The painters sidekick

When I was younger, my grandmother and I would often be found painting on her screened in porch in a little house on the outskirts of suburban Chicago, Illinois.  Then there were visits from my cousin Marie… venturing from the far far away land of California.

The two of them paired together were the people that introduced me to the art world.  Cousin Marie would teach me the art of brush strokes as we watched Bob Ross on the television.  She would buy me droves of brushes. I would lose them in the myriad of moves.

Growing up and moving out here, I always thought that I would spend more time with Cousin Marie than I ultimately did.  She lived in Bakersfield, and I would go back and forth between Los Angeles and San Diego.  I spent a bit of time with her estranged daughter in Venice.  A bit of time in Culver City.  It was not often enough that our paths would cross.

And then one day I got a call…

Cousin Marie needed some help changing a bandage.  Her daughter was heading to work and couldn’t do it.  I obliged and made the trek over to help her.  I didn’t know how horrible she was going to look, nor did I know about the avalanche of health issues that had come upon her.

Now I’m not a health practitioner of any kind, but the wound I helped her undress and dress took a lot out of me to do.  As I pulled the layer after layer off, and the hole in her side where they had gone in to remove her breast bled and leaked fluids.  Every move I made seemed to hurt her more.  She was in so much pain from all of it.

She was so so thankful- ever vibrant and gracious.  She offered to pay me.  I declined.  The whole time I was there she asked me about me.  She didn’t want to focus on the pain, and didn’t want pitty.

Seeing her like that broke my heart.  One of the heroes from my childhood was falling to pieces.  I didn’t have much, but I offered to help her when a nurse couldn’t, and when her daughter refused to push back her own exploits.

Cousin Marie would later get the treatment she needed.  She was placed into a hospital in Santa Monica.  I regret that I had not visited her while she was there.

Months passed.  I randomly ran into dad after one of his visits.  We thought she was getting better.  We hoped she was getting better.

I asked my cousins daughter for a favor.  She refused.

“You did what you did for my mother, not for me.”

I haven’t spoken to her since February.

Yesterday Dad and Ethan came to visit me in the artist colony I currently reside in.  Cousin Marie had never been there.

“Mom, we’re outside, come downstairs.”

I jumped out of bed and ran down the stairs.  I hadn’t seen Ethan in a few weeks due to work constraints.  We played some cards about killing off members of your family (in comical ways of course) and started a board game.  We didn’t know it then, but this day would be another one that we wouldn’t be forgetting.

Dad sat patiently as we played.  He made some phone calls and listened to the AM radio.  As he got off the phone with the last call, he stopped suddenly.

“She could die any day now.  We’re going to Bakersfield. Are you coming?”

The cancer had come back in five places.  My cousin Marie was now laying in her deathbed.

Back in the days that I’d spent in Bakersfield it always seemed liked death was in the air.  I didn’t understand why she would have wanted to go back up there after being able to get the care she’d needed in Santa Monica.  She chose to spend the remainder of her days where she grew up.

I didn’t know it was going to hit me as hard as it did.  Seeing her there hooked up to machines to “keep her comfortable” as I stood next to my dad and son…

Dad talked to cousin Marie.  He told her about things going on with my grandparents.  About how they had discovered why Grandpa was losing his memory, and how squirrels had destroyed the phone line to their house.  Dad kept his composure.  I couldn’t.  I broke down.

“Jen lives in an artist colony now Marie.  You’d probably like it there.”

My son hugged me tight.  Cousin Marie could barely open her eyes, let alone much else. Dad left the room to talk to the friend she had been staying with.

“Cousin Marie I want to thank you for showing me about art.  You are inspirational.”

She opened her eyes and smiled.  I couldn’t understand what she was trying to say, but I think she knew what I had told her.

We walked out of the room.  I found out that my cousins daughter had not been up to see her.  It upset me some more.  My cousin’s daughter lives a couple of hours south of where her mother was.  Dad advised me not to contact her regarding it, as the relationship between Marie and her had been estranged.

I texted her anyway.

“You need to put your differences aside and go up there.  It’s only a couple of hours away.”

She called me in tears.  She gave excuses as to why she wasn’t going to go.  She claimed she had gone last weekend.  She seemed upset about things out of her control… of the past that she was trying to come to terms with, but wasn’t.

“She made her choice to go up there.  I asked her many times to come down and paint with me.  She didn’t.”

As we left my son hugged me some more.  I felt worse that my son has had to experience death much sooner than I ever did.  I have been very fortunate to have had my family around this long.  Now, one by one they are going away.

“Mommy’s going to miss her the most.”

I think back to those simpler days with Gram and cousin Marie.  Days that formed my childhood.  Days that would form my adulthood.  I think about how different I would have been without these two women.  I think about how different I will be when I don’t have either of them anymore.

We drove home shortly after.  Said a rosary in the car for her.  My son was to have his first day of school today.  His days growing up are far different than mine.  They are so less full of the art and imagination that my cousin and grandmother ingrained in me back in the days that my dad didn’t really care to let us play video games as much as he does now. The days before I started on the path of working in video games and dad would allow my son to play far too much for my liking.

“Call me before you go to school if you can.  And if not, call me after.  I want to know how your day was.”

This morning on the bus, I got a phone call about the time Ethan would be going to school.  I answered excitedly, hoping he had had the chance to call me before after all.  It was unfortunately the call that my cousin’s battle with breast cancer had come to a close this morning.

“She’s gone Jen.”

Immediately it rushed over me.  I was ever so thankful I had had the chance to thank her for impacting my life before she passed.

The pink of the flowers along the path seemed to be a bit more vibrant today.  I saw my cousin shine in the world around me.  I smiled through the tears.  But it still hurts.  What do you do when one of your childhood heroes passes away?

To one of the most inspirational people of my childhood, you will be missed more than you know.  To those that would like to help support the fight against breast cancer, I highly encourage you to donate your time or energy to the Susan G Komen foundation.

One week of sobriety: A test of self control

Last week was a blur of disappointment and successes, but not for the reasons most might be thinking.

The biggest stateside video game conference had come and gone. It hadn’t been a fun filled week for me as it was for the many that gather here to our great city to celebrate the latest advances in technologies.

I work in two fields: journalism and entertainment. And while video games are a part of my 9-5, they are followed by my true passion: journalism. I have been fortunate to have resided on both sides of the fence. Each has its perks and setbacks.

I did my laundry Sunday. I washed away the remnants of people that I had thought more of before last week, of someone who I didn’t know what to think, of someone whom there exists a war in my head with what to think, and of pieces of myself that I’m learning more and more about.

I waver in between worlds within the spotlight and highlighting those who sparkle under it. But this camera sees a depth of field that…

With any conference comes the after parties. Behind these scenes is where the real magic and disasters occur. It’s the stuff of a million stories that writers won’t write about. It’s the stuff of stories that they probably should write about. It’s stuff that gets compiled into your brain and begs and begs to be released but rarely ever does.  Its the stuff that you wish you didn’t know.  It’s the stuff of stories that can drive you insane due to the lack of ability to release.

It’s the story of someone making an ass of themselves meeting someone for a secret rondevous. It’s the story of trying so hard to impress someone that the only thing that surfaces is the detestable.  It’s the story of having so much alcohol in order to make others tolerable, that a black out happens. It’s the story of [redacted] and the story of [redacted redacted].

When you work in the entertainment industry, you see this in so many instances that eventually, you have two options:
1) Let it overcome you.
or 2)Find a way to overcome it before it consumes you whole.

Life becomes more exhausting than usual. Not only does the weight of your own reality weigh on you, but so does the weight of the people vying for their chance to shine in the limelight of a coveted piece of fifteen moments of fame on the tabloid of choice.

Fearing an impending overdose on it all, I elected to take a command step forward. Paired with someone to assist in co-miserating the experience, I embarked on a journey into a world of glitz and glamour free of a method of escape. For one week I would be alcohol and smoke free.

Notes: I am not a daily drinker. I drink on a number on an occasional basis: networking parties where everyone has a glass of something in their hands, happy hour with coworkers, dates, and when something is really getting to me. The same generally applies to my smoking habits sans for one additional place it enters. Ah the “joys” of Los Angeles traffic.

Day one was to start when he left. He and I had spent the whole day together booze free. The evening had been cut short unexpectedly. Our plans to disappear into historical places taking roost in fabled haunts with as equally fabled spirits faded into the ether (for the time being).

An hour after he’d left however, I found myself assisting a friend (and veteran featured personality) with an art show she’d curated located within a seedy motel downtown. My time was spent in a bed navigating perverts (read: art enthusiasts) through the graphiti clad thrashed rock themed art room. He and I had talked earlier about me attending the show and I was originally going to stay at home and work on my book, but yet there I was. In the middle of it all, I stayed true to my mission. I remained sober and penned away at a notebook as the crowds waved in and out.

One shocking thing happened from the alt-shock event extravaganza  was not what I was expecting in the slightest. Among the sea of onlookers was one of the artists featured in the show with a very special guest. He was a “short” man.  Five ten with brown hair, scruffy and parker-esque. He had a smile that illuminated the room. His words faultered as he was nudged to “Just ask her”.

He talked to me a few minutes.  He’d wanted to take my picture with this artists work. Both of them were delightful people but there was something more about this gentleman. While talking about how we’d both ended up at the event by way of serendipitous routes, my tale of my mission to be sober for the week came up in conversation. He turned to me and said “I completely understand. I’m sober myself.” Does like energy really attract like energy?

When I arrived home however, it was nearly 2am. I was exhausted from the event. I’d had to help scrub the graphiti off the walls and clean up the aftermath. There had been four of us toiling away that evening cleaning. Being an art curator (or in my case, assisting one) is not always as glamorous as it sounds.

The bar below my apartment had my favorite beer on tap. I immediately walked up the steps and got a glass. But after I’d paid for it and it had been poured in front of me, I began to feel horrible. Day one of sobriety had been going so well. Within an instant, I’d ruined it.

The next day I went to visit family in Huntington Beach. I was intending on spending some time as a mermaid beachside a bit as well. Of course, the outfit I chose as I headed to the beach felt more suiting of the event I was at last minute then what I’d ended up wearing. Cest’ le vie. As I packed my bag my brain immediately went to “cans of beer and smokes”.  I shook the idea off and headed seaside.

Even after I’d arrived to family bbq, the two items I’d left behind were pushed into view. My family helped to make excuses for why it would be alright.  So did friends who’d invited me to return back to the bar below my loft bribing feats of hilarity in kiddie pools.  Everyone seemed to chime in “You can just start tomorrow.”

Remembering the night prior, I stuck true to the goal. It was a bit frustrating but it was nothing compared to the temptations that would follow the rest of the week. One such example happened later that evening when I’d arrived home. My secret guest and I had limited ability to enjoy our weekend as my roommate (who isn’t usually home and isn’t home as this is being written) was home for the entirety of it. However she’d had a guest that evening. I wanted nothing more than to go downstairs and have a beer. No can do.

I found myself as the week progressed, and as life continued to rapid fire bullets of everyday flies in the ointment, running a gammit of emotions from intensely frustrated with my lack of easy escapism, to rationalizing the act, to… undeniable clarity.

I went to my first networking event without the escapism. At one point, I’d thought that the booze was necessary. You need a glass in your hand in order to be approachable after all right? Almost right. The event had been a test of wits. It forced me to modify the way I went about my interactions. With the sobriety came more clarity and control over myself in navigating the event than I’d remembered experiencing for a long time.

My eyes were wide open.  I saw everything.  I was better able to gauge who would be the best conservators. I met more valuable, more mature and more truly talented people than I might have had I not been completely sober. I immediately was able to see how I could make their businesses better.  I was more on point with statistical and competition information.  I felt empowered by my lack of a barrier to readily access that information.

The main rationalization I’d previously turned to for the reason to do it “I deserve it” became the reason not to do it. It evolved. Perhaps I did a little in the process as well. And while I may not go completely sober or smoke free right now, I will continue to follow this path. The lessons that I have learned from this week shall not disappear into the ether. I highly encourage each of you to try this for yourself. You don’t have to have a huge problem for it to be effective.

Why?  Because “You deserve it?”  Almost.  It’s because “You deserve more.”

If you or someone you love is experiencing a debacle great or small with alcohol or any other substance, don’t be afraid to seek help with it. You are not alone. For more information on support centers and other outlets, or if you just want to attend a meeting to see what others are saying to see for yourself, feel free to look into the following link at your leisure:

Alcoholics Anonamous

At the Twelfth toll: A previous letter to Mr. H

It’s midnight and Cinderella is still dancing. She cares naught anymore that her dress has turned to rags. Her true Prince wouldn’t either.

Why as a society do we put on a facade to gain a fleeting false sense of happiness? What is the point of faking what we are? Would Cinderella truly have lived happily ever after if she hadn’t rushed home from that party?

The heroes of our story are those true to the grit and grime… as well as glitz. Of the ones who are not afraid to step into the shadow from time to time.

You see, what they won’t tell you (lest you know their secret) is that Cinderella glitters more in her tattered rags. But it’s a sparkle that only a true Prince can appreciate.

Dear suitors of Christmas Past & Present… when you encounter your own version of this modern day fantasy girl, I implore you to continue dancing after midnight. Fore without this, the fantasy may not be able to coexist.

Regale in the true beauty of a world ridden in color and of grey.

 

The Repercussion of Things Said Too Soon

I don’t throw the word “love” around much anymore.
Saying it out loud seems to make it disappear.

The L word is the kiss of death when uttered too soon to someone not ready to hear it… even if they already know.

I don’t throw the word “love” around much anymore.
Saying it out loud seems to make it disappear.

Maybe I should have kept that to myself until we were both ready.  But it was how I felt.  Deep down I wondered if you felt even a portion of what I did.  But you didn’t.  You were too selfish to let anyone in but yourself.  The thing is, you’re so insecure that you don’t even do that.

Love is based on sharing an emotional piece of yourself with someone else.  Why does telling someone how you feel about them have to come with such major repercussions?

The act of falling in love is the craziest experience one can ever do.  It encompasses you.  It takes you away.  And when it’s over… you never feel more alive.  There’s just so much pain in even the wake of it.

I don’t throw the word “love” around much anymore.
Saying it out loud seems to make it disappear.

Things like this take time. It’s not easy by any stretch of the imagination. The heart is a very delicate thing.

Emotions are gifts and they are also vices. Blessed are those that are truly virtuous to maintain a degree of decorum in the midst of a storm.

Love is a battlefield. You don’t have to retreat but you should keep your shield up- lest your sanity be obliterated more so by the blow of unrequited love and heartache.

 

Home: Building our own definitions

This is my mother’s house in suburbia Illinois.  It’s not the place where I spent my entire childhood.  It’s the house my mother bought on the tail end of my parent’s divorce.  Its next door to the house I would spend my last year in Illinois before I embarked on my dream path: the shores of California.

My mothers world and mine are very very different and its more than just the zip code.

Andrew Largeman: You know that point in your life when you realize the house you grew up in isn’t really your home anymore? All of a sudden even though you have some place where you put your shit, that idea of home is gone.

Sam: I still feel at home in my house.
Andrew Largeman: You’ll see one day when you move out it just sort of happens one day and it’s gone. You feel like you can never get it back. It’s like you feel homesick for a place that doesn’t even exist. Maybe it’s like this rite of passage, you know. You won’t ever have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you know, for your kids, for the family you start, it’s like a cycle or something. I don’t know, but I miss the idea of it, you know. Maybe that’s all family really is. A group of people that miss the same imaginary place.

It’s been nearly 3 years since the itch hath caught me, but here I am yet again.  A white sky and wind chimes silently protest the rolling thunder filling the canvas.  Blank pages used to frighten me.  This one doesn’t surprise me at all.

I came back to celebrate the life of a man I didn’t know that I didn’t really know.   What do you do when you find out everything you thought you knew was a lie?

It started off small: a piece of him I thought I had.  On the day of his death I proudly wore a US Army shirt with his last name written on the pocket.  I’m not sure when (I believe it may have been in my days of ROTC back in high school) or how I acquired it but I always believed that was his.

I knew my grandfather was military, but what I didn’t remember was that he was not in the army.  He was in the navy.

It wasn’t until I had flown cross country to the place I grew up that I would find out.  How much of what else I remembered was also a lie?

I’ve been journaling intermittently throughout my trip.  My mind is scattered and focused… but every time I try to focus on the very man I came here for, I can’t seem to stay there.  Why?

When I’d made the call to my mother (a woman whom I don’t have much of a relationship with) it was greeted with disdain.  See, I haven’t been “home” in years despite many friends and other family here requesting me visit.

“You have friends and family here that care about you and want you here.” friends would tell me.

“I’ll be back someday… likely in a box but not anytime soon if I can help it.”

And that’s when I’ve come back.  Last time it was for my cousin’s funeral.  Time passed and so did another.  Tragedy happened again.  My mother’s side seems to get the brunt of it.  Perhaps its because there are more of them than in daddy’s immediate family.

When I’d come back last time, I saw friends as well.  I don’t believe death should be a sad time.  Its a time to celebrate life all around you.  So when I come home, I make a point to see as many friends and family here as I can.  I do my best to fill the days here with positivity.  Nothing gets accomplished with sadness and worry.  Life has a way of working things out.

Theres a touch of a scent of mildew.  The water washes the country roads of its city grime.  The sadness remains constant.  It bids to swallow this place whole.  Not so secretly, a part of me wishes that it would.  Perhaps this is why I ran to pages of comic book and blobs of paint.

My favorite place for baked raviolis closed down a year ago.  Some of my friends had moved to the city.  I find less and less reasons to return every time I come here.

The phone call to tell mom I’d pulled the favor with my longtime friend and gotten a ticket home was greeted not with an ecstatic thank you, but

“This is not a vacation.  You are here to see me and be with my family.  That’s all this is about.  It’s not about you.”

And while it isn’t a vacation, it is about family, and, as selfish as it may sound, it’s also not about them.  Life is a journey and the destination is yourself.

I made the call to my friend for my mother.  She and I have years of darkness that I want nothing more than to get through.  I haven’t been the nicest person.  Neither has she.  There are reasons I don’t live here anymore.  There are reasons why I don’t make a huge effort to come back.  The feeling of “home” hasn’t existed in this place I spent my childhood for what feels like ages.

I was speaking with someone this morning about what home is.

Andrew Largeman: You know that point in your life when you realize the house you grew up in isn’t really your home anymore? All of a sudden even though you have some place where you put your shit, that idea of home is gone.
Sam: I still feel at home in my house.
Andrew Largeman: You’ll see one day when you move out it just sort of happens one day and it’s gone. You feel like you can never get it back. It’s like you feel homesick for a place that doesn’t even exist. Maybe it’s like this rite of passage, you know. You won’t ever have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you know, for your kids, for the family you start, it’s like a cycle or something. I don’t know, but I miss the idea of it, you know. Maybe that’s all family really is. A group of people that miss the same imaginary place.

Home is not just a place a person spends some of their time in.  It is a feeling.  It is a state of mind.  It is a place of refuge.  It is comfort.  It’s a hug.  But it’s more than that.  It’s very specific.

Home is not something you are given.  Home is a gift that is found deep within the heart.  I am constantly surprised by the places where I have found this very specific embrace.

I was standing in line at two stores before I made my exodus from LA.  I’d lost more than a grandfather this week and I wanted to chronicle via film the whole adventure.  I didn’t make it to the checkout line with a camera.  Instead, I bought 3 bags of candy.  I didn’t even buy a notebook.

I went back to my apartment and packed in a rush.  I wasn’t the only one going on a trip that morning.  After I gathered everything, I dashed to see Prince Charming.  I wanted my last moments in Los Angeles to be spent with someone who brought back to the surface these feelings of home simply by just existing.  Someone beyond myself.  If only for a moment.

Even being there, however wasn’t about just him.  It was about me.

We both live in our singular worlds and at times we peek out and step into a world outside of it.

This would be the first trip we would not take together… but that’s a different story.

He brought me to the airport bus.  It was late but I would still catch it.  I really do need to speed up.  Was part of me just not wanting to say….

We kissed and said our “See you laters.”  I’m not a fan of the word “Goodbye.”

Is that partially what this is about?

The rain stopped outside. I shouldn’t be inside writing.  I should be out and about meeting a stranger in my hometown visiting from Portland or a secret admirer from a city just outside my “home”town.  I should be visiting friends and having a grand ole time.  But this is not a vacation.

The door slammed.  My mother returned from work.  I think I may toss on my Converse and get muddy and contemplative and wet. Years later,  my escape route has changed very little.

My mother is watching family videos.  In her world, these were the “happier days.”  And as much as I do enjoy my own moments of nostalgia, moments with her are not the moments that I turn to.

A friend of mine gave me a challenge for this trip: to film only the things that made me happy about being back.

“My mother would never be filmed.” I told him.

In the vacuum of silence and laughter of yesteryear, I look at how different our memories are.  Beyond just my grandfather, were these too all just… an illusion created in the mind’s eye?

Off I go into the great white yonder.  Armed with a camera and a pen.  And while it isn’t a vacation, it is about family, and, as selfish as it may sound, it’s also not about them.  Dare to build your own definitions.  Dare to create your own stories.

Life is a journey in ever constant motion and the destination is yourself.

If this note has touched you in any way, I would love for you to write me and tell me your story.  What is your definition of home?  What makes an amazing memory amazing?  Do you believe that where you grew up is your home?  Why?  How has it shaped you as the person you are now?

Thank you so much.  I look forward to hearing from you.

E3 2010: A week to remember… and forget?

Traffic jams and riots.  A center filled with flash, glitzy signs… and hordes of nerds.

Welcome to E3 2010: the Lakers are in game 7 edition.

I watched the downpour of exclamations for the latest and greatest toys of the moment on various twitter and facebook feeds.  I checked up on the news on some of my favorite (perhaps biased) news outlets.

Strangely enough, with the exception of that first day, I really didn’t care as much about weather I’d be able to attend or not.  The thrill of E3 just wasn’t what it used to be.

I thought about it and wondered- what changed?  At one time I was so determined to go to as many events as I could.  Nothing would satiate my palate.  Events that I was told I couldn’t get into?  I didn’t take no for an answer.  I’m bad with no’s sometimes.  This- one of the most major conferences of the year would have been a given that I wouldn’t accept that.   Was it that I had just become numb from one too many?  I mean, I have been to quite a few…

I swear I'm not an addict...

There are a few conferences a year which rank up there in high importance to me: professionally and personally.  Last year I was told I would not get into 2 of them: E3 and E4all only to somehow find a way.  I honestly didn’t expect it this time.  It just… well sort of found me.  It is a happenstance that has been occurring quite a bit these past few months.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy I was able to attend- albeit only a day and for miscellaneous parties on time in between work and well, more work.  It was more than enough.

This year is the first in many that I was not attending as Press.  Instead, it was a covert operation made possible by one fellow Culver City crusader as I played the part as someone… in town from Turtle Beach.

Walking the halls of the Staple Center this year was a window into my past.  I barely work in gaming nor have I been penning as a journey from the sidelines currently.  I have been swallowed whole by a different world and popped right back again.

It’s the wee hours of the morning at my last day of contract work for a toy company with a small MMO in beta- and in the silence of the office, I’m left to think about the proceeding days off and into the world of my past.

It seems that this time of year is an intersection.  This year, however more than others.  But we’ll dig deeper into why later.

People from all over the globe come together to this spot.  Like many other conferences, the attendees share a passion.  Fundamentally this is one that has been something that holds a very special place in my heart.  It is one of two most prominent forms of entertainment for me since childhood: video games and comic books.

I arrived late.  A meeting with a client after a very full night out to a couple of parties the night prior had me on a bit of a later start that I had planned.  Add to that the extra chaotic parking fubar of a big city full to the brim.

I got lost in the city.  I don’t know how that’s possible considering I’ve been here nearly 3 years but it happened.  It has happened quite a bit since I’ve lived here but given that it’s a huge convention center it’s a bit of a stretch even for me.

I’d gotten lost the night prior as well.  After being accompanied to find my car by one who claimed to know the way but apparently had too many free drinks at the Cheap Ass Gamer after party at the Golden Gopher I ended up in an area not my home.  I am positive it was not from the amount I imbibed.  I have been cutting back considerably and only had a couple of beers despite it being open bar.  It was peculiar.  This month has been full of moments like these:  of journeys and arrivals to destinations unknown.

My cohort greeted me.   I would assume this alter ego as I walked the halls with the rest of the entourage.  I met up with my best friends from Fantastic Forum.  But my day was mostly spent with the crew of Angry Bananas.

The boys showed me the ropes of what had been missed of the con so far.  Luchadores. Epic Mickey. Move. The new dance game.  The Comic game.  Marvel vs. Capcom.

And as much fun as I had while walking around, I still found myself somewhere else.

E3 has been a week where I will see people and get messages from my past.  Failed lovers.  Secret affairs.  Near romances.  Friends from past lives.  Of people known digitally from cross country and halfway around the globe.

It is a time where I remember where I have been.  Of the collection of people both good and bad I have had in my life.  How they’ve effected me.  How they have colored the canvas.

I was only there one day but it was enough.

To the lovers I have had in the past.  To my former coworkers.  To the people I have met along the way…

Thank you.

This hasn’t been the easiest time for me.  It’s a test.  I am breakable.  But I am capable of being repaired.  Time and time again.

Time and time will pass again.

And while not all of my intersections this year brought up the best of memories, I feel stronger because of them.

I’m looking forward with anticipation of the unknown… of next year and the next conference and the other miscellaneous destinations that I arrive and exit along the way.

One day a year

Yesterday was the anniversary of two people brought into this world that have changed my life: my ex husband and my sister.  Happy Birthday to the both of you.

I took a bit of time as I was going to get the mail at work to call my sister.  She lives back home in IL in a small town in Bloomington.  We live in two completely different worlds, not just zip codes. 

Hers is one of black and white.  Mine is…

She works at a school over there doing administration and testing.  She went right into college after high school and has a degree as a social worker.  Until a couple of years ago, she was doing nothing with it.  She was working in a Copy Max as a retail manager.

She, for the most part has stayed in the same place her whole life.  I have lived the life of a vagabond. 

Her relationship with my more colorful yet corporate dad is strained.  My relationship with the mundane nothingness that is my mother’s world is far from being anything grand.

My sister and I look little alike.  She takes after my mother and I’m very much so like dad.   I have had no problems finding suitors.  She has always struggled.

She nearly married her high school sweetheart. 

Nearly is a good word when it doesn’t apply to you.

Nearly won the Pulitizer prize.

Nearly made it to work on time.

Nearly got into that club for the party of the century.

Ah, nearly.

It’s definition should simply be: first loser.

It’s a word that would succinctly capture the story about Shawn.  But that’s the cart before the horse.

Jessica’s highschool sweetheart, Willy, broke up with her and married the woman right after her.  My sister must not have taken this very well as she then turned around and married his older brother- a year to the day after.  But hey, maybe she really meant it when she said it wasn’t intentional and that Shawn didn’t remember that when they picked the date.  I mean, he is a recovering alcoholic after all so I could completely understand that reasoning of logic.

My sister had been since supporting him throughout the duration of their marriage thusfar while he just mooched off her.  After exiting a marriage where my husband didn’t want me to be independent financially, I couldn’t fathom why she ever would want to carry a “man.”

I remember the days when we were younger we used to play together.  Hell there may be a cassette tape where we recorded bits and goofed around with buried somewhere in piles of things left in my mothers garage in suburbian IL.

These days?  We don’t talk much.  Not for lack to talk about, but more of the “agree to disagree” sort of lifestyle differences.  I understand her choices but I don’t think she understands mine.  Again, she is like mom and I oftentimes find myself questioning mom if she and I even legitamitatly share DNA.

Needless to say I have never really been close to that side of my family.  I wish it were different.  Maybe in another dimension it would be.

Yesterday I called her.  I’d heard pieces from dad about how things were with her.  Reminders of how much so we really were not alike.

I wasn’t sure if the rumor that Shawn would be going to jail for violation of his probation was true or if somehow he’d gotten his act together.  He’d gotten into drugs and was being watched regarding selling.

My family has said that they hope she leaves Shawn, but I don’t think it’s going to happen.  They have a child together.  My sister has always wanted to be loved and have children.  I saw the look in her eyes as I went on my way and had mine. 

Envious. 

Longing.

It is for these reasons that I tried to talk to her yesterday.  I wanted to see if she was alright.  Instead when I asked how things, she was secretive.

I asked her if she was ok.  She operated as if nothing were wrong.

“He’s away.  He will be away for a long time.  But it’s alright.  We are still together.”

She didn’t need to tell me.  I knew then that he had gone to jail.

  “Where is away?  Is it a business trip?  What’s going on?”

She got upset.  Told me it was nothing.  Told me thank you for calling.  She got abrasive.

Yesterday was the anniversary of the entrance of two people who would change my life.  I am happy with where I came from.  I am happy with where I am going.  I am glad that our paths crossed ways.  I am also glad… that we are parting.

Like so many people I run into… she seems to not realize her potential. 

I’m noticing a pattern and taking some action.

It’s going to be a long December.  For me, this one is going to be focused on working further towards my own potential in double time.  Thanks for the reminder sis and best of luck to you.

Mr Perfect

Back when you were younger do you remember those “Little Miss” books?

Well, a little while back, when I was out and about with a friend in Westwood we stopped in a gift store called Aah’s!  Walking in, you essentially knew what you were getting into.  Everyone has been to those cheesy shops at some point in their lives.  Some, more so than others.  It was littered with silly gag gifts and other assorted randomness.

Most of the time you walk into shops like that just for the experience of them.  Rarely, if ever do you buy something or know someone that does.  At least, not unless they are in their teens or know someone who is about to hit 40.

That night though I did find something.  I found a couple of things actually.  One is indeed silly and I may have to return to get it to send to someone important.  The other?  A few buttons that I put on the messenger bag that I carry most everywhere.  This story is about one button in particular- one that had the image and name of one called “Mr. Perfect.”

Little did I know, that perhaps that was a magnet for the person I would soon find to be my Mr. Perfect- HOM.

After we met it seemed very odd that the button mysteriously fell off my bag.  I put it in my pocket and held it close.  It was as if fate was telling me something…

The button is still in my pocket.  I want not to draw in anyone else.  I firmly believe that I found what I was looking for, even if it may or may not be the right time for it to happen.

Muse for Hire trudges on… those cranes have not been finished yet.  I realize more and more that I know where pure inspiration comes from.  That perhaps I already knew.

Mr. Perfect is in my pocket.  The dream is still there.  I lived it and think about it…but I don’t think about it.  I know that even if it wasn’t him… then damn I came the closest that I’ve ever gotten to it yet.

In the aftermath of the nuclear blast (a story which I am still devoted to help him pen) there is a sole survivor.

I wonder if Mr. Perfect will return and grace the nights and days with that light again or if the light that burns twice as bright will burn out twice as fast yet again.

To you my dear, I would Walk Through Hell.

I really firmly believe that there was a reason why we encountered eachother.  That there was a bit of serendipity.  That it was about something more.  It was real.  It was tangible.  It was… a movie that I will never forget.

I care about you more than you know.

I’m sorry that things turned out the way they did that day.  We were supposed to be flying kites high above the sky… the week that we had made me feel like that inside.

There are things I want to show you.  Experiences that I still want to have with you.  Mr. Perfect… you are everything I always wanted and more.

If you’d only let me.

If only

If only

If only.

I miss you my dearest.  I am looking for that way home… as I said before, San Diego my heart is yours.  This time, more than ever do I know that to be true.

 

 

 

 

 

Letter(s) HOM(e)

Worthwhile version 2.0

Once a decade it seems that I meet someone who is sublimely worthwhile.  Once a decade I have a brief moment of levity with this amazing connection of friendship, heart, and passion that, years later I still look back and dream about.

There is something to be said about an unforced, unguided, natural affair.  So rarely we find those that connect with us on such a level.  It is as disheartening as it is uplifting when it happens.

We saw “Beginning of the End” together.  How ironic that it seems that may have just been what it was.

How I wish it wasn’t.

But who knows?

Who am I kidding?

I have come to realize that as I grow older, my expectations disicipate and at the same time, rise only to become more and more untouchable.  I wonder if the next version will be the right one.  If it will be the right time.  If only…

I am seeking answers.  Answers that can only be found in the resounding silence that is upon us.  It’s the roar of the streets.  It’s the sound of the ocean.  It is the crickets chirping away at night.  It is…

Blurs of color on the canvas of our lives.  Of that hundred year old ferris wheel.  Of fireworks painting flowers on a night sky over a graveyard.  Of kisses not yet had in front of a photobooth when time seemed to stop and the camera panned away.

Once a decade I experience moments like these.  Of what they are beyond just that-moments- I… honestly do not know anymore.

I know that deep down the worthwhile people are out there.  That I’m one of them.  That the years will fall like petals.  That it is the season to shed your leaves.  That…

I have come to realize that as I grow older, my expectations disicipate and at the same time, rise only to become more and more untouchable.  I wonder if the next version will be the right one.  If it will be the right time.

I am seeking answers.  Answers that can only be found in the resounding silence that is upon us.  It’s the roar of the streets.  It’s the sound of the ocean.  It is the crickets chirping away at night.

Once a decade I experience moments like these.  Of what they are beyond just that-moments- I… honestly do not know anymore.