"...and a night that's full of soul and light"

Song of the moment: Fisherman's Blues by Waterboys

Dear Chad,

Today, I popped my Waterboy's disc in to the cd player of my car.  The speakers in my car are blown- shocker, I know.  I figured that at the very least the memory of the song, even in the lightest space would be a nice treat.  Fisherman's Blues came on and...my speakers erupted with the song.  I felt like you were sitting, right there with me, quiet.  Right beside me.

When I got to work, I shared the song with a friend and he shared a few memories of that song with me.  Funny, he reminds me of you sometimes.  You two would have been chums- you're similar in nature, and it's a comfort to me when I see some of your eyes in his own.

But I digress...

When I heard just the start of the song, I thought of you and my heart smiled widely.

Your eyes came back to me, open, shining like cool water.  When you smiled, Chad, your eyes played.  They lit up like cold fire, right there, burning, always laughing.

It's different now, listening to our music.  I have come to listen with ease, now.  There was a time I was unable to listen to our songs.  Couldn't bare it, really.  Your loss was hard for me, and I took it rather unwell for some time.

When you passed, I thought I had broken up in to tiny pieces and I had a hard time putting my memories of you back together again.  My Mom saved me in that moment.

She told me to talk to you.  Unabashedly.  Just talk.

"But he's gone," I would fight.

Mom was persistent, you know...she suggested I keep my heart lifted up to you.  

So, I tried it.  

I talked to you in the shower, in the car and on walks.  I asked you for help.  I talked to you when I was spooked at night, alone.  I asked you for advice.  I've called you an ass for some of the jokes you made.  I've said "I told you so," when the memory of seeing Horizon milk and Tom's Of Maine toothpaste took placement in your refrigerator and bathroom counter crept in to mind.  I talked to you after break ups and losses.  I've thanked you many times for protecting me...that one time.  I've reminded you that I still love you.  I've thanked you for the walk down the aisle at graduation.  I've also cussed you out for leaving this place because I miss you.  I've laughed at the memory of us, driving home after school and the pain we all put our last period first-year teacher through, our Senior year.

When Willy held me on the day of your Memorial service, he saved some of my pieces that day.  I wouldn't recognize him if I saw him today, nor him, me but it matters not really.

I thank you for that moment too.

We were such an odd pairing of friends- and we were a perfect platonic match, for the same reasons.

Very rarely a day passes that I don't talk to you.

And when I hear our songs, now I smile.

It's been suggested that my speaking of and talking about you and displaying my photos of you is...er...bold. Brave. But...I've always been bold.  And I talk about you, display and dust the picture frame, which holds your photo because I celebrate you.  

Period.

I just wanted to get it in writing, I guess.  And wanted to let you know that I still love you.

It would have been your 31st Birthday last month.  Happy Birthday, sweet man.

Love,

me

Thank you Mom and Dad R. for the pic...

Letting Go of a Little Bit of Light

Let's try something new, going forward: at the beginning of some of my posts, I'll give you a taste of my current mood, with a song, and a link, so that you can get a real feel of the moment.  Listen loudly!

Given the personal nature of this particular blog, there's a shadow of a dark past, but there's a great future ahead. There's something to be said about giving yourself the chance to start again...and opening up to what you may have left behind.  I appreciate the fact that someone else reminds a few hundred thousand of us that we are not wasted space  So, without further ado, here we go.  Sir Boyfriend will shake his head in mild shame.  But for the moment, this song makes my tiny heart soar with something. 

No holds bar, anymore.  

Things are about the get really personal.  So, if emotion is a challenging thing with which you grapple, or if you typically make a mockery of emotion because of your inability to express it...consider yourself forewarned.

About Father's Day.  In the past this has been a fairly tough day for me.  My relationship with my birth father is an estranged one, to say the least.  This isn't a diary, so forgive me for sparing more interesting details, but for now, let the mystery suffice.

I remember days spent with my father, on the porch, on hot summer days.  I remember his affinity for sun tea, sans sugar (a mortal sin, in my opinion) and oatmeal cookies.  He owned a marina in North Carolina, and I like to imagine that this was similar to his life's purpose and calling: a life by and of the Sea.  He was a quiet man, and one, to this day, still shrouded in mystery, to me.  He read J.R.R. Tolkien and named his sailboat after the white horse, Shadowfax from the Lord Of the Rings trilogy (well that's my assumption.  The connection only occurred to me many years later, while in a Theater watching the movies).    Perhaps he is a man more like myself than I originally thought, both seeking the novels of the fantastic.  

I've held a rather dark opinion of this man for some time.  It's been well over a decade since I last spoke to him.  Setting aside the pain, I have decided to try something a little different this year.  

When I was four years old, my mom married the man who would become my second chance.  This man would become my dad. The irony of our relationship sets in, on moments such as this. And there is no other person for whom my blood runs heaviest.  This man would become my own Knight In Shining Armor.  I am a Daddy's Girl, through and through.  If there was a flag, representative of such an audacious group, I would hang it proudly.  This is the man who attended recitals, watched cowboy movies with me on Saturday mornings. He replaced the brakes in my Volvo, taught me how to change a tire and told me to kick a man "where it hurts," should the necessity show itself. He took my trick-or-treating. He took me camping, fishing, ignores me when I belch, and taught me what Barking Spiders were and, more importantly, how to avoid them. He introduced me to the mythology of Irish folktales, and answers my questions about the probability about King Arthur's reign...whilst at work...I'd bet, even during a staff meeting.  And he doesn't dismiss my daydreams of the Knights Templar and my imaginings of Christ's "alternate life," as I like to call it. He's supported me, laughed at me, yelled at me and tucked me in as a kid, every night.  

So, while I reserve Father's Day for my dad of heart, I thought I might...for the first time, ever, say something about my birth father on this day before Father's Day.  And because I've no idea where he is, I lay it here to rest, before God and everyone, 'cuz baby, I'm a firework and shooting across some sky...

I forgive him.  

Wholly and completely, I forgive you.  Your memory will no longer remain a weight upon me.  I've since decided to be a bigger person than the losses in my life.

I have decided that your memory will be ignited in a brighter light.  

I have held on to a dream, of my own, for you, for some time and this is my gift to you on this Father's Day.  I am letting go of it.  It is no longer mine to hold on to.

It is my hope for you that someday you meet the Sea as a man cherishing a dream of the water.  Here, in this dream I hold for you, I imagine that, upon, the Sea, you shine.    I imagine that you have met your purpose and that you are understood by the space around you.  I imagine that you have released, from a tight heart, something of yourself.  I imagine that you embark upon the Sea with wings, guiding you along a path of wind which might bring you to a place of calm.  I like to imagine that a life at Sea, is for you, a thing of magic, peace and something of supreme happiness.  I imagine you surrounded by a library of novels, which I hope take you to some of the same places I've been.  That small thing, we might have in common, you and I.

There are memories of time I spent with you, which I will hold to me.  I vow to hold these moments as the brighter parts of your memory.  

This, I have given up, to you.

When the wind pulls the clouds across the moon

I seem to have number of revelations, while in the car, on my way to the office.

This morning was no exception- and this one was a big one.  And when I can figure out how to put in words, I'll share it in a bit more depth.

Ultimately, it came down to the fact that I live in my head.  And most of the time the life in my head isn't all that conducive to living in reality.  In order to find a path, best-suited for a dreamer who must learn to live in reality, I come to see that I have over-compensated.  It's a gross overshoot on my behalf.

A lot of creative folks have learned to balance things.  Not me.  My pendulum is heavily weighted on the side of mmmm...let's call it "trying too hard."

This means that while I do not have a natural knack for precision, academia, logical thought and paying bills on time, I have over-corrected that failed part of myself by over-exerting my attempts to accomplish things like getting through college- that took me eight years, give or take.  Lots of folks, these days, would call me a perfectionist.  And in some ways, I am honored.  It just means they have little idea of who I am when the curtains are parted.  I tired really hard to compensate for my lack of natural logic.  It's paid off, sort of.

Mostly, I am saddened by my total lack of responsibility in fostering my 4-year-old means of spirit.  I like to imagine that fairies exist.  I like to imagine that the myths of mermaids exist for some substantial reason.  I also abide by folklore and it's place in reality.  Stories are told for a reason.  I just find that I tend to error on the side of "what if," rather than "Oh mermaids.  That's a cute story."  Irish folktales tell stories about the romance that once existed between the Moon and the Sea.  It's a widely accepted fact that the moon's pull on the tides effect the swell of the sea.

Just some old folktales, right?  I'm just saying that my mind leans toward the stuff of legend.

But instead of gathering some bravery and harnessing my head, I've completely dismissed it and I am worse off for it.

I've shared most of this with my mom, whose faith in my silly head games, never ceases to amaze me.  

So today, as a result of my sharing a pivotal understanding, she sent me the lyrics to a Sade song.

Quietly while you were asleep 

The moon and I were talking 
I asked that she'd always keep you protected 
She promised you her light 
That you so gracefully carry 
You bring your light and shine like morning 
And then the wind pulls the clouds across the moon 
Your light fills the darkest room 
And I can see the miracle 
That keeps us from falling 
She promised all the sweetest gifts 
That only the heaven's could bestow 
You bring your light and shine like morning 
And as you so gracefully give Her light as long as you live 
I'll always remember this moment 

She closed her message with proof that I am not the only one out there speaking to the moon.  I am not the only one who believes in the good which comes to the man who sleeps in the lighted split of the moon.

A wicked imagination lives in me.  Flames lick the confines of my attempts at fitting in to some normalcy.  It's something for which I am grateful and ashamed.  And now that I see the greater disservice I may have done, by casting it aside, it's my intent, with nearly every breath, to rectify that.

Thank you, Mama for believing that my "crazy" is the good kind.


Here's to bringin' it!

My Divorce From Facebook

About a month ago, I disabled my Facebook account.

Few people noticed.

Fewer asked me about it.

Which, in the end, after all these weeks, is why I am not upset about my intention to separate myself from this particular social medium.

I wasted an insurmountable time on Facebook.  It began to take my evenings from me.  I compared my photos to those of my friends, and worse, rather than celebrate folks lives, I began to have a sneaking suspicion that most of my intake of folks' updates was causing me a bit of sadness.

Okay, to the point, now.

I'm really tired of comparing myself, my life and my lack of accomplishments to people I love- it's sick, morose and sad.

I'm tired of friends comparing notes about the number of drinks they can consume without passing out.

Or the tension publicly displayed via page comments upon one another's pages.

I'm tired of looking at boob-shots and jock shots.  (I'm not prude, but seriously?  C'mon).

I'm tired of people's usage of the f-bomb on my page- my boss reads my page.  So does my Mom.  I cuss like a sailor, don't get me wrong, but not on a social media site.

Folks have every right to post as they please, compare their 2 year-old's $1,000+ birthday party expenditures and such.  But as they say...rather than complain, fight buy in to a hot mess, just exit the premises.  So, sadly, I've chosen not to involve myself.

With no ability to get a grasp on things, I bailed on the entire adventure...it's like therapy, but without meds.

And it's proven to be thoroughly productive.  Given such a separation, this venue gives me the chance to indulge in a few things I love.  It allows me the freedom to once again remember what it is that I'm good at, without the constant upkeep of "keeping up with the Jones'".  Also admitting that my time spent on Facebook is not well-harnessed by your's truly, I've moved on to better ventures, until I can presume my relationship with a little bit more maturity.

So there it is.  The folks closest to me might get it.  There's little to be gained in life, by the comparison of one's self to a mass of people.

So, instead of comparing my own "lacking," I've started a garden.  And I've used my KitchenAid a lot. I've written notes and mailed them, via snail mail.  Like when you use a pen to write on a card and then stick the card in an envelope, slap a stamp on it, and pass it off to the Post Woman (who in my neck of the woods is very much like Pheobe, from Friends.

Anyway, there it is.

I love people and it's never my intent to hurt or overlook, but Facebook is just not how I choose to maintain my relationships with the people I love.

Dang, it feels good to be a gangsta.

b

Even Mom Wonders About Me...

My mom just read my most recent blog, and she responded to it via a text (she learned how to do this a year ago?  or so?  and she really, really, really loves to text me).  She insinuated that in reading my most recent blog, after this one, that there was so much about me she doesn't know.

And this, as a wanna-be-writer, is one of the most magical things she could have said to me.

She knows me better than any other soul on this Earth (except maybe my cat) and there's still more to come from me.  It reminds me that there are a few tricks, stories and tales hiding up my sleeve.  Mom knows my demeanor, my wicked temper and my spinning head.  But sadly, what she, and some others may not always have the chance to see, are the spaces in me which create calm.  The stories and movies in my head.  I'm a wild, driven and pugnacious soul, but I am also quiet- that quiet gets lost in the sounds of my maddening voice.  There spaces of utter peace within me and for some sad reason, I am mostly, unable to exhibit that part of myself, in reality.  I immersed in the world around me.

And when I find my quiet, I remember the softer side of who I am- the girl who loves pink (but is scared to admit it, for fear of being stoned or...worse...deemed feminine.  That's another blog).

Thanks Mom, for reminding me that there is more to me than what I've shown.  It means there's still time for me.  Still time to take the quiet I hear now, and bring it, with me, in my pocket, as I travel outside, in such a noisy world.  I use my words to hide that part of me, I suppose.  My shield from chaos.

Sad.

Very sad.

How, ever, did it come to this?

But, then, there it is.  You write.  You are.

And when I write my novel some day, I will make certain that there is a tempered mention of the color pink.

And of a girl who learns to just be...quiet.

And happy.

On Mermaids and Selkies...mostly Mermaids though...

 

The waters rush'd, the waters rose,
 Wetting his naked feet;
As if his true love's words were those,
 His heart with longing beat.
She sang to him, to him spake she,
 His doom was fix'd, I ween;
Half drew she him, and half sank he,
 And ne'er again was seen. 

-The Fisherman

Goethe

I love the ocean just as much as the next person.  I grew up on the coast, in a small shore town, Half Moon Bay.

It's nestled from the world, south of the big city, San Francisco.  Half Moon Bay is unlike any typical Cali beach town.  It's a working town, filled with natives, transients, visitors, rich, poor, blue collar, surfers, escapists, cowboys and lost souls.  

It's a far cry from Barbie's ideal beach haven.

No, instead fisherman wake before the sun.  Surfers ply through black water, and farmers rise early, greeting the day with thoughts of fence posts, cattle and hay.

The mist rises and falls away again, like sleep from the eyes of a giant.

I spent hours passing time on trails leading to the edge of the world.  I stared a lot, lost track of time, got in trouble for not calling my parents and well, I dreamed a lot out there.  That giant expanse of water gave me the space to get into the better parts of my head.  

After years have passed me by, I come to find the real reason for my love of the sea.  It's not the blue hue of the ocean, reflecting off the bright cobalt of sky above.  It's not the hot guy changing out of a wet suit, on the side of the road, trunk open.  It's not the sound even.  And while there's something to be said for the weightlessness one feels, as your small body is pulled to and fro, in the hands of a wave, it's not even that.  It's not the feel of harsh sand beneath my feet, and in my toes.  It's not the summer sun either.

It's myth and legend.

The ocean holds her stories as a woman holds her pearls.

On any given night in such a small place, stories are told in a small bar, overlooking carefully clutched fishing boats.  Darkly paneled wood hugs visitors, while a wide-massed wall fire warms bitter toes and running noses. Fingers dissolve in to warmth, and the tap flows, wildly, for such a tiny enclosure.

Years ago, in this very place, I watched a haggard man take his place on a worn bar stool.  His eyes were tired and his beard...holy God...it was a thing of legend.  It tore through his face with a vengeance.  It wasn't the stuff of Santa Claus.  It wasn't the stuff of the placid Irish folk-tale stuff.  It was, er...yeah.  It had the slightest hue of mmm...green to it.  Green.  Old Man Sea had a green beard.  It took me a few minutes to get through the questions looming in my mind.  

Does he wash his beard?  Shampoo it maybe?  Can he use Pantene Pro-V?  Or does he need those huge bottles of Horse 'n' Mane?

Does he have a granddaughter who braids it on Sunday nights for him, while by the fire?

Does he have a seawife who brushes the gnarls from it, for him?

Has he seen it in the mirror?  Could he maybe dye it?   

I was transfixed for a few minutes until I saw the same green in his eyes.  Such a heavy sadness there.  He sipped something thick, the color of amber, in a tiny clear glass, slowly.  And as he set it down upon the bar, I watched his fingers, lightly trace the arms of the wood, fiddle with his napkin, and then trail the top-most portion of the glass with his left middle finger.  I wondered if the small shot glass sang to him, in the same way a light wine glass might.  

And I wondered what made his mind so busy.

And then, like any other twenty-five year old young woman stuck in a five-year old storybook mentality, I made up his story for him.

I knew, that at some point in his earlier years, perhaps also at the age of twenty five, he must have fallen in love with a mermaid.

It was the only reasonable explanation for seaweed eyes and such a lost space within him.

No one would have believed him, not the story of his love for a mermaid.  Never.

He would have seen her rarely, until her mother discovered her nasty little secret, barring her from returning to the tops of the waves, for an eternity.

Her love lost would cause the seas to rise with her tears, saving her human man from the torrents of the storm that very same night.  High seas would carry his ship to the shore, alleviated from the tumbling of her family's rage beneath the seas.

As his feet met earth again, the fog would drip with Rachel Yamagata's Duet, sung by the two brightest stars in the sky.  And he would walk in to this same bar, drinking this drink that now remains the only soul that kisses his lips.  The green upon him, the only reminder of his mermaid's touch, now emblazoned upon his personage, eyes and now beard, with age and time.  He would recall his mermaid's name, something like Lilania, or something close to it.  

And he would await the day he would be passed in to the deep waters, where his lovely mermaid still waits.  Even after all this time.

And then, once some sort of reality struck me, I would begin to wonder what mermaids and mermen think of humans.

Are they angry with us for the drips, drains, dumps and deaths we immerse upon their home?  How far down do they live?  Did they destroy Avalon, clutching it close to the heart of the sea, after the king's men discovered their presence?  Maybe that's why they say Avalon was washed away to the sea?  Do they war with Great Whites and swim with dolphins?  Do they think human men are as lovely a breed of creature we assume of mermaids?  Are their scales really like gold?

They probably think we're idiots.

Mermaids and selkies are myths.  And it's the stuff in these myths that draws, me so, to water.

Like I said, it's not really the sunny sky on beach day that pulls me to the water.

It's the tales told by old fisherman, in bars like that small spot on the coast.  

For as much time as I've spent on the water, by boat, board or wake, I've still never seen a mermaid.  So I've listened to old men tell stories about mermaids, and I'm still sort of young enough to take their word for it.

Dodge Rams, Horses, Boots and Lee Ann Womak. What?

When I was a kid, I remembered my dreams without fail.  I remembered the colors, the flavors, words spoken, tone and time.  I remember rainbow-colored wave about to wash over me, falling from the sky, my mind racing to understand the cognitive lucidity of it all.  As hard as I tried, I could never control my dream, could never end them, when fear struck, could never swim through maddening tides.

As I got older, the memory of dreams became less and less powerful.  These, days, I typically remember dreams, while at work, of all places.  As I sit at my desk, typing away, minding my own business, BAM! There it comes, a segment, the smallest fragment comes to life in my mind.  Somewhat out of place, and totally caught off guard, the film in my head comes on and comes on strong...but very rarely am I able to place it, or remember what came, on the dream reel, before or after that split second.  

Dangit!  I hate that...right there...wait for it...nope.  Can't remember a dang thing.

Well, everything changed this week.

Monday night I dreamed about this...

In a dream, I rode this baby, through a mass of trees, on a trail similar to that of where I grew up in, Half Moon Bay (HMB I love you).  I remember riding a friend's horse, Silver.  He was a gnar-gnar, that one.  Pushing my leg up against the wooden fence post, nipping at my hair, eating apple slices from my back pocket, testing my bit skills, moving every time I swung my short-ass leg over his back.  I imagine he laughed at me.  

A lot.  

Like, all the time.  

That damn horse taunted me.  And I totally loved him, mesmerized and hell-bent on riding like a natural.  I'd ride in a canyon, with an sweeping hundreds of feet...down.  Not like a sweet slope, I'm talking a massive drop.  Major big-time drop.  And Silver rode the very edge.  I'd pull the reign to the right, and he would go with direction for a few minutes, and then we were scraping the edge of the trail again, as I watched small rocks slip over the edge, falling...falling...still going...couldn't hear it anymore.  Silver was a pain in the tail, but he was old.  He was probably smarter than me too.  And he loved to punk me.  

Dear Silver,

May you rest in peace, you punk.  I never did learn to ride like a natural- but I did master the skill of cantering, thank you very much.

So, to re-cap, Monday I had a dream I was riding a horse, on a similar path, only this time, fighting branches overhead as opposed to falling off the edge of a cliff.

Last night, I had a dream I was driving one of these:

This one was fun.  I've always had a thing for big trucks, and I say, if you're gonna get a truck, do it right.

Buy a big'un.

I don't remember this one, really.  It came to me, during my drive to work this morning, and then all day long, I noticed a lot of Dodge trucks on the road.  More so, I really wanted one.  

And then, there's that whole "Secret" thing.  Wish it, imagine it, see it...and it will be.  Someday, I'll get the horse, a pygmy goat, and a lamb- and it will stay a lamb forever.   Oh, I'll probably have to get some chicks.  They can grow in to chickens- that's totally fine.  I love chickens.  They're really funny.

I'll name all these animals, and never eat them.  Every rancher, 4-H Club member and my Grandpa (God rest his soul) and my dad and my boyfriend just rolled their eyes right then.  When I said that.

The part where they wont be eaten.

Ha.

Where's it all coming from?

Well, it started with last Saturday, when I pulled out my old shite kickers from the closet.

I still have a faulty USB cord, so no pics and I dare not post a pic of just any boots, because no pair is even remotely as cool as my own, so you gotta just take my word for it, here.

I've also been listening to a lot of:

I totally love her...totally do.

And since we're in confession mode, I've been listening to some of his stuff too:

Mom just gasped with this one....Dad's proud.

So, here's what's so funny about all this.

My favorite bands in high school were The Cure and Depeche Mode.  Mmmm, and Tori Amos.  She's a staple.  And, you see, the thing is, these genres are...mmmm...in negative relation to one another.  They really just don't go together at all.

Though, I have to say, I grew closer the country thing when I determined Neil Young as my all-time, hands down favorite musician of all time.  E.V.E.R.  Only, I didn't know it at the time.  Look folks, Neil wears cowboy boots.  He may not heard cattle, but he got my freakin' foot in the door.

My summers were spent in North Carolina and my Mom's fam's from VA, baby, and well, I guess the music's in my blood, ears and head.  Like it or not.  

And then, there's the truth.

I love it. 

I totally romanticize the ranch lifestyle, I know, and it's really out of my element.  Though in high school, I had a crush on a cowboy, who didn't know I existed.  And besides, who wouldn't want the view from their boudoir...

That's the thing about letting go of the box that defines you.  You learn to open up a little, and start to appreciate some fragments outside of yourself.   I love cowboy boots, and open land.  I miss riding, and I want a big truck.  I'd still blast Depeche Mode...and...Tori Amos from the speakers, mind you.  I don't have a plot of land, or a yard to speak of, really, but I've planted herbs, peppers, tomatoes and flowers in pots.  I live in the sticks now, and I love every second of it.  I listen to Sara Evans when I'm outside, watering my planties.  (That's planties, folks, not panties.  Folks have a tough time with this Belleism).

And then, there are the memories of summers in North Carolina.  The music brings back all the good parts of my past life.  Folks who've never been to the South, experienced the calm the demeanor and charm...and food...just can't get my point here. The point, here is the calm that comes to me when I listen to country music, the smirk on my face when I think of cowboys, and the beauty of wide open space, well it's a small piece of bliss, in my head.

I guess that's stuff for another blog...

I l