How does one go about reconciling who one was, with who one now is?
In my head, I’m still young and fit and full of joie de vivre. So, imagine my surprise when I look in the mirror! The reflection isn’t one of a life well lived; rather of a life too busy to live. And that life is becoming increasingly evident by the visible fine lines for the entire world to see. Oh sure, I had my day in the sun! But apparently I was drunk when dusk arrived. I’m not ready for the night, and yet, I’m oddly ready to rest. It’s an awkward condition.
I suppose I just didn’t do so many things while I was busy doing so much.
I suppose I thought I would be somewhere else doing something else with a Me that didn’t actualize.
Perhaps I thought the Me I would become would just materialize one day.
I blame my Nana and my father. I grew up being told I would live an extraordinary life; that I would be extraordinary. I suppose some extraordinary things have happened; I've seen some stuff not many see, and done some stuff not everybody does... but still, in my head, much like my hair this morning, “extraordinary” turned out differently than I imagined.
I had a dream last night that was so real, and in it I was so young. For a few brief moments after waking, I once again possessed that feeling of optimism and enthusiasm for whatever lay ahead today. I felt invincible and desirable and… ready.
It was a painful realization that came a few moments later when it occurred to me that I have too many nouns which require verbs to linger over adjectives anymore.
This isn’t about discontent. It’s about how we manage to accept ourselves and our choices. Not that there’s choice in it. We “are.” And it “is.” No, this is about trying to rediscover that person I wanted to be – I thought I would be. More the person I was, ever so briefly, once before. Of course, that was in great part nothing more than the naiveté that comes with no life experience… and no money!
I have a photograph of myself stuck to one of my computer monitors from the last day I remember being who I was. It’s a great capture of the essence of a life still to be lived. I love that photograph. I despise being photographed. I wonder if this is why? I wonder if it’s because what I see now is nothing more interesting than lost youth and the burden of responsibilities.
I’m a wanderer - in body and in spirit. Tolkien said, “Not all who wander are lost” and I’ve always considered that my Life’s Explanation. I suppose there is some truth to the idea that I’m a “runner,” but only because I believe in the importance of knowing when the purpose of your circumstance is complete.
I am not unhappy. So much of my life is spot on. I am listless. I am tired. I am ready for something to change…
“Be as you are, as you see, as I am, I am. Be as you are, as you see, as I am, I am.
Do you think you might improve me, trying to take control?
Watching every little thing I do just like a bleeding movie, just like a leading role?
This ain't me and I don't believe that's you.
Be as you are, as you see, as I am, I am. Be as you are, as you see, as I am, I am.
First you make believe, I believe the things that you make believe
and I'm bound to let you down.
Then it's I who have been deceiving, purposely misleading,
and all along you believed in me.
So we circle around one another playing a guessing game, strangers at this masquerade.
Pretending to know each other, we strain to catch a name
and never see the mistakes we must have made.” ~ James Taylor
Friday, November 28, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Bitter? Party of One?
It occurs to me that some of you, my dear friends, are undoubtedly beginning to wonder where your little puddle of misery has gone… the one who crafts these missives… these paragraphs filled with caustic sarcasm. YOUR FRIEND!
Well, I’m not certain of this, so do not start hounding me over every off-color remark, but it’s possible she may not return. The Weeks of the Missing Mia have had a profound impact on my perspective.
Hark! What was that? The sound of people clicking off this page? Who could blame? It’s maudlin and saccharine and all the things I ridicule. Stress or grief can sometimes be an unpleasant mirror. Personally, I shut up, shut down, shut out. Then I very attractively begin to silently accuse, blame, and otherwise project my own bent interpretation of the wrong in progress, in a misguided effort to protect myself or someone else; taking the bullet, if you’ll allow me that dramatic turn of phrase.
As much fodder as my general bitterness provided for conversation and essay – at the end of the day – “words that are bitter make a girl age quicker.” Not being of the “do as I say” ilk and frightened of being construed as such, I’ve embarked on yet another list. For this one I’ve promised to record an entry in every day (ha!). The idea is to write down 10 positive things that happen to me or around me.
Day 1: Five entries.
Day 2: Four entries.
Today is Day 3… apparently I need more practice living outside of my own head because it’s early afternoon and so far, I got nothin’! I just spent the last few minutes standing, sipping my coffee, and staring at this page. I was starting to get worried about the fact that I’m having so much trouble with this new list idea. It occurred to me that perhaps if I enjoyed a cigarette, it would clear the neuro-pathways and I could better process this imaginary issue. Unfortunately, I’ve dedicated myself to practicing discipline lately, so I’m back. Sadly, retelling the last few minutes is all I came up with…
Perhaps your Bitter Friend isn’t completely gone after all… That makes me a little more comfortable, really. My best work comes from that dark place – why am I trying to banish it? Yeah… yeah, this is good. I like this idea.
Well, I’m not certain of this, so do not start hounding me over every off-color remark, but it’s possible she may not return. The Weeks of the Missing Mia have had a profound impact on my perspective.
Hark! What was that? The sound of people clicking off this page? Who could blame? It’s maudlin and saccharine and all the things I ridicule. Stress or grief can sometimes be an unpleasant mirror. Personally, I shut up, shut down, shut out. Then I very attractively begin to silently accuse, blame, and otherwise project my own bent interpretation of the wrong in progress, in a misguided effort to protect myself or someone else; taking the bullet, if you’ll allow me that dramatic turn of phrase.
As much fodder as my general bitterness provided for conversation and essay – at the end of the day – “words that are bitter make a girl age quicker.” Not being of the “do as I say” ilk and frightened of being construed as such, I’ve embarked on yet another list. For this one I’ve promised to record an entry in every day (ha!). The idea is to write down 10 positive things that happen to me or around me.
Day 1: Five entries.
Day 2: Four entries.
Today is Day 3… apparently I need more practice living outside of my own head because it’s early afternoon and so far, I got nothin’! I just spent the last few minutes standing, sipping my coffee, and staring at this page. I was starting to get worried about the fact that I’m having so much trouble with this new list idea. It occurred to me that perhaps if I enjoyed a cigarette, it would clear the neuro-pathways and I could better process this imaginary issue. Unfortunately, I’ve dedicated myself to practicing discipline lately, so I’m back. Sadly, retelling the last few minutes is all I came up with…
Perhaps your Bitter Friend isn’t completely gone after all… That makes me a little more comfortable, really. My best work comes from that dark place – why am I trying to banish it? Yeah… yeah, this is good. I like this idea.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Who Are You? Who, Who
It’s cold outside.
Hell, it’s cold inside. I can’t seem to adjust the thermostat in my hotel room. I didn’t bring a sweatshirt. The floors of the en suite are marble and my socks are thin…
I sit huddled in my “down alternative” comforter, intermittently changing the position of my laptop so that I can sit in the warm spot it created on the weirdly crisp white sheets. I made a cup of tea, brewing hot water through the coffee maker. I can only hold it. I will not drink it because I’ll have to pee… and again, the en suite is marble.
On the same floor are several “friends” with whom I spend my weeks. Yet, no one knocks. We work. We send email next door and across the hall. The distance is odd; the closeness comforting. Though we’re together for more than 12 hours a day, it’s a lonely existence. People don’t talk much about themselves or their “real” lives. We don’t share photographs in wallets of our dogs, significant others, or family. And no one asks to see. Instinctively we all know that it’s just a sad reminder of the things we miss.
We live in the moment, in the crisis, in the solution. We are engrossed. We are thinking. We are strategizing. We are working. We are Consultants.
Hell, it’s cold inside. I can’t seem to adjust the thermostat in my hotel room. I didn’t bring a sweatshirt. The floors of the en suite are marble and my socks are thin…
I sit huddled in my “down alternative” comforter, intermittently changing the position of my laptop so that I can sit in the warm spot it created on the weirdly crisp white sheets. I made a cup of tea, brewing hot water through the coffee maker. I can only hold it. I will not drink it because I’ll have to pee… and again, the en suite is marble.
On the same floor are several “friends” with whom I spend my weeks. Yet, no one knocks. We work. We send email next door and across the hall. The distance is odd; the closeness comforting. Though we’re together for more than 12 hours a day, it’s a lonely existence. People don’t talk much about themselves or their “real” lives. We don’t share photographs in wallets of our dogs, significant others, or family. And no one asks to see. Instinctively we all know that it’s just a sad reminder of the things we miss.
We live in the moment, in the crisis, in the solution. We are engrossed. We are thinking. We are strategizing. We are working. We are Consultants.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
September 11, 2008
September 11, 2008
Flight 3308 STL to PHL
Where: Over Illinois, I imagine
Listening to: Nothing but engines. I left my iPod at home…
It's raining below me. Raining hard, actually. Above are white, fluffy clouds which make the overall terrain look like Alaska in late winter by rail. Sure, THAT seems familiar… Two weeks ago I got lost twice in my own neighborhood.
This flight is usually filled with "regulars;" the same people I travel with every Thursday. Today, this is not the case. Today the flight is filled with talky, unusually jovial non-regulars, who actually purchase beverages and eat Cheezits (I can smell them). There are only two familiar people onboard: one in 1F, the other in 15F. I take my usual place in 7F. There's an interesting symmetry to our arrangement tonight. Interesting, that is, if you have absolutely nothing else to think about.
It's almost palatable, the one thing that no one is "thinking" about. In some weird nod to the date, the TSA security personnel at Lambert Field – that being the name of the airport in St. Louis – donned new uniforms.
There are empty seats on this always oversold flight. Yes. I thought about it, but I'm confident that barring unforeseen mechanical failure, this is undoubtedly the safest day of the year to fly. And apparently still the roomiest, even after 7 years.
I watched the unveiling of the Pentagon memorial this morning. I found it morbid that they would arrange the benches on the plane's trajectory, then sort the victims names on each according to age. I suppose I would have preferred something more random by way of positioning – like the random way those people ended up on that flight. And perhaps engraving the names on each bench alphabetically, rather than pointing out that the youngest passenger was three years old.
Morbid…
The benches and their little pools are beautiful, though.
Flight 3308 STL to PHL
Where: Over Illinois, I imagine
Listening to: Nothing but engines. I left my iPod at home…
It's raining below me. Raining hard, actually. Above are white, fluffy clouds which make the overall terrain look like Alaska in late winter by rail. Sure, THAT seems familiar… Two weeks ago I got lost twice in my own neighborhood.
This flight is usually filled with "regulars;" the same people I travel with every Thursday. Today, this is not the case. Today the flight is filled with talky, unusually jovial non-regulars, who actually purchase beverages and eat Cheezits (I can smell them). There are only two familiar people onboard: one in 1F, the other in 15F. I take my usual place in 7F. There's an interesting symmetry to our arrangement tonight. Interesting, that is, if you have absolutely nothing else to think about.
It's almost palatable, the one thing that no one is "thinking" about. In some weird nod to the date, the TSA security personnel at Lambert Field – that being the name of the airport in St. Louis – donned new uniforms.
There are empty seats on this always oversold flight. Yes. I thought about it, but I'm confident that barring unforeseen mechanical failure, this is undoubtedly the safest day of the year to fly. And apparently still the roomiest, even after 7 years.
I watched the unveiling of the Pentagon memorial this morning. I found it morbid that they would arrange the benches on the plane's trajectory, then sort the victims names on each according to age. I suppose I would have preferred something more random by way of positioning – like the random way those people ended up on that flight. And perhaps engraving the names on each bench alphabetically, rather than pointing out that the youngest passenger was three years old.
Morbid…
The benches and their little pools are beautiful, though.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Above Illinois
STL to PHL
iPod: The Spring Standards
Below: Illinois? What time is it?
Some thirty thousand feet below me there are people living a Midwestern life. Passing the time doing whatever one does to pass the time in the Midwest. Drive-in movies? Walks to the fishin' hole? Double dates and double scoops? I suppose as incredulous as it seems to a city girl, folks do like that kind of simple life. I'm not sure where the "life" part happens or how one knows they're actually having one, but I suppose with enough wine I could muster up some vague understanding, if not the sense of purpose.
To be clear, I don't find a return to the 1950s ideal, but I do rather like the bits where women don't HAVE to work, and we wear high heels and day dresses with pearls. When the thing presenting the most stress on any given day is making sure the roast is in at 3, and the martinis are cold at cocktail hour. Of course, I would want to do that from my pre-war classic six on the Upper East Side.
Clouds now obstruct my view of middle America and I somehow feel less depressed by those people. I know they're still down there, but now I don't have to look at them. It's like looking into the face of poverty. I know it exists but I'd prefer to pretend it doesn't because it makes me feel guilty. And frankly, I create enough imaginary guilt in my life. There's no reason to self-inflict. I'm not sure what it says about me that I'd rather look at fluffy whiteness than think about what could possibly be happening in the lives of farmers. Probably nothing.
I wonder what it says about the guy next to me that he's reading about the "boyfriend" jean cut in a gossip magazine. We could jump on the gay bandwagon… or, we could consider other options. Like he works for a fashion house. Or he's en route to New York to interview for an apprenticeship with GQ. Or he's just gay and there's nothing more interesting going on there than that.
It's dark now. I've played a couple of rounds of Freecell and eyeballed Boyfriend Jeans' confidential software application documents. Usually I'm sleeping now but tonight I can't keep my eyes off the clock. 7:58:29….31….40…46…48…51…57…7:59… that's Central time.
Two rows behind me is a guy I once worked with. That was an awkward gate conversation.
iPod: The Spring Standards
Below: Illinois? What time is it?
Some thirty thousand feet below me there are people living a Midwestern life. Passing the time doing whatever one does to pass the time in the Midwest. Drive-in movies? Walks to the fishin' hole? Double dates and double scoops? I suppose as incredulous as it seems to a city girl, folks do like that kind of simple life. I'm not sure where the "life" part happens or how one knows they're actually having one, but I suppose with enough wine I could muster up some vague understanding, if not the sense of purpose.
To be clear, I don't find a return to the 1950s ideal, but I do rather like the bits where women don't HAVE to work, and we wear high heels and day dresses with pearls. When the thing presenting the most stress on any given day is making sure the roast is in at 3, and the martinis are cold at cocktail hour. Of course, I would want to do that from my pre-war classic six on the Upper East Side.
Clouds now obstruct my view of middle America and I somehow feel less depressed by those people. I know they're still down there, but now I don't have to look at them. It's like looking into the face of poverty. I know it exists but I'd prefer to pretend it doesn't because it makes me feel guilty. And frankly, I create enough imaginary guilt in my life. There's no reason to self-inflict. I'm not sure what it says about me that I'd rather look at fluffy whiteness than think about what could possibly be happening in the lives of farmers. Probably nothing.
I wonder what it says about the guy next to me that he's reading about the "boyfriend" jean cut in a gossip magazine. We could jump on the gay bandwagon… or, we could consider other options. Like he works for a fashion house. Or he's en route to New York to interview for an apprenticeship with GQ. Or he's just gay and there's nothing more interesting going on there than that.
It's dark now. I've played a couple of rounds of Freecell and eyeballed Boyfriend Jeans' confidential software application documents. Usually I'm sleeping now but tonight I can't keep my eyes off the clock. 7:58:29….31….40…46…48…51…57…7:59… that's Central time.
Two rows behind me is a guy I once worked with. That was an awkward gate conversation.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Restart.
Entry One.
Blog Two.
I'm so pissed I could spit. My previous site has collapsed in an unexpected poof of electronic dust; jettisoned into internet ether.
What? Didn't I have a back up...? Well, kind of. Not really.
I have a couple of rough drafts, a couple of bits I'd discarded altogether, but no, not everything. Not half of everything. Maybe it's The Universe's way of telling me to just stop. I probably remember all those words as being much better than they were, anyway...
So I'm going to sit a wallow for awhile. Try to come up with a plan. If you're new here (well, at the moment EVERYONE is!), I'll try not to reference stuff and stories you'll never be able to read - because that's just rude.
And I hate rude.
Blog Two.
I'm so pissed I could spit. My previous site has collapsed in an unexpected poof of electronic dust; jettisoned into internet ether.
What? Didn't I have a back up...? Well, kind of. Not really.
I have a couple of rough drafts, a couple of bits I'd discarded altogether, but no, not everything. Not half of everything. Maybe it's The Universe's way of telling me to just stop. I probably remember all those words as being much better than they were, anyway...
So I'm going to sit a wallow for awhile. Try to come up with a plan. If you're new here (well, at the moment EVERYONE is!), I'll try not to reference stuff and stories you'll never be able to read - because that's just rude.
And I hate rude.
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