Do you ever get the realization that you know what you have to do, but you are afraid of actually doing it? What it could mean if you do, who it may hurt, and whether it's actually the right thing to do?
I've been wrestling with that thought ever since I separated from my ex. And after tonight, I feel even more compelled to do that which I am afraid to do.
Sunday evening, when I returned my kids to her, I told her to make our daughter a doctor's appointment. She was coughing fiercely all day, her eyes were red and watery, and she was tugging at her ear. I told her that my mom said that she would take them if she made the appointment. My ex told me that she would make the appointment and take them herself.
Fast forward to tonight. My daughter shows up, so hoarse she can barely talk, still hadn't been to the doctor, and spent the first hour with me just bawling her eyes out--wanting her "mommy." Which is something she does when she's not feeling good, of course. So, I finally decide to take her to the emergency room. If she has an ear infection, I didn't want it to go another day and was worried about her and wanted to get her some medicine now.
While at the emergency room, I text my ex and tell her that I'm there and that she can pick them up there or at Walmart (where I'll get the perscription filled). And what does she do? She goes off on me, telling me that she had an appointment tomorrow and that I was out of line to take her to the emergency room. I....was....out.....of....line....getting my daughter the medical care that she needed. Read that again. She had an ear infection and the doctor perscribed her some amoxicilin for it, to take it 3 times a day.
When she (my ex) shows up, she's on the phone and she's got a goofy look on her face. I know the look. The look tells me that there is a guy on the other line. (there are other things that make me think this, but I won't go into them) The last time she was interested in a guy, she acted the same way. Just totally disinterested in the kids and their needs. And I was the one who had to step up and take care of things. But she didn't even look at me. Didn't bother to ask me about the doctor (until like a half an hour later). She just took the kids, put them in the car, and drove off (all while on the phone).
And here I am, asking myself, why the kids have taken a backseat to whatever else seems more important to her. I was actually impressed lately with how well she had been taking care of the kids and the things she was doing. Now, however, I have the feeling that that will fall by the wayside and she'll be the same way she was before.
Anyway, for the first time in a long time, I have the feeling. The feeling that I need to get custody of my kids. The feeling that it might be the best thing for them.
But with those thoughts I am left with reservations of my own. First of all, the kids love their mother. They seem happy. And I don't want to disturb that happiness, unless it is absolutely imperative to do so. My original thoughts were that if she was doing drugs, or dating somebody who did drugs, and/or they were being abused in some way. Now, I'm not so sure. A simple thing like taking them to the doctor has suddenly become too difficult.
I am also left with the doubt that I can handle it. I don't know if I have what it takes to be their primary caregiver. I don't know that I'd be as good a father if I had them all the time, and I'm afraid that I would start taking our time together for granted again. I am also, quite selfishly, not sure I'm ready to give up that freedom for something of this magnitude. I know that's selfish, but I can't help some of the things I feel.
The thought resonates in me, though, and it keeps coming back to haunt me. I know that in order to get custody there will be a host of things I'll have to do. First of all I'd have to establish a better residence than my shitty one bedroom apartment. Secondly, I'd have to figure out what angle to use to prove that they are better off with me. There are other things I think I would have to get in order and I keep wondering if now is really the right time.
For now, these are just thoughts that I am wrestling around in my head. All of this is based on how things go from this point on. But everytime this happens, I wonder if this is the moment that it's going to have to happen. But everytime it happens, she turns things around and things are good for them again.
I think I need to start preparing for that day, though. It may not be soon, but I think I need to step things up. I think I need to get things in order and finish the things I set out to do. Because I truly believe the day will come when I will have to step in and get serious about this.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
WIP it good...
I have no idea what the hell I am doing.
I open up a fresh, shiny, new word document and watch the cursor blink. I want to write something fun and dark and majestic. I want people to mull over my story for years, discuss the intricate details laced throughout, like a thorny branch through a nautilus (whatever that means). And as much as I despise Oprah, one day I want to go on her show and talk about my book.
I could be like, "Yo, Oprah, I hate you and all but it's nice that you like my book. Because of your stamp, my book sold a million copies and I'm grateful, even though I think you are some kind of something."
So I did that. I opened up a new document and let the first line beat out (much like I did last year for my first completed novel). Again I was surprised at the outcome:
A man walked into a convenience store holding a bow and arrow. The clerk, a young teenage girl wearing too much makeup and chewing bubble gum, looked up at him as if he had five heads. He stopped in front of her, pulled an arrow from the quiver, and drew it back. The gum fell out of her mouth as her jaw dropped in disbelief.
“Give me all the cash in the cash register.” He said gruffly.
Not at all what I expected to roll of my fingers. Apparently, I am knee deep in a thriller right now. Because only a few pages later this man takes said clerk hostage (just for shits and giggles). He licks her face at one point--not from sheer sexual desire but because it felt like the right thing to do. His name is Frank, and he likes the gravy at some country restaraunt on the outskirts of town.
Who the hell is Frank? Why, of all things, is THIS the junk that came out of me yesterday evening? I can ponder a million ideas, but why is it that when I sit down to write them, this kind of random stuff is what comes out?
It's like I have to write the rest of the story, just to see what this nonsense is in the first chapter. And, like last time, the ideas are budding from that one paragraph and in my head is this monster story, complete with characters and plots and ideas, that, two seconds before I opened my word document were not even figments of my imagination.
It's not like I can blame drugs. I don't do drugs (although I wonder what kind of stuff I would write if I did). I can't be like "Oh, fiddlesticks, I blame crack." And I don't drink that much. Once every few weeks or so. I was sober at the time.
Maybe it's Jesus. Maybe the Lord wants me to write about a guy who holds up convenience stores with a bow and arrow and takes clerks hostage. Perhaps the universe was all created for this moment...a moment to tell the quirky comedic thriller that is rolling off my fingers. The meaning of life itself...to lick your hostage's face while driving in your primer grey pickup truck listening to Dwight Yoakum.
Yee haw. Woopdie doo. I got a new WIP and it's whipping me good.
I open up a fresh, shiny, new word document and watch the cursor blink. I want to write something fun and dark and majestic. I want people to mull over my story for years, discuss the intricate details laced throughout, like a thorny branch through a nautilus (whatever that means). And as much as I despise Oprah, one day I want to go on her show and talk about my book.
I could be like, "Yo, Oprah, I hate you and all but it's nice that you like my book. Because of your stamp, my book sold a million copies and I'm grateful, even though I think you are some kind of something."
So I did that. I opened up a new document and let the first line beat out (much like I did last year for my first completed novel). Again I was surprised at the outcome:
A man walked into a convenience store holding a bow and arrow. The clerk, a young teenage girl wearing too much makeup and chewing bubble gum, looked up at him as if he had five heads. He stopped in front of her, pulled an arrow from the quiver, and drew it back. The gum fell out of her mouth as her jaw dropped in disbelief.
“Give me all the cash in the cash register.” He said gruffly.
Not at all what I expected to roll of my fingers. Apparently, I am knee deep in a thriller right now. Because only a few pages later this man takes said clerk hostage (just for shits and giggles). He licks her face at one point--not from sheer sexual desire but because it felt like the right thing to do. His name is Frank, and he likes the gravy at some country restaraunt on the outskirts of town.
Who the hell is Frank? Why, of all things, is THIS the junk that came out of me yesterday evening? I can ponder a million ideas, but why is it that when I sit down to write them, this kind of random stuff is what comes out?
It's like I have to write the rest of the story, just to see what this nonsense is in the first chapter. And, like last time, the ideas are budding from that one paragraph and in my head is this monster story, complete with characters and plots and ideas, that, two seconds before I opened my word document were not even figments of my imagination.
It's not like I can blame drugs. I don't do drugs (although I wonder what kind of stuff I would write if I did). I can't be like "Oh, fiddlesticks, I blame crack." And I don't drink that much. Once every few weeks or so. I was sober at the time.
Maybe it's Jesus. Maybe the Lord wants me to write about a guy who holds up convenience stores with a bow and arrow and takes clerks hostage. Perhaps the universe was all created for this moment...a moment to tell the quirky comedic thriller that is rolling off my fingers. The meaning of life itself...to lick your hostage's face while driving in your primer grey pickup truck listening to Dwight Yoakum.
Yee haw. Woopdie doo. I got a new WIP and it's whipping me good.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Hers and His
She crawls up on my lap and looks up to me. My heart melts. She smiles. I smile.
She lays her head against my chest and watches TV.
"Are you my sweetie?" I ask.
"Yeah. I your friend."
I smile and look at the TV. I think to myself of her sweet innocence, her slightly exaggerated bossiness, woven delicately within the kinks of her insecurities, fears, and sadness. I watch her cry and it's my eyes that tear up. I watch her laugh, and I feel joy. When she's angry, it's my face that's flush.
We clash. I yell. She yells. She turns away and is no longer my friend and I say "fine."
Moments later she's back on my lap and the process starts again.
I worry about her. I worry about the things she'll face. I worry if she'll be ok. I worry about the sick freaks that are out there who would lay a hand on her.
Behind her eyes I see a wave of fluid, not tears, but a fluid of change and adaptation. I watch her grow and evolve; I watch her attention change on a dime or her incredible stubborness and again...I smile.
****
He barrels right past. He's got one thing on his mind. I reach for a hug and am met with resistance, but I coax him into it. He turns his back to me and leans back. I flip him around and tell him to hug me right, and he sighs with impatience.
He runs to the bed, flips on the TV, puts in his game.
"Come watch me," He says.
I cringe slightly, but eventually oblige.
He plays and his man dies. He yells at the screen and I tell him to chill out. He plays again and dies again. He hands me the controller.
"Do if for me."
I shake my head and hand it back. "No."
"It's too hard!"
"Be harder."
He throws a fit, and I sit in silence and wait. Soon, he picks it up and does it again and he wins.
"I'm proud of you." I say with a smile. He beams like the sun.
Behind his eyes is a single path. A rock. There is no wavering. He wants it done his way or no way. He can't understand why the world doesn't bend, and I can't tell him. I watch him and I see strength. I watch him and I see the seeds of a large oak, still a sappling, waiting for its time to bloom. I see a boy trying to figure out the world...I smile.
****
Sometimes it feels like an eternity. Each day without them takes a little more strength to endure. Each day I don't see their face, is a day that's lost in the annuls of time forever. The moment they come through my doorstep, I shower them with hugs and kisses and affection for I know that our time is short. These days will never come again and I want to enjoy them to their fullest while I can.
Sometimes I get so angry at them I can spit. Sometimes I say things I shouldn't. Sometimes I do things I shouldn't. Sometimes we fight. Sometimes we are silent. But there is always a connection. Always a bond there.
I am their father. I love them. I miss them.
She lays her head against my chest and watches TV.
"Are you my sweetie?" I ask.
"Yeah. I your friend."
I smile and look at the TV. I think to myself of her sweet innocence, her slightly exaggerated bossiness, woven delicately within the kinks of her insecurities, fears, and sadness. I watch her cry and it's my eyes that tear up. I watch her laugh, and I feel joy. When she's angry, it's my face that's flush.
We clash. I yell. She yells. She turns away and is no longer my friend and I say "fine."
Moments later she's back on my lap and the process starts again.
I worry about her. I worry about the things she'll face. I worry if she'll be ok. I worry about the sick freaks that are out there who would lay a hand on her.
Behind her eyes I see a wave of fluid, not tears, but a fluid of change and adaptation. I watch her grow and evolve; I watch her attention change on a dime or her incredible stubborness and again...I smile.
****
He barrels right past. He's got one thing on his mind. I reach for a hug and am met with resistance, but I coax him into it. He turns his back to me and leans back. I flip him around and tell him to hug me right, and he sighs with impatience.
He runs to the bed, flips on the TV, puts in his game.
"Come watch me," He says.
I cringe slightly, but eventually oblige.
He plays and his man dies. He yells at the screen and I tell him to chill out. He plays again and dies again. He hands me the controller.
"Do if for me."
I shake my head and hand it back. "No."
"It's too hard!"
"Be harder."
He throws a fit, and I sit in silence and wait. Soon, he picks it up and does it again and he wins.
"I'm proud of you." I say with a smile. He beams like the sun.
Behind his eyes is a single path. A rock. There is no wavering. He wants it done his way or no way. He can't understand why the world doesn't bend, and I can't tell him. I watch him and I see strength. I watch him and I see the seeds of a large oak, still a sappling, waiting for its time to bloom. I see a boy trying to figure out the world...I smile.
****
Sometimes it feels like an eternity. Each day without them takes a little more strength to endure. Each day I don't see their face, is a day that's lost in the annuls of time forever. The moment they come through my doorstep, I shower them with hugs and kisses and affection for I know that our time is short. These days will never come again and I want to enjoy them to their fullest while I can.
Sometimes I get so angry at them I can spit. Sometimes I say things I shouldn't. Sometimes I do things I shouldn't. Sometimes we fight. Sometimes we are silent. But there is always a connection. Always a bond there.
I am their father. I love them. I miss them.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
A day in the life...
The alarm clock blares out like a beacon call, an ambulance coarsing through the cold night to find it's victim. I roll over, lift a crusty eye sleepily open, and beat on the snooze button.
5 minutes.
Another call. Again, my hand beats down on the snooze button and all is calm for another 4 minutes and 59 seconds. Bliss. Warmth. Heat. Blare. Beat. Blare. Beat. I beat the fucking top. I pound it into the nightstand. I curse and turn and pound and fight.
I'm half awake now, so everything that surrounds me feels real. I see myself standing at the coffee pot at work. I see myself fall into my chair and the phone rings. I pick it up, but it continues to ring. I pick it up, but it continues to ring. I pick it the fuck up and it continues to ring; so, I slam it back on the receiver and it continues to ring.
My eyes crack open and I am awake. I realize that the phone wasn't ringing--it was just my alarm. I sit straight up in bed and immediately am struck with the desire to lay back down. Just 5 more minutes...borrow some time from the morning...sleepy sleepy time. I heave my legs over to the side of the bed, shut off the alarm clock, but I continue to hear the bleating. I stand up, walk over to my daughter's small toddler bed and I shut off that alarm clock. I walk out into the living room and shut off the alarm clock on my nightstand. I chuckle to myself at the fact that I have 3 alarm clocks all torturing me in the morning. I read the time: 5:30 AM. For weeks I have beaten my nemesis. For weeks I have stared in the face of my chrono lateness and sent it packing. I am a man now; the little boy who couldn't get out of bed in the mornings is left lying in the past somewhere, suspended forever in time in the form of a memory.
I push the power on the T.V. as I hobble past towards the bathroom. I put one hand on the wall behind the toilet and slowly fumble for my morning wood and furiously try to aim it down towards the tiny little hole. Relief. Freedom. Slowly but surely it softens back up and the task isn't quite so daunting. I flush. I pull open the mirror to reveal a cacophony of bath products...I fumble for my toothbrush and lazily apply toothpaste. Brush. Brush. Brush. Inspect. Years of smoking are, finally, telling me that if I don't quit soon that I will be staring a pearly yellows. I vow that in the future I will kick that nasty habit for good. But for now, I brush like there is no tomorrow.
Spit. Rinse. Brrr....my teeth are cold. My whole body shivers at the experience. I hobble back out, flop onto the couch, and flip through the channels. I stop when it reaches the morning news and light a cigarette.
Puff. Obama this. Puff. Obama that. Puff. War. Puff. Poor economy. Puff. OH WOE IS ME!
I stub out the cigarette and walk into the kitchen. I pull open the cabinet and fumble out a pill. Prilosec. Hello heartburn my old friend. Meet the antidote. I grab a glass and fill it with water from my water cooler (oh boy oh boy oh boy). I kick back a swig and swallow the pill. I contemplate making breakfast; I decide against it.
Shave. Shower. Clothes. Shoes. Coat. It's freezing. I undo the lock and step outside, pulling the door shut beside me. The winter air blasts me in the face and I silently think, "Buh-buh-buh-buhbrrrrring it the fuck on, winter. Bring it the fuck on."
Scrape scrape scrape scrape. Frost. I look down at my scraper, the lovely little gift (the first one) from my son. He seemed so pleased when I opened it. And why wouldn't he be? Not only was it a scraper, but it's a scraper with a wool scarf for your hand to fit up under so it doesn't get cold. I'm instantly filled with a sense of both longing and peace...I miss my children.
I drive. It squeaks. I drive. It squeaks. I drive. I turn of the heat it squeaks. I turn on the heat it squeaks. I turn it off and throw the car into nuetral it squeaks. I curse the day I was born and murmer a curse word as I turn on the heat and let it squeak. Finally, the squeaking goes away and I fire up another cig. I think about the day before me, and I let a sigh escape my lips. Another long day. Another long day at work. I think of what I am going to do with all the money. I can't decide. I let a sigh escape from my lips.
I walk in the door, it's 6:30. I listen to the guys in my office make snide comments about how I am on time all of a sudden. It's been three weeks...they won't let it go. They can't fathom the fact that I have got it under control. So they joke and sneer and laugh at my expense. I shake my head and I flip on my computer. I walk out and get a cup of coffee and say hi to my boss as I walk past his door.
Work work work. Play. Work. Play work. Laugh. Smile. Talk. Nod. Nod. Yup. I don't relate. I don't relate. I can't relate. They are old I am young they are old I am young. I let a sigh escape from my lips.
Lunch. Drive. Hot dogs. Mountain dew. 4 o'clock...5 o'clock....6 o'clock...7 o'clock. Another day, another dollar. I hobble out to the car. I let a sigh escape from my lips. It's dark. It was dark when I arrived. I drive. I stop. I crack open my keys, and insert it into my mailbox. No mail. Junk mail. Bills. No mail. Junk mail. Bills.
I drive. I am home. I fall onto the bed for a brief moment. I order some food and wait for it to arrive at my door. I watch TV. I play on the internet. I read. Time flies so fast in the evenings and before I know it, I am pulling back the covers. I walk around and set each of my three alarm clocks. I crawl up under the covers and stare at the ceiling. I think about my day and stare at the ceiling. I think about tomorrow and stare at the ceiling.
And for a moment, a brief moment, as I hang suspended between reality and the dream world, I remind myself that life is good and there is always tomorrow.
And so, I wait and watch for tomorrow, but it never comes. It never comes...
5 minutes.
Another call. Again, my hand beats down on the snooze button and all is calm for another 4 minutes and 59 seconds. Bliss. Warmth. Heat. Blare. Beat. Blare. Beat. I beat the fucking top. I pound it into the nightstand. I curse and turn and pound and fight.
I'm half awake now, so everything that surrounds me feels real. I see myself standing at the coffee pot at work. I see myself fall into my chair and the phone rings. I pick it up, but it continues to ring. I pick it up, but it continues to ring. I pick it the fuck up and it continues to ring; so, I slam it back on the receiver and it continues to ring.
My eyes crack open and I am awake. I realize that the phone wasn't ringing--it was just my alarm. I sit straight up in bed and immediately am struck with the desire to lay back down. Just 5 more minutes...borrow some time from the morning...sleepy sleepy time. I heave my legs over to the side of the bed, shut off the alarm clock, but I continue to hear the bleating. I stand up, walk over to my daughter's small toddler bed and I shut off that alarm clock. I walk out into the living room and shut off the alarm clock on my nightstand. I chuckle to myself at the fact that I have 3 alarm clocks all torturing me in the morning. I read the time: 5:30 AM. For weeks I have beaten my nemesis. For weeks I have stared in the face of my chrono lateness and sent it packing. I am a man now; the little boy who couldn't get out of bed in the mornings is left lying in the past somewhere, suspended forever in time in the form of a memory.
I push the power on the T.V. as I hobble past towards the bathroom. I put one hand on the wall behind the toilet and slowly fumble for my morning wood and furiously try to aim it down towards the tiny little hole. Relief. Freedom. Slowly but surely it softens back up and the task isn't quite so daunting. I flush. I pull open the mirror to reveal a cacophony of bath products...I fumble for my toothbrush and lazily apply toothpaste. Brush. Brush. Brush. Inspect. Years of smoking are, finally, telling me that if I don't quit soon that I will be staring a pearly yellows. I vow that in the future I will kick that nasty habit for good. But for now, I brush like there is no tomorrow.
Spit. Rinse. Brrr....my teeth are cold. My whole body shivers at the experience. I hobble back out, flop onto the couch, and flip through the channels. I stop when it reaches the morning news and light a cigarette.
Puff. Obama this. Puff. Obama that. Puff. War. Puff. Poor economy. Puff. OH WOE IS ME!
I stub out the cigarette and walk into the kitchen. I pull open the cabinet and fumble out a pill. Prilosec. Hello heartburn my old friend. Meet the antidote. I grab a glass and fill it with water from my water cooler (oh boy oh boy oh boy). I kick back a swig and swallow the pill. I contemplate making breakfast; I decide against it.
Shave. Shower. Clothes. Shoes. Coat. It's freezing. I undo the lock and step outside, pulling the door shut beside me. The winter air blasts me in the face and I silently think, "Buh-buh-buh-buhbrrrrring it the fuck on, winter. Bring it the fuck on."
Scrape scrape scrape scrape. Frost. I look down at my scraper, the lovely little gift (the first one) from my son. He seemed so pleased when I opened it. And why wouldn't he be? Not only was it a scraper, but it's a scraper with a wool scarf for your hand to fit up under so it doesn't get cold. I'm instantly filled with a sense of both longing and peace...I miss my children.
I drive. It squeaks. I drive. It squeaks. I drive. I turn of the heat it squeaks. I turn on the heat it squeaks. I turn it off and throw the car into nuetral it squeaks. I curse the day I was born and murmer a curse word as I turn on the heat and let it squeak. Finally, the squeaking goes away and I fire up another cig. I think about the day before me, and I let a sigh escape my lips. Another long day. Another long day at work. I think of what I am going to do with all the money. I can't decide. I let a sigh escape from my lips.
I walk in the door, it's 6:30. I listen to the guys in my office make snide comments about how I am on time all of a sudden. It's been three weeks...they won't let it go. They can't fathom the fact that I have got it under control. So they joke and sneer and laugh at my expense. I shake my head and I flip on my computer. I walk out and get a cup of coffee and say hi to my boss as I walk past his door.
Work work work. Play. Work. Play work. Laugh. Smile. Talk. Nod. Nod. Yup. I don't relate. I don't relate. I can't relate. They are old I am young they are old I am young. I let a sigh escape from my lips.
Lunch. Drive. Hot dogs. Mountain dew. 4 o'clock...5 o'clock....6 o'clock...7 o'clock. Another day, another dollar. I hobble out to the car. I let a sigh escape from my lips. It's dark. It was dark when I arrived. I drive. I stop. I crack open my keys, and insert it into my mailbox. No mail. Junk mail. Bills. No mail. Junk mail. Bills.
I drive. I am home. I fall onto the bed for a brief moment. I order some food and wait for it to arrive at my door. I watch TV. I play on the internet. I read. Time flies so fast in the evenings and before I know it, I am pulling back the covers. I walk around and set each of my three alarm clocks. I crawl up under the covers and stare at the ceiling. I think about my day and stare at the ceiling. I think about tomorrow and stare at the ceiling.
And for a moment, a brief moment, as I hang suspended between reality and the dream world, I remind myself that life is good and there is always tomorrow.
And so, I wait and watch for tomorrow, but it never comes. It never comes...
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Squeaky the Magnificent
A new day has dawned for my car. Let all of heaven and earth fall silent and listen. Listen to the hum of the engine as it purrs through the damp, cool, winter air. Listen to the sound of my heart beat as I turn the key. Hear me now, and remember.
Last year about this time I sought a mechanic, who I sublimely dubbed as "Daryl." Today, I need Daryll again. Not to carve open my door, which was wedged shut by my parents bumpy, boony road, but to crack open the hood and hunt down the squealing of the fanbelt that I have allowed to go on for too long. To crawl under the vehicle and fix the tailpipe (or muffler) so that it doesn't sound like I am in a big rig truck as I stroll down the road in my little shitbox goobermobile.
Oh Daryl, I bessech thee once again to come down and have a look at my fine little vehicle. Work your magic across my engine oh sweat greasy savior. I call on thee to love my car more dearly, to see it more clearly, to get to know it more nearly.
For I have changed the name from "Olga" to "Squeaky the Magnificent." I can no longer run the heat or the air conditioner when I slow down for fear of the sqeak. I can no longer climb a mountain without going deaf from the rumble. I spend my time in the car twittering buttons and gears and easing off the gas for relief, for fear, for lack of anything better to do.
I've become quite adept at knowing when to turn my heat off (and freeze my ass off) to make sure the fanbelt doesn't squeal. Instead of fixing the problem (which requires money), I instead have learned to adapt to the nonsense that is squeaky and rumble.
It's interesting to me how I spend so much time figuring out ways to avoid the problem altogether, rather than just fixing it. Making the sacrifice, going to good ole Daryl (who is a fictitious mechanic and any resemblance to a real mechanic in real life is purely coincidental), and getting my car the care it needs. Instead, I find ways to just live with it. To put it off for another day. To eek out one more paycheck before the pain gets unbearable and I HAVE to fix it.
Have I not learned anything these past couple of years? All this time I have spent introspecting about why things happened to me, all this time I have spent trying to improve my life, and I still haven't learned the most important lesson of all: you can't avoid the pain; you can't control the pain; you have to FACE the pain and go through it. It's the only way to heal. It's the only way to get back to normal. It's the only way to pick yourself up and find redemption after a fall.
So many times we spend our lives looking for ways to avoid pain. We go to great extent to protect ourselves and our egos. We jump through hoops for fear of the sqeak. We ease back and sit idley where we are because things get too loud. When if we just face it, accept that we have to go through it, and move on, we could heal so much faster and save so much time.
So I continue to drive around in Squeaky the Shitbox. I continue to let the gaping dents in the side fester. I forget about the inherent lack of hubcaps. All because I don't want to face the fact that with a little tender care, a little pain (spend the money), the car can run normally again and I wouldn't have to do all these little tweaks to make sure I don't have to listen to the problems my car has.
Daryl, you elusive creature you, come shine down upon my once again. Open my wallet and dip down inside where the river has run dry and the sky has fallen. Teach me to be humble. Teach me to face my fear. Teach me to deal with the pain rather than run from it. And above all else, take a shower you stinky son of a bitch.
Last year about this time I sought a mechanic, who I sublimely dubbed as "Daryl." Today, I need Daryll again. Not to carve open my door, which was wedged shut by my parents bumpy, boony road, but to crack open the hood and hunt down the squealing of the fanbelt that I have allowed to go on for too long. To crawl under the vehicle and fix the tailpipe (or muffler) so that it doesn't sound like I am in a big rig truck as I stroll down the road in my little shitbox goobermobile.
Oh Daryl, I bessech thee once again to come down and have a look at my fine little vehicle. Work your magic across my engine oh sweat greasy savior. I call on thee to love my car more dearly, to see it more clearly, to get to know it more nearly.
For I have changed the name from "Olga" to "Squeaky the Magnificent." I can no longer run the heat or the air conditioner when I slow down for fear of the sqeak. I can no longer climb a mountain without going deaf from the rumble. I spend my time in the car twittering buttons and gears and easing off the gas for relief, for fear, for lack of anything better to do.
I've become quite adept at knowing when to turn my heat off (and freeze my ass off) to make sure the fanbelt doesn't squeal. Instead of fixing the problem (which requires money), I instead have learned to adapt to the nonsense that is squeaky and rumble.
It's interesting to me how I spend so much time figuring out ways to avoid the problem altogether, rather than just fixing it. Making the sacrifice, going to good ole Daryl (who is a fictitious mechanic and any resemblance to a real mechanic in real life is purely coincidental), and getting my car the care it needs. Instead, I find ways to just live with it. To put it off for another day. To eek out one more paycheck before the pain gets unbearable and I HAVE to fix it.
Have I not learned anything these past couple of years? All this time I have spent introspecting about why things happened to me, all this time I have spent trying to improve my life, and I still haven't learned the most important lesson of all: you can't avoid the pain; you can't control the pain; you have to FACE the pain and go through it. It's the only way to heal. It's the only way to get back to normal. It's the only way to pick yourself up and find redemption after a fall.
So many times we spend our lives looking for ways to avoid pain. We go to great extent to protect ourselves and our egos. We jump through hoops for fear of the sqeak. We ease back and sit idley where we are because things get too loud. When if we just face it, accept that we have to go through it, and move on, we could heal so much faster and save so much time.
So I continue to drive around in Squeaky the Shitbox. I continue to let the gaping dents in the side fester. I forget about the inherent lack of hubcaps. All because I don't want to face the fact that with a little tender care, a little pain (spend the money), the car can run normally again and I wouldn't have to do all these little tweaks to make sure I don't have to listen to the problems my car has.
Daryl, you elusive creature you, come shine down upon my once again. Open my wallet and dip down inside where the river has run dry and the sky has fallen. Teach me to be humble. Teach me to face my fear. Teach me to deal with the pain rather than run from it. And above all else, take a shower you stinky son of a bitch.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Opportunity
Two posts ago I post a long diatribe complaining about my job. That's nothing new.
Today I got a dose of reality and got over my whiny-ness when something struck me. I thought about the overtime I would be getting and I realized, first off, just how much money I'll be making in the next month if I work the kind of hours my boss wants us to work.
So, I broke out the calculator and did some figuring. I took my salary and worked out the hourly rate for time and a half. I then multiplied that by strictly the amount of overtime I'll get in a month (about 100 hours). Then I figured out what was left after taxes and I sat and gaped at the number for a good 5 minutes.
The number is, almost to the penny, the amount of debt leftover from my divorce that I haven't paid yet.
Unbelievable. I was awestruck. The reason I was so surprised is because I've been thinking about going back to college this year to get a MAT in Teaching. And I kept running the scenario in my head as to how I'm going to do that and live when I have all these debts that need to be paid. I remember thinking to myself about a month ago, and I'm paraphrasing here:
If I'm supposed to do this, then the opportunity to do so will come. If I step out on a little faith, do what I can, everything else will fall into place and I'll make it work.
Today, I see the seeds of faith becoming substance, and I find myself amazed.
It helped me to realize that to be truly happy, we need to release control of the outcomes. Our job is to step forward and do what we truly believe we need to be doing, and then the rest will take care of itself. If you can't see a way, that doesn't mean a way won't be made if you get up and go do something about it. You can't sit around listlessly thinking of excuses of why you can't do something. Just do it (if you believe in it so badly) and leave the rest to faith.
The interesting part is, the overtime is just part of the opportunity. As if that's not enough, I asked my ex-wife last night if I was going to be able to claim one of the kids on my taxes (after having a HUGE fight with her about it a month ago), and she looked at me and said:
"I've already filed my taxes. I claimed one, you can claim the other one."
That means, that I'll probably get a refund this year. And, if the deduction is still $1000 per child, it's going to be just enough of a refund to pay off the rest of the taxes I owe from last year, plust $100.
The moral of my story, as it has always seemed to be, is that when what seems like bad things hit us, can actually be propelling us toward good things. Two days ago I saw this burst of work as a curse. Today I see it as a blessing. A source of freedom. Another leg in the hurdle I am trying to cross to get to where I want to be.
Sometimes opportunity knocks...and sometimes it knocks you down. When you get back up, be thankful.
Today I got a dose of reality and got over my whiny-ness when something struck me. I thought about the overtime I would be getting and I realized, first off, just how much money I'll be making in the next month if I work the kind of hours my boss wants us to work.
So, I broke out the calculator and did some figuring. I took my salary and worked out the hourly rate for time and a half. I then multiplied that by strictly the amount of overtime I'll get in a month (about 100 hours). Then I figured out what was left after taxes and I sat and gaped at the number for a good 5 minutes.
The number is, almost to the penny, the amount of debt leftover from my divorce that I haven't paid yet.
Unbelievable. I was awestruck. The reason I was so surprised is because I've been thinking about going back to college this year to get a MAT in Teaching. And I kept running the scenario in my head as to how I'm going to do that and live when I have all these debts that need to be paid. I remember thinking to myself about a month ago, and I'm paraphrasing here:
If I'm supposed to do this, then the opportunity to do so will come. If I step out on a little faith, do what I can, everything else will fall into place and I'll make it work.
Today, I see the seeds of faith becoming substance, and I find myself amazed.
It helped me to realize that to be truly happy, we need to release control of the outcomes. Our job is to step forward and do what we truly believe we need to be doing, and then the rest will take care of itself. If you can't see a way, that doesn't mean a way won't be made if you get up and go do something about it. You can't sit around listlessly thinking of excuses of why you can't do something. Just do it (if you believe in it so badly) and leave the rest to faith.
The interesting part is, the overtime is just part of the opportunity. As if that's not enough, I asked my ex-wife last night if I was going to be able to claim one of the kids on my taxes (after having a HUGE fight with her about it a month ago), and she looked at me and said:
"I've already filed my taxes. I claimed one, you can claim the other one."
That means, that I'll probably get a refund this year. And, if the deduction is still $1000 per child, it's going to be just enough of a refund to pay off the rest of the taxes I owe from last year, plust $100.
The moral of my story, as it has always seemed to be, is that when what seems like bad things hit us, can actually be propelling us toward good things. Two days ago I saw this burst of work as a curse. Today I see it as a blessing. A source of freedom. Another leg in the hurdle I am trying to cross to get to where I want to be.
Sometimes opportunity knocks...and sometimes it knocks you down. When you get back up, be thankful.
Lessons from the Joker
Batman is one of my geeky guilty pleasures. From the time I was a little boy and I saw the first Batman on VHS one christmas eve, until this past Summer when the absolute greatest superhero movie I've ever seek (The Dark Knight) was released, I've always been fascinated by the story of Batman.
The interesting thing is, the thing that makes it so great isn't Batman himself, but the villains he fights. Some of the most creative and interesting villains in any superhero movie come from these movies. Two Face. The Riddler. Catwoman. Ras Al Ghul. The Scarecrow. And...my favorite...the Joker.
The first Batman movie didn't do him justice. Nicholoson was good, but that was just it...he was Nicholoson playing the Joker. Heath Ledger, on the other hand, COMPLETELY disappeared into the role. Go ahead, watch his other movies, and then watch this one and be awed at just how eerie it is.
The funnest part of the movie, for me, was anytime the Joker spoke. He had such a chaotic humor about him that was almost mesmerizing to watch, yet he was truly terrifying at the roots. The first time I saw the movie, I could actually feel the tension of what was happening in Gotham as he wreaked havoc in the city.
So here are a few of my favorite quotes:
I believe whatever doesn't kill you, simply makes you....stranger.
Now I see the funny side. Now I'm always smiling.
The only sensible way to live in this world is without rules.
Why so serious?
I'm a man of my word.
If we don't deal with this now, soon little, uh, Gambol here won't be able to get a nickel for his grandma.
Do I really look like a guy with a plan? You know what I am? I'm a dog chasing cars. I wouldn't know what to do with one if I caught it. You know, I just... do things.
Upset the established order, and everything becomes chaos. I'm an agent of chaos. Oh, and you know the thing about chaos? It's fair!
I mean, what happened? Did, did your balls drop off?
Yeah, I liked that last one too. Did you learn anything? Then read it again.
The interesting thing is, the thing that makes it so great isn't Batman himself, but the villains he fights. Some of the most creative and interesting villains in any superhero movie come from these movies. Two Face. The Riddler. Catwoman. Ras Al Ghul. The Scarecrow. And...my favorite...the Joker.
The first Batman movie didn't do him justice. Nicholoson was good, but that was just it...he was Nicholoson playing the Joker. Heath Ledger, on the other hand, COMPLETELY disappeared into the role. Go ahead, watch his other movies, and then watch this one and be awed at just how eerie it is.
The funnest part of the movie, for me, was anytime the Joker spoke. He had such a chaotic humor about him that was almost mesmerizing to watch, yet he was truly terrifying at the roots. The first time I saw the movie, I could actually feel the tension of what was happening in Gotham as he wreaked havoc in the city.
So here are a few of my favorite quotes:
I believe whatever doesn't kill you, simply makes you....stranger.
Now I see the funny side. Now I'm always smiling.
The only sensible way to live in this world is without rules.
Why so serious?
I'm a man of my word.
If we don't deal with this now, soon little, uh, Gambol here won't be able to get a nickel for his grandma.
Do I really look like a guy with a plan? You know what I am? I'm a dog chasing cars. I wouldn't know what to do with one if I caught it. You know, I just... do things.
Upset the established order, and everything becomes chaos. I'm an agent of chaos. Oh, and you know the thing about chaos? It's fair!
I mean, what happened? Did, did your balls drop off?
Yeah, I liked that last one too. Did you learn anything? Then read it again.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
For the Love of Work
I've never really made it much of a secret that I hate my job.
Well, hate is a pretty strong term. Like most jobs, it has it's good points and bad points. Interestingly enough (and I've mentioned this in the past), the job I have is a pretty gravy job. I *should* have no reason to complain (I really don't) because the job I do is relatively easy, stress free, has great benefits, and, while the pay isn't as great as it could be if I went somewhere else, it's still decent for the area that I live in. My boss is a good man. He has his flaws, but for the most part I really like him and the people I work with.
So, whenever the wave of discontent hits me, I feel down on the inside that I am just being a whiny, immature little kid about it. I actually feel guilty for not liking my job (weird, I know) because I know that the perks of the job are perks that I would be hard pressed to find elsewhere...which is part of the reason why it's so hard to just walk away.
Lately, I've been forcing myself to find some level of contentment within it. In a way, I believe that if I can at the very least come to terms with the job, and learn how to be content with it (not happy, just content), that it would be a pretty powerful life lesson. If I can succeed in something I hate, there's nothing I can't do. The patience required to come to that place would be a powerful quality to have.
So, I've been working on fixing the areas that I lack in. For an example, I've been chronically late ever since I've started. Usually only 15 minutes (give or take) late. And that stems from the fact that I just don't want to be there. So, in the past, I found myself avoiding sleep on the weekdays, because I realize that by going to sleep, that when I wake up it means I'm going there. So, it's been nothing for me to be awake at 2 and 3 in the morning when I have to get up by 7 to get there on time. But, lately, I've discovered how to beat that, and it's been a wild success. A small experiment I started back in December *finally* has taught me the way to be on time. Instead of getting up right when I have to leave, I have, instead, borrowed an hour at night and have been going to bed at 10:30/11:00. Instead of setting my alarm for 6:30/7:00, I have been setting it for 5AM and have become quite the morning person. And, for the week before Christmas and the past 2 weeks (3 weeks total), it's been successful. I've been getting up at 5 AM with little trouble (here and there I struggle), able to enjoy the morning a little bit before I have to go to work. I've even been going in an hour early.
It's amazing how getting up long before I have to be at work has affected my attitude towards work. No longer is going to bed a huge dread for me, because I know that when I wake up, I'll have time for myself now and not immediately be going to work. This, I think, is the big change in why actually getting up earlier is easier for me. It's because I no longer associate waking up with going into work, thus, I actually LOOK FORWARD to getting up at 5 AM. Who would've thought that something so radical would be so helpful? Who would've thought that that would work? I know I sure didn't.
But that's just one example of one hurdle that I've managed to cross while working here. And today is my 8th working day in a row where I've successfully not only been on time, but early. So I feel proud of myself for that. I feel proud that, what I thought, one of my hardest "battles" (the desire to sleep and stay up late) is now becoming a thing of the past and I am changing because of it. And I imagine that I am healthier for it, because I am no longer stressed out in the mornings, racing to work, cussing traffic, etc. to get there. It's a peaceful time where I can smoke cigarettes and watch the news (something that I rarely have time for). Eat breakfast. Take a shower. Dear sweet mother of Jesus that makes me sound old, doesn't it? lol
Anyway, I didn't intend to go off on that tangent, but alas I cannot take it back now. I rarely edit my blog posts before posting them, and I'm not going to start now.
The reason I gave you all that back story was to prime you for what is going to be a small rant--so you'll understand that I at least recognize that I've got it good and am not taking that for granted. I really don't. I appreciate that things could be a lot worse. A LOT worse. So, don't get me wrong.
But, as of today (or in the next day or so), the gauntlet is coming down. We've been warned about it for about a week now, but the day is vastly approaching. We're about to get HAMMERED with work. Work that needs to be out in a very short time. Thus, and here's my bone of contention, extreme overtime. We've been allowed to work 20 hours overtime this week (I'm only shooting for 10 right now) if we want to, which is great because I need the money. But, next week, that number might increase drastically. It may even get to the point where I get up, come to work, and by the time I get home all I'll have time for is going to bed and sleeping.
Saturdays are also looking likely, if things get too bad. The only resolve that I have, is that I won't work during any time that I get my kids. I'll fight tooth and nail against that. But aside from that, I'm going to be living to work for the next couple of months.
And I find myself really frustrated at the idea. I definately could use the money from the overtime, but in the same vein a big part about why it's hard to walk away from this job is that it's one of those jobs that allow you to have a life outside of work. You get 40 hours a week and you can be done. No pressure. No deadlines. None of that...until now.
But the intersting part is, that we just came OFF a time where we had pressure to get work out. We spent the last two months of LAST year fighting to meet deadlines. And that's my point. As more and more time passes, I see an increase in the amount of pressure. I notice an increase in the demand for overtime. I notice that, if the current trend of the past year continues, that it's very likely that my 40 hour a week gravy train is about to be derailed.
Boo fucking hoo, right? lol
I actually see this is a good thing. The job has been so good, that until now I haven't been able to motivate myself to leave, but the parts that make me hate it have created this love/hate thing with it, where I have no good reason to hate my job, but I do. This makes me tense and frustrated, because I look at how good I have it and thus it makes me guilty to not be happy where I am at. So I force myself to stay where I am at because it's just comfortable enough to keep me content, even if it breeds phases of extreme discontent.
Now, I see the day approaching where those perks are slowly disintegrating and becoming a thing of the past. Now, I think, I can have a legitimate amount of pain to working that it might be enough to force me out and not feel guilty for it.
BTW, I'm no stranger to work here. I've had a total of 13 jobs in my life, and starting working when I was 12. If I didn't have a job at all, I would go nuts because I have to stay relatively active. I think I'm looking more for something to get my moving again. Something with a little challenge to it.
Ok, this post has just been one long, boring ramble, so I'm gonna end this post. I just wanted to work out some of the shit that was rattling around in my brain and get it out there. Now that I have, I can delightfully say adieu.
Peace
Well, hate is a pretty strong term. Like most jobs, it has it's good points and bad points. Interestingly enough (and I've mentioned this in the past), the job I have is a pretty gravy job. I *should* have no reason to complain (I really don't) because the job I do is relatively easy, stress free, has great benefits, and, while the pay isn't as great as it could be if I went somewhere else, it's still decent for the area that I live in. My boss is a good man. He has his flaws, but for the most part I really like him and the people I work with.
So, whenever the wave of discontent hits me, I feel down on the inside that I am just being a whiny, immature little kid about it. I actually feel guilty for not liking my job (weird, I know) because I know that the perks of the job are perks that I would be hard pressed to find elsewhere...which is part of the reason why it's so hard to just walk away.
Lately, I've been forcing myself to find some level of contentment within it. In a way, I believe that if I can at the very least come to terms with the job, and learn how to be content with it (not happy, just content), that it would be a pretty powerful life lesson. If I can succeed in something I hate, there's nothing I can't do. The patience required to come to that place would be a powerful quality to have.
So, I've been working on fixing the areas that I lack in. For an example, I've been chronically late ever since I've started. Usually only 15 minutes (give or take) late. And that stems from the fact that I just don't want to be there. So, in the past, I found myself avoiding sleep on the weekdays, because I realize that by going to sleep, that when I wake up it means I'm going there. So, it's been nothing for me to be awake at 2 and 3 in the morning when I have to get up by 7 to get there on time. But, lately, I've discovered how to beat that, and it's been a wild success. A small experiment I started back in December *finally* has taught me the way to be on time. Instead of getting up right when I have to leave, I have, instead, borrowed an hour at night and have been going to bed at 10:30/11:00. Instead of setting my alarm for 6:30/7:00, I have been setting it for 5AM and have become quite the morning person. And, for the week before Christmas and the past 2 weeks (3 weeks total), it's been successful. I've been getting up at 5 AM with little trouble (here and there I struggle), able to enjoy the morning a little bit before I have to go to work. I've even been going in an hour early.
It's amazing how getting up long before I have to be at work has affected my attitude towards work. No longer is going to bed a huge dread for me, because I know that when I wake up, I'll have time for myself now and not immediately be going to work. This, I think, is the big change in why actually getting up earlier is easier for me. It's because I no longer associate waking up with going into work, thus, I actually LOOK FORWARD to getting up at 5 AM. Who would've thought that something so radical would be so helpful? Who would've thought that that would work? I know I sure didn't.
But that's just one example of one hurdle that I've managed to cross while working here. And today is my 8th working day in a row where I've successfully not only been on time, but early. So I feel proud of myself for that. I feel proud that, what I thought, one of my hardest "battles" (the desire to sleep and stay up late) is now becoming a thing of the past and I am changing because of it. And I imagine that I am healthier for it, because I am no longer stressed out in the mornings, racing to work, cussing traffic, etc. to get there. It's a peaceful time where I can smoke cigarettes and watch the news (something that I rarely have time for). Eat breakfast. Take a shower. Dear sweet mother of Jesus that makes me sound old, doesn't it? lol
Anyway, I didn't intend to go off on that tangent, but alas I cannot take it back now. I rarely edit my blog posts before posting them, and I'm not going to start now.
The reason I gave you all that back story was to prime you for what is going to be a small rant--so you'll understand that I at least recognize that I've got it good and am not taking that for granted. I really don't. I appreciate that things could be a lot worse. A LOT worse. So, don't get me wrong.
But, as of today (or in the next day or so), the gauntlet is coming down. We've been warned about it for about a week now, but the day is vastly approaching. We're about to get HAMMERED with work. Work that needs to be out in a very short time. Thus, and here's my bone of contention, extreme overtime. We've been allowed to work 20 hours overtime this week (I'm only shooting for 10 right now) if we want to, which is great because I need the money. But, next week, that number might increase drastically. It may even get to the point where I get up, come to work, and by the time I get home all I'll have time for is going to bed and sleeping.
Saturdays are also looking likely, if things get too bad. The only resolve that I have, is that I won't work during any time that I get my kids. I'll fight tooth and nail against that. But aside from that, I'm going to be living to work for the next couple of months.
And I find myself really frustrated at the idea. I definately could use the money from the overtime, but in the same vein a big part about why it's hard to walk away from this job is that it's one of those jobs that allow you to have a life outside of work. You get 40 hours a week and you can be done. No pressure. No deadlines. None of that...until now.
But the intersting part is, that we just came OFF a time where we had pressure to get work out. We spent the last two months of LAST year fighting to meet deadlines. And that's my point. As more and more time passes, I see an increase in the amount of pressure. I notice an increase in the demand for overtime. I notice that, if the current trend of the past year continues, that it's very likely that my 40 hour a week gravy train is about to be derailed.
Boo fucking hoo, right? lol
I actually see this is a good thing. The job has been so good, that until now I haven't been able to motivate myself to leave, but the parts that make me hate it have created this love/hate thing with it, where I have no good reason to hate my job, but I do. This makes me tense and frustrated, because I look at how good I have it and thus it makes me guilty to not be happy where I am at. So I force myself to stay where I am at because it's just comfortable enough to keep me content, even if it breeds phases of extreme discontent.
Now, I see the day approaching where those perks are slowly disintegrating and becoming a thing of the past. Now, I think, I can have a legitimate amount of pain to working that it might be enough to force me out and not feel guilty for it.
BTW, I'm no stranger to work here. I've had a total of 13 jobs in my life, and starting working when I was 12. If I didn't have a job at all, I would go nuts because I have to stay relatively active. I think I'm looking more for something to get my moving again. Something with a little challenge to it.
Ok, this post has just been one long, boring ramble, so I'm gonna end this post. I just wanted to work out some of the shit that was rattling around in my brain and get it out there. Now that I have, I can delightfully say adieu.
Peace
Monday, January 12, 2009
I, Forgiveness
Let me take a moment to celebrate my bitterness.
I put on my pity party hat, straddle up my shit stompers, and hurdle up that incredibly large chip that resides on my shoulders.
I step outside and immediately begin to think of ways to use my trusty, comfortable cloak. If I walk a mile with a street bum, I adjust my pity party hat and wallow in my self-loathing. If someone has the audicity to disagree with me, I place my size 11 shit stomper straight up their ass. When someone makes a mistake that affects me, I unload that incredibly large chip on my shoulder and beat them down with it.
Gosh, I feel better. But I can't leave them there. Sooner or later I must put on my pity party hat again, remove my size 11 shit stomper from their ass, and straddle up my chip and carry on.
I ride daily in the seat of bitterness, leaving a wake of destruction and misery in my path. I hold grudges. I am not a good person.
And then, like magic, the sweet savory salve of forgiveness washes down over me and the hat drips off, the chip shrivels up and falls to ash, and the boots slide off feet forward, leaving me flat on my face in humility.
I once stole a car out of anger. I once told a lie to hide my insecurity. I once made fun of a retarded boy on a playground, stole his paper airplane, and laughed hideously as he chased me around the playground. These things I am not proud of, yet I wear them like badges of honor. The wall of the wounded, pasted in self-righteous glory to sustain the ever hungry tower of ego.
Every single one of us has a story. Some of us come from broken homes. Some of us come from authoritarian homes. Some of us have no home. Each one of us follows the path up into the mountains, and must ultimately make decisions as to which divergence we take to reach the top. Some of us take the rocky, narrow, weed-infested road to the top, where we learn great truths about ourselves and others. Some of us take the paved bike path through the clearing and coast effortlessly to the top, not knowing who we are, but still walking tireless towards the peak.
They say that redemption is right where you fell. That forgiveness is but a pipe dream blathered on by bible-belt preachers and misunderstand, sandle-slapping Jews from Nazereth.
I say that forgiveness is an illusion of a story we once heard long ago, and allowed to dictate our lives. We want to change, but our egos don't allow us too, so we cling to our self-defeating, destructive habits just so that we can remain blissfully in pain.
I say follow a new path. Look past the illusion and see the reality: the bitterness is what you make of it. That forgiveness isn't a deed, but an emotion, coursing through your body like water, eroding at the crud that we let build up over time.
You say you can't forgive. I say you refuse to feel. You say you are bitter. I say that you are dead on the inside. The meaning of life is to live it, and those not living fully are dying on the inside.
Today I strive to feel again. Today I strive to let go of the previous stories that brought me to where I am, and to write a new story in it's place. It's been said by people far wiser than I that "though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool."
I think that that is all wrong. We look for a forgiveness that washes away the past instead of one that embraces the past. We look for a savior who will take us from who we were and transform us into who we want to be, instead of looking for the power that is inside of us, the great storyteller that we silenced long ago.
Give him back his pen, he's aching to write again. Give him his canvas, he wants to draw a new picture. Place a camera in his hand and let him capture the life you live and embed it into a still frame for all of time.
Today, I learn about forgiveness and bitterness. Today, I strive to feel it for the first time and forgive the one person I struggle the most to forgive:
Myself.
I put on my pity party hat, straddle up my shit stompers, and hurdle up that incredibly large chip that resides on my shoulders.
I step outside and immediately begin to think of ways to use my trusty, comfortable cloak. If I walk a mile with a street bum, I adjust my pity party hat and wallow in my self-loathing. If someone has the audicity to disagree with me, I place my size 11 shit stomper straight up their ass. When someone makes a mistake that affects me, I unload that incredibly large chip on my shoulder and beat them down with it.
Gosh, I feel better. But I can't leave them there. Sooner or later I must put on my pity party hat again, remove my size 11 shit stomper from their ass, and straddle up my chip and carry on.
I ride daily in the seat of bitterness, leaving a wake of destruction and misery in my path. I hold grudges. I am not a good person.
And then, like magic, the sweet savory salve of forgiveness washes down over me and the hat drips off, the chip shrivels up and falls to ash, and the boots slide off feet forward, leaving me flat on my face in humility.
I once stole a car out of anger. I once told a lie to hide my insecurity. I once made fun of a retarded boy on a playground, stole his paper airplane, and laughed hideously as he chased me around the playground. These things I am not proud of, yet I wear them like badges of honor. The wall of the wounded, pasted in self-righteous glory to sustain the ever hungry tower of ego.
Every single one of us has a story. Some of us come from broken homes. Some of us come from authoritarian homes. Some of us have no home. Each one of us follows the path up into the mountains, and must ultimately make decisions as to which divergence we take to reach the top. Some of us take the rocky, narrow, weed-infested road to the top, where we learn great truths about ourselves and others. Some of us take the paved bike path through the clearing and coast effortlessly to the top, not knowing who we are, but still walking tireless towards the peak.
They say that redemption is right where you fell. That forgiveness is but a pipe dream blathered on by bible-belt preachers and misunderstand, sandle-slapping Jews from Nazereth.
I say that forgiveness is an illusion of a story we once heard long ago, and allowed to dictate our lives. We want to change, but our egos don't allow us too, so we cling to our self-defeating, destructive habits just so that we can remain blissfully in pain.
I say follow a new path. Look past the illusion and see the reality: the bitterness is what you make of it. That forgiveness isn't a deed, but an emotion, coursing through your body like water, eroding at the crud that we let build up over time.
You say you can't forgive. I say you refuse to feel. You say you are bitter. I say that you are dead on the inside. The meaning of life is to live it, and those not living fully are dying on the inside.
Today I strive to feel again. Today I strive to let go of the previous stories that brought me to where I am, and to write a new story in it's place. It's been said by people far wiser than I that "though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool."
I think that that is all wrong. We look for a forgiveness that washes away the past instead of one that embraces the past. We look for a savior who will take us from who we were and transform us into who we want to be, instead of looking for the power that is inside of us, the great storyteller that we silenced long ago.
Give him back his pen, he's aching to write again. Give him his canvas, he wants to draw a new picture. Place a camera in his hand and let him capture the life you live and embed it into a still frame for all of time.
Today, I learn about forgiveness and bitterness. Today, I strive to feel it for the first time and forgive the one person I struggle the most to forgive:
Myself.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Rejection
Pish posh, dead in the water on the first try.
No, wait...I've been here before in other ways on other days with a big rake and some hay. That's right, I know the sweet sting of rejection. I've kissed it's feet and been kicked in the face. Knocked down, drug out, and then thrown to the wolves for hungry meat.
Now, I actively seek a new kind of rejection. I seek a new kind of pain. I muddle through a new hell. I rear back on my hind legs, stand tall, and roar like a lion. I am a writer...hear me roar? That don't sound right, but it makes no sense for me to say "I am woman," because, let's face it, I'm not. I'm not a woman and can never be a woman (without extensive operations and even that is questionable).
No, the rejection I seek is of a new flavor. The rejection of the work that I spent hours endlessly honing to perfection. The work that became my blood, sweat, and tears for two months to complete, and then forced back into for several months of edits.
If you still don't know what I am talking about, I'll spell it out in plain English. In April of last year, I wrote a novel. A quirky, feel good, fast paced trip down the roads of my imagination and into the sweet by and by of novel-dom. Then, when I finished, I spent months (off and on) editting it and fixing all the millions of mistakes that I made on the first go around. I even had someone critique it for me and offer comments.
But now I am ready for query heaven. I say "heaven" and not hell because I know what's in store for me. I am prepared for it, and I have even resigned to the idea that this novel might not go anywhere. Last night, with that mindset, I fired off 4 email queries to various agents (and I'm mailing one query out by snail mail this afternoon), selling myself and my work.
Today, already, I have received my first rejection. Nice, quaint, to the point: they are not the agent for me, but opinions vary in the business so keep trying. I should be upset. I should feel like less of a person, like a failed writer drifting aimlessly towards the waterfall of endless writer query oblivion.
Instead, I am going to print that sucker and put it on my fridge. Let it stand as a reminder that I am further along than I have ever been in the process, and I am out there putting myself (and my enormous ego) on the line for what I truly love. There's something sweet about that and all the implications it carries with it.
It says that despite my previous failures, I'm ready to fail again if need be. It says that the age old fear of not being good enough is about to be tested against the litmus of trial and error. It says that if, as in the past, I just hold on that I'll make it where I want to go and be where I want to be. I've been knocked down before, but I got back up. If I get back up again, I stand to be knocked down again. But I'm malleable, shape-shifting and improvising until I find a path that works for me.
I spit in the face of rejection and trudge on. Bring it on, I say. Bring it on.
No, wait...I've been here before in other ways on other days with a big rake and some hay. That's right, I know the sweet sting of rejection. I've kissed it's feet and been kicked in the face. Knocked down, drug out, and then thrown to the wolves for hungry meat.
Now, I actively seek a new kind of rejection. I seek a new kind of pain. I muddle through a new hell. I rear back on my hind legs, stand tall, and roar like a lion. I am a writer...hear me roar? That don't sound right, but it makes no sense for me to say "I am woman," because, let's face it, I'm not. I'm not a woman and can never be a woman (without extensive operations and even that is questionable).
No, the rejection I seek is of a new flavor. The rejection of the work that I spent hours endlessly honing to perfection. The work that became my blood, sweat, and tears for two months to complete, and then forced back into for several months of edits.
If you still don't know what I am talking about, I'll spell it out in plain English. In April of last year, I wrote a novel. A quirky, feel good, fast paced trip down the roads of my imagination and into the sweet by and by of novel-dom. Then, when I finished, I spent months (off and on) editting it and fixing all the millions of mistakes that I made on the first go around. I even had someone critique it for me and offer comments.
But now I am ready for query heaven. I say "heaven" and not hell because I know what's in store for me. I am prepared for it, and I have even resigned to the idea that this novel might not go anywhere. Last night, with that mindset, I fired off 4 email queries to various agents (and I'm mailing one query out by snail mail this afternoon), selling myself and my work.
Today, already, I have received my first rejection. Nice, quaint, to the point: they are not the agent for me, but opinions vary in the business so keep trying. I should be upset. I should feel like less of a person, like a failed writer drifting aimlessly towards the waterfall of endless writer query oblivion.
Instead, I am going to print that sucker and put it on my fridge. Let it stand as a reminder that I am further along than I have ever been in the process, and I am out there putting myself (and my enormous ego) on the line for what I truly love. There's something sweet about that and all the implications it carries with it.
It says that despite my previous failures, I'm ready to fail again if need be. It says that the age old fear of not being good enough is about to be tested against the litmus of trial and error. It says that if, as in the past, I just hold on that I'll make it where I want to go and be where I want to be. I've been knocked down before, but I got back up. If I get back up again, I stand to be knocked down again. But I'm malleable, shape-shifting and improvising until I find a path that works for me.
I spit in the face of rejection and trudge on. Bring it on, I say. Bring it on.
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