretty simple, really.  I sometimes have this fear that if I write too much, I will use up all my good ideas.  And there will be nothing left.  Like I have a predetermined amount of funny jokes, witty references (still waiting to use those), insights, snarky remarks, social commentary, plot lines, characters, experiences, morals, questions, big words.  Like a female has eggs.  I only have so many of all those things to use, and I can't acquire more, and if I use them up too quickly, I will be done.  I will go into writer's menopause.  And that will be it.  There will never be another thing for me to write ever again.

I have realized I am actually afraid of that.  Isn't that crazy?
Wait.  Let me rephrase that.  Is that crazy?
Is it a subconscious tactic in procrastination? Like if I hold onto all my ideas because I have a fear of running out of them then it presents a fairly logical reason to ration writing of any kind.
Maybe it's a subconscious act of self-protection. That, in keeping all my ideas to myself, I am protecting myself from ever being exposed to failure and the possibility I'm really not good at writing at all and the long drawn out existential crisis that would surely follow.

I mean, these are all possibilities. Simply discovering the fact that I have been walking around believing I only have a limited number of things to say for the rest of my life was pretty incredible. The realization of this fear has made it easy to see the humor in it and takes away the power of its potential truth.

And on the other hand, some of the writers, comedians, storytellers, and musicians I admire most spend their entire career telling the same kinds of stories, just with different details, circumstances, and feelings. So maybe it's not such a bad thing.

Maybe, a person should just do what they feel moved to do.
Maybe a person should just do what they feel moved to do and fight the critical voice inside of them that says it's repetitious or boring or old or recycled or not any good at all.
Because maybe the bigger point is not weather what you do is any good or not, but that you have a thing that you feel moved to do at all.
Maybe having that thing is part of success, and just doing it is the other part. Maybe its goodness or abundance or popularity is an ancillary bonus.

Maybe I should write because I like to write, and if I only have five stories to tell I will just spend the rest of my time telling them over and over and that will be the truth of my life. And at least there will be a thing that I enjoy doing.
Ok. Yeah. Maybe that's it. I feel comfortable with that.

Champion voice: 1
Critical voice: 0

See you next round, fear breeding critic.

Dear Relationships: We Missed Our Anniversary

*It took 3 weeks to post this because that's how long we looked for a photograph of the two of us that was nice.  We are historically terrible at taking pictures together.  So here's one from a date last spring that has been spliced together. *

So the thing is that right now I am feeling really grateful and sentimental and reflective but you have to understand that last night I was at work, starving, building cocktails into a keg while the Giraffe and I passed a couple of texts back and forth about how we were pretty sure it was our anniversary.  And being elbow deep in simple syrup and coconut cream I got really disappointed in our lack of planning, and feeling hangry (hungry + angry, in case you've never been there) I sent this text:
This is dumb.  Who cares.  Let's just pretend we don't even have an anniversary.

Because I am a grown up wordsmith who is at all times deft at communicating feelings!

Needless to say we spent the rest of the evening discussing it, eating tacos, and watching tv in bed with our dogs. As you do, when you are at the end of an anniversary you forgot to celebrate.

I felt confused about the whole thing, really.  One thing about me is that I love celebrations.  I love holidays, weddings, birthdays, ceremony, tradition, sentiment expression, pinatas, everything.  I love occasions to do something different and exchange your feelings with a loved one.  So it seems quite odd that I would have let a day like this arrive and pass without any planning or preparation or love notes.  But it just kind of...happened.  I thought about things we could do all year, we talked about how it was coming up, and then, whoops, there it was.

This is in part due to the fact that my intentions come from the best place, but I easily build expectations that cannot possibly be met.  So in worrying I won't meet the expectations I have created I wind up doing absolutely nothing instead.  If we can't go to Palm Springs and learn to play golf in funny outfits looking totally tan and beautiful for our anniversary then we will do nothing! (side note: playing golf sounds really hilarious but I have no serious interest in doing it. I mean, it's golf.)  It is also due to the fact that for the last two anniversaries we have been in flux.  It always falls during that time of year when money is tight, there is no routine or schedule to our lives, and we are just focusing on the fundamentals of survival.  It's kind of inconvenient to spend money and time doing something that doesn't matter the way paying bills, working, making career goals, seeing family, or fixing our furnace matters.  If our anniversary was in August we would be golden.  So, I guess it's our bad for melding our universes in the dead of winter. (Hey, single people! Shack up in the summer! It will likely be more convenient later on!)

I think it is also due to the fact that when you finally reach the day you are supposed to celebrate the fact that you have this awesome relationship you realize that it is kind of meaningless to point it out on one day above all others.  It's like Valentine's Day.  Why do we celebrate that?  Shouldn't we be celebrating love all year long? I don't know how it is for other people, but I am blessed to be in a relationship with a partner who communicates his love to me on a daily basis.  We are thoughtful and romantic (ew) with one another on days that don't mean anything and not because we have to but because we want to.  Every day for the last two months the Giraffe has come to me in the morning when it is time for me to get up, knelt down beside the bed, kissed me, and handed me a cup of coffee.  That is some thoughtful romantic shit!  That is not a thing that he is obligated to do. (although I am getting quite accustomed to the luxurious treatment.)  That is a thing he does because he loves me and wants to add to my happiness.  We say thank you for things we are thankful for in the other person.  We talk about feelings, special memories, and plans for the future.  We do this at the grocery store, walking the dogs, and aimlessly looking at the internet on our respective computers.

It was our 5th anniversary yesterday, and in five years I can say that expressing sentiments and celebrating our relationship has not faded in the slightest.  To be honest, as we continue to become more grounded mature human beings it has probably gotten better.  It is an inherent part of our relationship.  Exchanging feelings of love is woven into the fabric of our relationship like some sappy, embarrassing sweater that you can't take off. I feel self-conscious to admit that because I am afraid it sounds like I am saying things are perfect, and they are not.  Our relationship is real, and therefore imperfect.  I am just very very blessed to be with someone who naturally communicates feelings with a similar frequency to me.  (I said similar, not equal!)

So it was our 5th anniversary yesterday, and I was feeling disappointed that we didn't do anything and then also feeling confused about why it mattered.  Because honestly, aside from the implied societal pressure to give a shit about it, I don't think it actually matters that much at all.  What really is special is that we have been together that long, and have done all the things that we have done, together, and when you're our age five years still seems like an impressive amount of time. But there is nothing pertaining to love or gifts or feelings that I need from him that I don't already get.  Except maybe some lavish gifts.  What can I say, I love presents.

In the end we wound up eating a bag of tacos (not a euphemism) and reading the email I sent him with his flight itinerary so many winters ago, when he met me in New York and our relationship began.  And sharing a moment of acknowledging that the journey thus far has been incredibly special, and we want to continue on it together.

Maybe someday when we're married we'll "do" more "things" to celebrate.  But for now, it turns out discussing our forgetfulness, a sack of Mexican food, and an email is just as meaningful and a WHOLE LOT cheaper than a weekend away. To walk away from yesterday feeling disappointed would be to miss the point.

I would also like to take this moment to publicly thank the Giraffe for "hanging in there" all this time.  I'm sure that I'm nice or whatever, but just ask any of my exboyfriends, being with me can be a real THING.  It takes a lot of patience, driving me around, doing the laundry (I'll just let it go unwashed forever), listening to me talk my way through everyyyyyyything, reminding me it's time to go to bed (and get up), planning, processing, problem solving, navigating feelings (all the feelings), and picking up after me (tiny tornado) to be in this relationship.  So, thank you Cary.  Your incredible patience and kindness does not go unnoticed.

And now that I've sufficiently grossed myself out with the public displays of affection I'm going to go listen to some super hard rap songs and act really tough.

It's ok to admit that love is nice and feelings are real.
It's just a little embarrassing to be all about it out loud.
I'm working on appreciating as much as I practice complaining.

Dear Mom, thank you for the small moments

I come home from work tonight, at the end of a long day that comes at the end of a long week and I am so exhausted. Cary puts on my mom's vinyl copy of Crosby Stills Nash and Young's "so long" and goes into the kitchen to make dog food. The fancy lights I bought for our living room six months ago, that we finally installed six days ago, are on and they make the house feel warm. It is a golden womb. Sadie sits watching Cary cook for her with intrigue and patience. Walter is laid out majestically on our shaggy rug, practically camouflaged, and he wags his feathered tail each time I look at him. All I can think of is how much I have just done, how much more I have to do, and how badly I have to pee. Then, "our house" comes on.

"I love this song," Cary says. "I used to always listen to this song when I was a kid, and just imagine that what they were talking about was exactly what being a grown up was going to be like." Then he quietly goes back to cutting carrots.

I am standing here, in the golden light of our living room, in a house that I have bought with a man that I love, exhausted, covered in sticky sugars from work, looking at a little dog wagging his little tail at me, listening to the record play, and something washes over me.

Growing up I listened to my mother play and sing this song countless times. Hearing it makes me think of her singing it, and it feels safe. I am thinking of this song, and my mother, and my mother singing this song to me smiling, and it hits me. In this small, insignificant moment, it hits me. My mother has passed the torch to me and this song is my life now. The possibilities in this song are now open to me. The opportunity to have a home and share a life of work and joy and small moments with the people I love is now mine, and I am taking advantage of that opportunity. I am nearly 30. I am the age my mother was when she sang this song. She has handed it off to me. I am an adult now.

I have always looked at my mother as a person I will never catch up to but dream of being like. She is unparalleled to anyone else in her beauty, humor, love, zeal, authenticity, talent, and kindness. In my mind my mother is IT. She is the beginning and the end and knows secrets I will never know because she is other worldly and I am a regular human. I love my mother beyond measure.

Tonight I discovered that she was raising me to be the woman that I am, and that I am, right now, in this moment, in the golden light and music, a woman. I discovered that she has given me the secrets. With a voice like vibrating honey and a spirit full of radical joy, she raised me with this song and was preparing me for a life of happiness and success. I inherited humor and wisdom and grace (well, some grace) from her because she gave it to me. She gave everything she has to me. Because she loves me beyond measure.

And tonight I discovered that my respect for this woman is now matched by a new level of gratitude for the life I have, in such great part, to her. Under her care I unearthed my life's purpose at age 4. Under her care I found I was a (loud) feminist at age 15. Under her care I chased after my dreams and fell down over and over and over and over and did not give up. Under her care I found a partner who is so loving, thoughtful, respectful, wise, and funny he is nearly fictitious. Under her care I have been able to work on viewing life and it's successes as a long game, full of failures and unexpected changes. Under her care I have evolved.

I cannot think of a funny way of saying what I want to say. I suppose it's just not very funny. This song is playing and I know something I didn't know before and it makes me love, respect, appreciate and understand her in a new way. It makes me know her better than I did five minutes ago. And that is a gift she has given me.

To the most radiant, kind, strong, warm, beautiful woman, with the most beautiful voice and happiest eyes, thank you. Thank you for helping me to become what I am. In this small moment, I have so much to be grateful for.
Love,
Your daughter

Dear Things

I started writing a Christmas post, and then it wasn't Christmas anymore.  I started compiling a list of 12 things about 2012, and then it was the end of January.  These unfinished posts sit in my blog folder with dozens of other in-progress entries I have never bothered to finish and "publish", or whatever.  Usually I look back through them and see they are all terrible, or the moment has passed, or I have no idea what I am talking about (often), so there is no point in re-investing in them.  They just sit there, like little tiny failures, looking at me every time I sign in.  Like little tater tots making up a side dish on a plate of everything I don't follow through with.

Which just reminds me that I don't really write enough. It's a hugely important part of my life and it gets more neglected than anything else. Hell, I even floss more than I write and that's terrifying (sorry, dentist). I was telling a writer friend just yesterday that writing is something I don't know what to do with. I have never been good at writing without deadlines and accountability. And that's what my life with writing is right now: no deadlines, no accountability. It's kind of lame, really. I have three screenplays, two plays, and one novel that have all been started and just gnaw at the edge of my conscience every couple of days like dirty laundry that I really want to wear but have no energy to wash. Writing + clothes. Way to bring all the interests together.

Tonight at dinner I told the Giraffe that I haven't instagramed anything in four days. "Oh my god. What's wrong?" He shared my concern. Hi. Have you met me? I am on Instagram all the time. Arguably too much. I love that Instagram. Love that Instagram very hard. It's a thing I love to do that doesn't really matter but makes each day more enjoyable. It's not like me to neglect my 'grams. I guess other kinds of life are just happening instead. And that can't be a bad thing. Right?

I mean the point is that I haven't written in too long and that's fine because other kinds of life have been happening but I feel like I have to do it now, so here are some things that don't really matter that you can read if you want.

+ I really admire people who seem like they tirelessly work towards what they want, or manage to fit like 30 things into each day and I feel like I want to be one of them but I'm not sure that I am. I get really tired. I get really sluggish. I have to watch tv and take baths and play at least 90 minutes of solitaire or mah jong every day. I get tired just thinking about all the things some people do every day. I have a lot of energy and a strong work ethic but my energy has a daily expiration date and if I don't pace myself my work ethic gets extremely unfocused. I want to be a machine the way I see other people being glorious, productive, well oiled machines. But I'm starting to think with increasing certainty that I am the tortoise and if I am going to get "there", wherever there is, it's going to be slow and steady or nothing at all. Slow and steady is way less glamorous.

+ the terrariums I made six months ago have completely died and are now just bowls elegantly layered with rocks and dirt and moss and succulent corpses. I keep looking at them thinking I should throw them away or try again but they feel somehow permanent. Like I can't let them know they're dead. Maybe I'll just leave them alone, call them "desert terrariums" and create a new cool trend. The dried up, sparse landscape is like, a metaphor for the struggles of the modern man. Or something.

+ I have pretty much stopped showering and moved exclusively to baths. Sometimes this makes me feel like I'm living a really luxurious lifestyle and that I'm getting better at practicing relaxing (it's best purpose). Other times it makes me concerned I'm reverting, becoming some adult baby, only moments away from needing help into my jammies and drinking from a cup with a lid on it.

+ the other day I started wondering if I could put my therapist on the list of my best friends. I mean, I know I pay her, but she's like, a REALLY good listener you guys. It's like she really cares. And sometimes we high five and sometimes we both cry and sometimes we laugh so hard. We have a real time together. Make some real memories. Just kidding. Boundaries, am I right? But seriously, if I get married someday is it appropriate to invite her to the wedding? She's just so lovely.

+ there are times when I don't want to watch "good" movies or plays or read "the best" books because it makes me feel frustrated at my own progress, afraid of my own future, and depressed at my current station in life. Gross honest truth. One of my biggest fears is being an old woman who never did the things she set out to do, sitting on a pile of past-due bills, in 30 yr old sweat pants with the crotch blown out, with kids that never call, eating turkey chili from the can because fuck it it's just cold chili, wearing foundation that's three shades too dark, watching television and just weeping at movie trailers, shouting "IT COULDA BEEN MEEEEE!". I feel like watching good films should inspire me, and it does, sometimes, but I have to be honest that it is not all the time. Sometimes you just have to watch "bridezillas season 7" on Netflix watch instantly again and again.

+ the "Golden Girls" theme song lowers my heart rate. One of my goals for 2013 is to get better at relaxing and this show might be my gateway. As soon as the opening credits start and that song comes on my face cracks into a smile and my bones turn to jelly and everything gets all warm and cozy and I know that it's all going to be ok. I am fairly certain this is a universal feeling and am surprised I never learned about the healing properties of Blanche, Dorothy, Sophia, and Rose in any of my college studies.

+ when you don't want to decorate your home in a way that is too "on trend" and in danger of needing to be redecorated in a year or two, your best bet is to go with swans. Swans are timeless.

+ one of the greatest mysteries in life is what dogs are thinking. Do you know what I mean? I spend so much time talking with my dogs, and petting them, inferring that we are having some sort of meaningful interaction. But what goes on in there? Can they hear you? Is it like that Simpsons episode where it's all "blah blah blah"? Are they like stroke victims where they can understand what you're saying they just can't communicate back? I don't know. We have no idea. So I just keep saying supportive and communicative things like "you are a really important guy" "thank you for doing such a good job showing love and kindness" and "have I told you lately that you are the best? You are excellent at being you" because, well, better safe than sorry.

EDIT: this has sat in my drafts pile for two weeks. Would Alanis Morrisette categorize that as ironic? I'm publishing it now, because, well, follow through.

Dear....Oh whatever, who gives a care.

Who gives a care, you guys? I barely have any cares to give. Not a one care to give at all sometimes.

This, coming from a person who generally has an abundance of cares to give about a great many things.  One thing I can usually count on is that I am always giving a care about at least one thing or another.

This post is really about balance, you guys.  Because what is happening here is that I am coming out of functioning for a prolonged period of time with a deficit of physical and emotional reserves.  I was, for a prolonged period of time, tired and still having to function at an exhaustive pace.  This type of thing has happened before, sure, but it happened in a new way.  A new, tired way.

Here's what it was, as succinctly as I can possibly put it:
My father moved in with us for the "summer".  My summer lasted a loooong time. In September he moved "out" but was still frequently around for two more months, showing up to drive me around, do yard work, and procure fast food.  My father is many things, and deserves about a million of his own blog posts, but how he pertains to this particular subject of my being tired is that he is is a person who needs constant communication and interaction.  Constant.  From the moment he appears until he's texting me a to-do list from bed, it is an incessant stream of conversation, questions, planning, and a running commentary of every single thing he sees.  ("Hey! Look at that guy!  He's a guy in a hat! Did you remember to take your vitamin?  Am I turning left here? Look! A dog! Fido McDoggerstein! Hoooooowwwwlll!") It is one of his most endearing qualities but it is also exhausting. As he is my father and I love him greatly, our summer partnership was something I experienced with patience (mostly) and joy, but it was also demanding of my time and energy.
The Giraffe took a job working on the campaign.  You know, THE campaign.  Necessary career move.  Totally understandable.  He had to do it.  It started when my father moved in.  Good timing, bro!  He went from working 10 hour days 6 days a week, to 12 hour days 7 days a week, and finally 15 hours a day every single day.  Non negotiable. What I'm saying is he was UNAVAILABLE.  Physically.  Emotionally.  We literally only saw each other a couple of hours a night on Saturdays and Sundays during which times we talked about the stress of his job and the bills dogs etc.  And we texted. Not only did I have to take charge of our previously shared responsibilities, I also had to be available to him as he truly needed support.  All of my needs had to either be met by me or get quietly tucked aside until some time in November.  A learning experience, a time for growth, a pretty raw deal.  Who knew I could come home from work at 3 in the morning and pack a lunch for someone I love? Not me! But I did it.
I work full time.  That means an average of 40 hours a week, occasionally more, rarely less. I work at night.  I do love my job.  Also, conveniently, working at night opens up the days in my schedule to do my career.  Career.  Job.  Two different things.  I do my career approximately 20 hours a week.  The point is for it to be more.  On good weeks it IS more, but that also means I am working and not doing something else like sleeping.  My career is non negotiable.  All the things in my life are structured to support my career.  So I do not say "no" to the career.  Also, in my industry, if you say "no" nobody waits for you to become available, they simply move on to the next person.  It behooves you, in my industry, to be available at all times.  Which I try my best to do, but which also means I often never have a free day or any time for myself.  So.  To recap.  I am working 60+ hours a week with a constantly changing schedule.
I don't drive.  It's a thing I'm working on, but I currently don't do it.  Taking the bus to anywhere I want to go is a half hour minimum, usually an hour plus.  Which really eats up time in the day.
On top of that I am attempting to have a creative life and seriously trying to gather the courage to make a little hip hop music.  It's important to me.  It's a thing that keeps me up at night.  It's a thing I have to do. (I know it will be hilarious but let's have a laugh about it later).
With what time is left over I invest in friend and family relationships, "me" time, eat, sleep, and pay bills.

SO. TO RECAP.  My "summer" (June - November two weeks ago) was a confetti whirlwind hellstorm sleepless excited electric hectic exhaustive marathon.  And.  Dare I say it.  There was nothing I could do about it.  Yep.  Not in my power to change it.  BUT.  And here's the grand wizardry of convenient timing in the whole thing--most of it was going to change at the same damn time.  November, month of relaxing changes.

November.  My father goes back to Arizona.  The election happens and the Giraffe's job is over and he comes back to real life.  My job situation changes and I get two weeks off before gearing up to open a new restaurant.  November was the ultimate turning point and the future-space wherein I could imagine lots of sleep, good food, emotionally rebuilding, watching tons of shitty tv; "regaining my strength" if you will.

So here I am, and all of the things I have just told you about have changed, and I am living in the middle of the free-time-vacation-zone, and do I feel rested and rejuvenated and relaxed? FUCK NO. I feel not good.  I feel stressed.  I still feel hollowed out.  I have almost zero cares to give about anything.  It's been a week and a half and I have been sick the entire time.  Also my acid reflux has been off the charts.  Also I've had bizarre health issues I've never had before, presumably "brought on by stress and exhaustion".  I have not been having a vacation.  I've been having a stressed out time.

So the last few days I've been like "what the what?".  How am I so shitty feeling when I am supposed to be relaxing and feeling better? (then I do the thing where I stress out about being stressed out which solves nothing.) What I thought would happen is that I would sleep for a couple of days and then bounce back and have a great fucking vacation.  Major disappointment delivered by real life.

Because I now know what's happening.    I get it now, and I'm finally starting to feel better.  Because here's the trick.  Here's where that word "balance" comes drifting into the dialogue. I was speeding down the highway with bald tires for so long, with no pit stops, that my car is broken.  It's not "out of gas",  it's fucking broken.  I hit my limit a couple months back and kept barreling onward and completely tapped out my physical and emotional reserves.  And then I kept going a little more. Which is awesome, great, I did a thing that was very hard to do.  But, see, a human is not supposed to do that.  That way of functioning is not a long term strategy for success or survival.  What I thought was that since I'm pretty decent at practicing self-care and I know I must be resilient to achieve my shit I might as well keep going and it would probably work out.  Nope.  Did not work out.  Ask my stomach.  My stomach is pissed right now.  I fed that thing french fries and soda for so long it is in a huge fight with me now.  I didn't die or have a breakdown or collapse or any of that shit but what did happen was that I wore myself out so badly it is literally taking me weeks to get back to normal. What the hell kind of way is that to thrive?  It's not, is the point.

So, balance, you guys. I am sincerely considering it's importance.  If I want to survive I have to practice self care and sleep and drink water.  But if I want to thrive I have to practice balance, too.  Balance breeds endurance.  And if I'm going to do this thing I need endurance.

This thing is a marathon.
I know I have to train for the marathon.
And eat well and go on vacations and say no and have at least one day off a week and watch crappy shows and schedule appropriately and stretch and check in and make sure I'm supporting myself as much as I'm supporting others and not ever work more than 50 hours a week.  It's a start.

It may take a little time, but with patience for balance I am hoping to be giving many cares about tons of things in no time.

Growing up is a lifestyle.

Dear Derek. Stop it. I love you.

I've written you a lot of letters since you died.  I've written a lot about you since you died.  I keep feeling like I have to do something with all of it, but I know that's not the point of the whole thing.  The whole writing to you, about you, for you.  It's not about sharing.  It's about grieving.  And I am grieving.

And grief is not a linear thing.  There's parts of it, right, that we all know about.  Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.  People say those things happen in that order and that's the grieving "process", implying somehow that it's progressive.  That you feel one thing, move on to the next, eventually reach acceptance and then *poof* you feel ok about everything.  But that's simply not true.  At least it's not true for me.  I have felt every stage of this grieving "process" since you died, and I continue to feel each one, sometimes more than one at a time.  I have been angry, I have been depressed, I have accepted that it happened, I have denied it could be true, and I have bargained about it.  Everyday is like playing some shitty magic trick with myself where I draw another card from the grief deck and carry it around for the day.  My years of unfortunate experience and education in grief have taught me that it is likely going to be this way for a long time.  And I have to be ok with that because that's how I am.  I am still grieving the loss of my cousin and we lost him six years ago.  I just feel things for a long long time.  And I can tell you one thing I will feel forever.  It is that I love you.  I can't even talk about it because it makes me cry so bad, and I get a seriously ugly face when I cry and it makes others uncomfortable.  Is there a phase of the grief cycle for that? Hysterical weeping? That's what happens when I think about how I love you and how you are not here; I leak out of my eyes.  Eventually the crying will stop but I will never stop loving you.  That is just a fact.  It was a fact when you were alive and it is a fact now.

For a time I considered the likelihood you were playing a joke on everyone and weren't actually dead.  And that, at some point, you would pop out from around a corner and shout "got you good, fuckers!".  And everyone would be mad at you but also it would be the happiest day.  I mean, I'm telling you, I considered this.  I tried to scheme on how it could be possible.  I tried to convince myself it could. Denial.

Once, when a moth followed me around all night after I got home from work, I believed it was you.  It was the biggest, coolest moth I had ever seen (and I'm not especially into bugs).  Since late nights were always the times we had our longest, best talks I thought this must be you, here to say goodnight to me again.  And I believed it.  That you were that bug! What a crazy, unpredictable universe, I thought.  If you can find a way to come back and this is it, and you're telling me it's ok, then it really is ok.  And then I said goodnight to that moth and felt very peaceful.  Acceptance.

When I order something online and it never comes in the mail, I obsess about it and create a furious scenario wherein I must seek justice.  When my dad tries to hassle me about the detailed plans for the day before I've had any coffee, I storm around huffing.  When I can't attach a file in an email I slam the computer closed and say screw it to the whole thing.  When I have to take the trash out I curse the trash for having to be taken out.  Anger.

I have actually spoken out loud to the god-universe-whatever-it-is and made promises about what I would do differently to make you stay.  "I will watch him 24 hours a day" "I will buy him a dog" "I will remind him how amazing he is over and over until it makes him sick" "I will make music with him" "I will tie him down and wait for him to get over the terrible things he is feeling".  Bargaining.

I cry in the back of cabs and on city busses and while I'm doing my job and when I talk to strangers and as I brush my teeth.  I am always hungry and eating makes me nauseous.  I am exhausted and I never sleep.  I am achieving great things and I could care less. I feel like I am living outside myself.  Depression.

And all these sorts of things happen in one tragic kaleidoscope all the time.  It's the undercurrent of my days.  But I'm not upset about it.  I know that it is happening because I love you.  And I will never stop feeling grateful for being given the opportunity to love you.

But it's been incredibly lonely to miss you.  You had friends (so, so many friends) and I have friends, and we kind of had friends together, but our friendship was a completely isolated relationship.  We talked everyday, but it was just us.  You told me things about you and I never knew who else shared those parts of you.  I never thought it would matter, except now, you're gone, and I carry around the ghost of this incredibly important friendship and no one knows.  And it is not the point for anyone to know, but it would be so much nicer if there was just another person there to comfort me and say "I know how much you meant to each other".  And I have the Giraffe, and he says it all the time, but even though he is my partner and best friend not even he was a part of our friendship.  I just feel isolated in this grief.  You weren't just a person I knew.  You were one of my dearest friends.

So it's five in the morning and I have been having this thought for the last couple days about what I want to say to you and it's this:
Stop it.  I love you.
Stop killing yourself.  So many people love you.
Stop it.  I love you.

And that's an insane idea because you are already gone! But I keep thinking it.  I wish you could stop it.  I would do anything to make that possible.  But in recognition of this never being possible, I will continue to cry and wipe the mascara off my face and get angry and reaffirm my need to succeed at my life and talk to you and think of you and look over my shoulder for you and tell the people that are still here that I love them.  Because that's all I can do. And wherever you are I hope it gets to you that I love you, too.

I just have to keep thinking it and writing things like this that don't make sense and listening to the same songs over and over and over because sometimes it's all I can do.  And I will probably be writing about you or to you or for you for the rest of my life.  Because I am a sentimental motherfucker.  Because I feel things for a long long time.  Because you were a smart funny caring loving thoughtful talented person.  Because understanding those things about you and then understanding why you needed to leave this world is nearly impossible.  Because I love you.

I've said it many different ways, at many different times.  But tonight I am saying it this way.  On the internet.  To no one in particular.  Except you, if you can hear me.
Goodnight.  I love you.
C


*Before he passed,  Derek's band was finishing their upcoming album.  Please consider donating to help this album get made. In honor of Derek, and for his talented bandmates.  This incredible music deserves to be heard. Donate here: Sick Secrets

Dear Challenges: A Novel Experience.

All writers have briefcases.  That is mine.

In two days I am going to start writing a book.  By the 30th of June I will have finished writing that book.  The first draft of an entire novel.  You probably have so many questions.  Why?  What?  How?  WHO CARES?  Well, I care.  And I'm attempting to actually start and finish this project, which is why I have to tell everyone I know about it.  Accountability is one of the most useful motivating factors there is.  The guy who came up with this idea suggests you use it to ensure you finish.

As many of you know, November is National Novel Writing Month.  For those 31 days people all over the world take on the challenge of writing a novel, approximately 100 pages, without sharing, without editing.  Without stopping.  Many people see this as an opportunity to try something new, to have fun, to share in an experience being had by thousands of other people.  Some people use it as a catalyst to create a project they will later go on to edit and carry (hopefully) to publication. Many people use it as a tool to begin creating again, and often, having had the fulfilling experience of completing an entire book, can go on to immerse themselves in a project they truly care about. It's just people, you know, accomplishing something.

My dear friend Julie is also a writer.  Since we were teenagers we have somewhat quietly toiled away at projects we share with no one.  In college (we went together) we each had writing in our majors--hers in fiction and mine in "dramatic writing"(stage/screen).  Since then we have both gone back to (mostly) quietly toiling away on projects we share (mostly) with no one.  The thing neither of us spends very much time sharing is that we are writers, and that it is a hugely important part of our lives.  I don't really tell anyone I do it.  I think I put it in my bio on the edge of this blog as an attempt to "put it out there", and casually mention it when referring to my education, but that's about it.  Julie has gone on to become a teacher, and is also a very gifted painter (and now a very loving mother) and so those things often take the forefront of conversations one might have with her about what she "does".  For myself, it is one of the last things I'll tell someone I do.  Mostly because I have little to show for it, but also because I fear it sounds pretentious, and am even more afraid of the questions one might have about it.  [What do you write?  Can I read it?  What magazines are you in? What awards have you won?  What's your favorite thing you've ever written? What books are you reading? Tell me an interesting story!] Regardless, we are both writers who don't write very much and talk to each other about it a lot.   Julie decided she wanted to take on the challenge of Novel Writing Month, and didn't feel like waiting for November.  So she asked a couple of our friends (two of the most intelligent, creative people I know) and myself to take part in our own challenge for the moth of June.  Obviously we are doing it.  How could we not do it?  How many novels am I writing on my own? Answer: ZERO.

The rules are simple.  You write every day, for an entire month.  You can never go back and change something.  No edits.  You can ask questions and share ideas with others doing the challenge, but you cannot share any of your actual material.  No passing notes.  If you don't write one day, you have to write more the next.  By the last day of the month you have to finish your novel and it must be at least 50,000 words, or, 100 pages in length.  About the size of "Of mice and Men".  After that, you can do whatever you want with it.  Read it, not read it, share it, eat it, use it as toilet paper, edit it, burn it, put it on a very large refrigerator, use it to sop up all your tears, whatever the fuck you want.  It doesn't matter.  Because you already did the hardest part.  You wrote an entire book.

Now, I've written things before.  I've written short things and longer things but I have never attempted to tell a story on such a large scale.  I've written feature length films, but that's an entirely different thing all together. I have no idea how this is going to go.  The one thing I might wind up taking away from this experience is that I should never ever try to write a novel.  But if all my boxes of notebooks and years of not being able to sleep have proven anything it's that I want to write, that I feel I have stories to tell.  Even if they are not going to change the world.  So I have to at least try.  So I am going to try.

A thinking face.

Marathon writing is about the only thing that works for me.  A project without a deadline is an unfinished project.  A project without a sense of urgency is pages of notes I take for years before I actually begin said project (Literally.  Years.). Despite the amount of time I am given I only use the time at the end to actually start doing anything good, so I think this challenge is pretty well suited for me.  Sweat and white knuckles the entire way.  I used to think that was called procrastinating, but as an increasingly responsible adult I'm learning to call it "my style".  Whatever that means.

So I have a loose idea.  But I can't share what it is.  I know what kind of story I am hoping to tell, the main characters, what happens first, how it might end, some small moments in the middle, and that's about it. I really have no idea what I am going to fill 100 pages with.  I know I'm good at rambling, so hopefully that helps me out.  I'm anticipating a lot of deadlocked moments where there is nothing left to say and I chug cold coffee shouting about how my education was a waste because I am the most useless writer there has ever been.  I'm anticipating it's going to be a really delightful experience.  But, like I said, hopefully at then end I'll have managed to write an entire book and that will have been the whole point.  Mission accomplished.  For once I will not be allowed to obsess over weather something is good or not, I will just have to keep going.  And I'm excited to see what that feels like.

So the four of us start this process on June first, which is Friday.  Which is tomorrow.  Hopefully amidst careers, work, family, home renovations, and vacations (3 of us are going on a trip right in the middle and I am out of town for work right before) we all manage to stick with it.  I will probably be glued to my phone, sending emails to them 50 times a day.  So please, PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, when you see me, ask me how it is going.  Remind me that I have to finish it.  Lie to me and tell me you're so proud or whatever.  Text me.  Call me.  Send me pictures of your butts with "write, you Asshole" written on them.  Whatever you want to do.  Whatever you have to do.  Just do it.  I just know I need this accountability or I might wind up letting my quiet toiling taper off until I have another mediocre start to a project on a USB drive sitting in my boyfriend's sock drawer.  Help me not let this go to the sock drawer.

One of my biggest goals in life is to legitimize my father's proudest statement about me: My daughter's a writer.
This one's for you, dad.

My dad loves sweat shorts and telling everyone I'm a writer.

Dear Growing Pains and Some Kind of Destiny

*Edit: I wrote this about six weeks ago.  The moment has passed, but it's still important.*

following my destiny all the way to portland

My horoscope rocked me the way something does when it tells you exactly what you are thinking.  It said things are changing.  And I knew that.  And I know that.

Things are changing.  And a lot of those changes I can see and they are healthy and small and tangible.  And some things are changing and I don't know what they are or how deep inside me they are or if they are about me at all.  I feel like I am stuck in the middle of a stoned moment, where I am super high and I am slumped, slack-jawed in awe of the whole mystery and beauty and tragedy of life.  But I'm not stoned.  I don't do that.  That isn't what's happening.  What's happening is that I am totally sober, standing, slouched, slack-jawed in awe of some sort of bigger mystery that I can't understand or put a name to except that it's just life and that I am simultaneously being blown away and swallowed up by LIFE.  This is a weird trip.
Tonight, while wandering through my job, I surmised it thus: It's like life is a jigsaw puzzle, and we are each just a tiny piece in this giant thing.  And sometimes you have to think about what kind of piece you want to be.
That is not the best simile of my career, I can say for certain, but it is truly the only way I can explain to someone what the hell is happening right now.  I feel like a minuscule puzzle piece and I am thinking about what kind of piece to be.  Or what kind of piece I am, and weather or not I like that.  Maybe I should do a fucking puzzle right now.  Maybe that would level me out.

I find myself saying a lot lately "I wish that what I wanted in life was to be a mother.  Because then it would feel so much easier to reach my goals and feel happy with my success."  Being a parent is something that I understand the path to get to.  It's a perceptible job that takes certain requirements and produces really concrete results.  The same could be said for many other jobs in the world.  Police officer, teacher (why couldn't I have just wanted to be a teacher?!?!!), plumber.  You go through the process of obtaining credentials and licenses for your position, then you get the position, then you spend your life working hard at being really good at it.   It's a thing that has safety and predictability and a universal point where you can breathe a sigh of relief and assure yourself "yes.  I do this now.".  So lately I find myself longing for a career in life that has that concrete sigh of relief in it somewhere.  Because lately I am really feeling how high the chances are I may never get to do that.  My career comes with no universal benchmarks, points of plateau, safety zones, or tangible mile markers.  My career is a sloppy, desperate, compromising, always about to change, one-million K race.

And it is tiring and terrifying.  Most people in my career have "jobs" to supplement their careers FOREVER.  Until they die or are too old to work.  Are you kidding me? Forever?  I like being a bartender and I love my job, but having a job and a career 7 days a week exhausts me.  I feel like I can never take a break.  Like I've never earned one.  And truthfully, I haven't in a way.  Until my career IS my job there is a lot of work to be done.  I can't stop.  And while I am very proud of my accomplishments to date I cannot say that the things I have achieved in my "career" warrent, for me, any sort of pee-break or reprieve from the work.  I just haven't done very much.  And I know, if we want to get really honest, that what I actually accomplish day-to-day does not at all measure up to the amount of pressure I put on myself.  I haven't done very much in general, and I don't do as much as I could moment to moment.  And I don't know why.  That has me very confused.  I feel like I am wasting my own time and giving myself ulcers for no reason.  That's stupid.

Here's the thing: my entire life I have known what I wanted to do.  My entire life.  Since I was too young to know what a career was.  I have never once in the almost 30 years I have been alive changed my mind about what I had to do with my life.  And that's a lot of pressure to put on a person.

Right now I really don't know the difference between following my destiny, and being an adult idiot who is rigidly chasing the daydreams of a 3 year old.  What's the difference?  Is this my destiny or have I been too stubborn to allow myself to come up with new dreams? What the fuck is destiny anyway?  Are you there God, it's me, the plot to a 90's coming of age Rosie O'Donell movie.

I have always wanted to do the same things in my life.  Be a performer, a writer, and to help people.  I always thought that meant that I wanted to be an actor and a writer and that I would help people with the power of my art.  (Intermission for laughter)  But what I am, right now, today, is a person who does radio commercials, writes a blog no one reads, and gives advice to drunk people sitting at my bar.  My dad thinks I am a huge success but he's the only one! Shhh!  No one tell him!

So, this all begs the question: what's my perception of success?  Well, this is the part where things get really messy for me, because in weaving my intricate life dreams I felt that to be successful and, thereby, happy, I had to be famous.  Success equaled fame, and fame meant reaching as many people as possible. Yes, reaching them with the healing power of my art. Thousands, maybe millions of people.  Why?  I don't know.  It just always felt like the right thing.  Success, fame and happiness are all pretty much the same thing and achieving them was the only way to fulfill my life's purpose.  No problem.  Totally doable.  PSYCHE.  What a boner.  I really set myself up there.  Even as a more adjusted adult I can look at the goal of being a popular performer/writer as a nice thing to dream for but not the "thing" to work toward and yet I can't change my mind about it.  It's what I want.  Plenty of people in my field build manageable relationships with their crafts that don't pit them against ultimate success on a daily basis.  But not me.  No.  I have to find myself weeping while I stuff a bag of tea into a pot on Thursday night to realize my dreams are wearing me the fuck out.  If I'm not Philip Seymour Hoffman, I'm a failure.  That's a healthy way to live.

Everyday that I'm not doing something important and helpful and amazing I feel like I'm failing.  And so I can never congratulate myself for being a good friend, a hard worker, or a talented person and just relax about if for a minute. I can never sit back and trust that by the end of the year maybe my commercial will lead to a bit part in a movie somewhere (barfing while laughing) because I know I'm working really hard.  Or that I'll try to publish something I've written and maybe it will work.  Or that therapists will ask me to come speak at their conventions because I love talking to people about their feelings SO much. It just isn't like that for me.  It's hard to trust in something that is so uncertain. But if it's my destiny and I really believe that then it shouldn't be hard to keep blithely plugging away at it.  And if it's not my destiny, and I don't like the kind of puzzle piece I'm being right now, then I should decide to be a different kind of puzzle piece.  Wait.  What are we even talking about anymore?

And that's about where I'm at.  I don't even know how to think about what I'm thinking about.
I am not where I want to be in my life.  That will either change if I keep working at what I have started, or I decide to do something else.  But something has to change.  I feel that things are changing.  I just don't know what or how.  I only hope one day I can look back to my 3 year old self and tell her everything turned out just fine.

came back, time for a nap