Super[flawed]Man

Super [flawed]Man

 

Today is supposed to be a happy day. It’s for celebration. It’s marveling at the amazement that is biology and much more.

It’s a day to remember the great things about our dads and grandfathers and the men in our lives that shaped us to the people we are- whether present or not.

Today is a hard day.

I called my grandfather to wish him Happy Fathers Day from me and my little line of ducklings/spawns. To be honest, I’m not really 100% sure how he was when he was in dad mode. I feel that perhaps I need to ask my family and him more about that part of his life… to find the stories beyond the pictures.

I think about how my grandfather didn’t finish college or even high school. Of how hard he worked (and still does) because of that choice… the rebel choice. You would have thought that by watching his struggles that I might not have wanted to repeat in his hardships. I did, however, in my own ways.

In the machine message I left thanking grandpa I told him that he got the fun parts with us… especially as grandpa. My memories with my grandfather are full of him being the savior and smile and source of inspiration that, well, my parents could never completely fulfill. I think about how much he and my grandmother have shaped my life and brought with it such amazing color and inspiration that…

And then there’s my dad.

Once upon a time my dad was my hero. I was this little girl (watch it with the comments people) with pigtails and missing teeth. My father brought so much laughter and silliness and color into my world too- from my dad’s dedication to Halloween first and then Christmas, to comic books, to… reels of Three Stooges. What I’m not supposed to talk about is how much pain was inspired by him.

As I got older I saw more about the corporate suit with the stable job that loved to laugh and read comic books. I saw the harsh realities of how stubborn he could be… of where I probably get it from. And then I remembered a bit about the joking around with my grandfather about how stubborn he is. It’s so much easier to look at the flaws of your dad vs your grandfather.

I look at the other men that have followed my dad as far as male figures. There is a saying that every girl looks for her dad in the men they date. I have dated some very intelligent, very die hard to their beliefs, colorful and quirky… assholes.

Ethan is currently with my dad right now. His father figure was a ghost of a man. His father… was the colorful bit of lies and laughter. And it’s all my fault. Ethan being with my dad is partially my dad stepping in to try and assume the “hero” role.  It is the same role that my great grandmother did for him ages ago when my grandparents fought (more than the usual laughable kind they do) But were these people really heros or…

Enter Maddox and Sakura’s father- my ex husband- and how he’s probably sitting pretty high on that horse thinking he is the greatest guy in the world… who stole my children. He too, would like people to think he is the hero. And, once upon a time, exhibited that same amount of compassion and silliness that my dad and grandfather did.

And now Little Bear’s dad… Little Bear’s dad was probably the closest thing to my grandfather ever.  Joshie Bear was like looking at a younger version of my favorite male role model in the world… complete with his faults. Josh’s spirit and ease of getting along with people and making friends everywhere.. that silly cheesiness… was why I fell in love with him and why when I first found out about Little Bear, although the timing was not “perfect” I was… really really happy.   Joshie Bear always wanted to be a dad. He never got to be and it broke his heart more than I could comprehend despite some of my super harsh remarks about the whole thing.

I know that today is supposed to be for these men… but perhaps it could be for this wish too. My wish, as I thank each of them for the good they did, is to please remember the bad that their fathers did as well. It’s so easy to look at the hero parts but to truly get past all of that, we have to acknowledge where they were flawed too… so that our kids will know and hopefully not repeat the same actions.

To all the great and not so great men of my life who have made a dedication to the purpose of not just being a donor or the hero but to being a DAD… an unselfish compassionate one, I salute you.

It Won’t Be Like This Forever: My Abortion Story

Months ago…

once upon a time ago…

our time ago…

 

We were having a bad patch.

It seems like we have been cycling through bad patches ever since we got together.

 

I don’t know how we got there.

How we kept getting there.

How we never seemed to leave there.

 

Months ago during that bad patch I sent him a link to a song about my sadness.

Ben Folds- Brick.

 

 

“That’s a song about an abortion, not us.” he said.

“It’s how I feel.”

 

Oh what little did I know all those months ago.

 

Months later…

I sat in a cold waiting room, alone.

I was filling out forms.

Procedures.

Signatures.

Statements of “understanding.”

 

 

“The world is sleeping I am numb.”

 

And the text messages poured in.

It was terrible.

We had been so terrible to each other.

 

I don’t know how it got there.

How it never seemed to leave there.

 

“She broke down. I broke down. Because I was tired of life.”

 

Inside of me there is a seed of love created in happiness.

Of something once undeniably there.

Of something that…

 

I don’t know how it got away from there.

I don’t know how it never seemed to leave there.

 

The picketers whom I had to walk past to get into the office chanted louder.

The door to the office was open.

Perhaps it was to try and remind the women waiting that there still was light.

That there still was hope.

That there still was… something.

 

I could see the picketers from my seat in the waiting room.

Their voices continued to rise.

Louder.

Stronger.

Echoing through the empty corners of that cold white waiting room.

 

And the text messages poured in.

It was terrible.

I felt terrible.

 

“Now that I have found someone I’m feeling more alone than I ever have before.”

 

I don’t know how we got there.

How we kept getting there.

How we never seemed to leave there.

 

“She broke down. I broke down. Because I was tired of life.”

 

But unlike that song, you weren’t there.

When they called my name, you were states away.

 

And these were my steps.

Little steps.

First steps.

Potentially last steps.

 

There was a part of me sentenced to die…

Whom it seemed you wanted to die.

 

The love I had felt…

That we had felt…

This would be a constant reminder and it was to be completely extinguished.

 

I wiped the tears from my eyes.

I took a deep breath breath.

I closed my eyes and pretended I was Dorothy.

I chanted to myself.

“It won’t be like this forever. It won’t be like this forever. It won’t be like this forever.”

 

And these were my steps.

Little steps.

First steps.

Potentially last steps.

 

There was a part of me sentenced to die…

Whom it seemed you wanted to die.

 

The next room I would be alone with a nurse.

Like the first, it would also be cold.

Stark cold nothingness.

It was the theme permeating throughout the building.

A sign of nothingness to be and to continue to be.

 

“Now she’s feeling more alone than she ever has before.”

 

The series of questioning would start.

Medical history.

Partners.

Relationships.

 

“Does the father know you are here?”

“Yes. He wants me to go through with this.”

“Do you?”

“I’m honestly not sure.  I feel terrible right now.  I want more information to try and make my decision.”

“Remember that this is your decision.  Don’t let anyone else force you to make one that you will regret.  It doesn’t matter if he agrees or not.  All that matters is you.”

 

“Now she’s feeling more alone than she ever has before.”

 

I closed my eyes and took another deep breath.

Months ago…

once upon a time ago…

our time ago…

 

He might not remember it but he said it.

“I want to have children with you someday.  I think you’re going to be a great mom.”

But he said it.

He said it multiple times.

 

Months ago…

once upon a time ago…

our time ago…

 

“She broke down. I broke down. Because I was tired of life.”

 

I don’t know how we got there.

How we kept getting there.

How we never seemed to leave there.

 

She continued to tell me about the procedure.

I would be asleep.

It would be relatively painless as I would be under anesthesia.

 

“The world is sleeping I am numb.”

 

“I want to find out how far along I am.  I need to know that much before I even begin to commit to anything.”

She understood.

 

It was time to take more steps again.

Little steps.

First steps.

Potentially last steps.

 

I came into a room filled with women waiting for their procedures.

Some of them were in hospital gowns.

Some of them were waiting their turn.

There were rollers with iv bags.

There were women waiting for ivs as well.

 

 

It was cold.

It felt like the coldest room so far.

Stark cold nothingness.

It was the theme permeating throughout the building.

A sign of nothingness to be and to continue to be.

 

None of the women so much as looked at each other let alone spoke.

Each woman either sat and stared blankly or covered their faces in their hands.

It was a room full of ghosts.

A room full of sadness.

A room full of undeniable pain.

 

I wiped the tears from my eyes.

I took a deep breath breath.

I closed my eyes and pretended I was Dorothy.

I chanted to myself.

“It won’t be like this forever. It won’t be like this forever. It won’t be like this forever.”

 

There was a part of me sentenced to die…

Whom it seemed you wanted to die.

 

The love I had felt…

That we had felt…

This would be a constant reminder and it was to be completely extinguished.

 

A nurse came in to check up on us all.

“How are all of you today?  Are you alright?  Well considering the circumstances?”

 

For a moment I felt calmer.

Warmer.

And the tears dried a little, although not completely.

 

I waited my turn.

 

Some of the women finally began to talk.

It was like they had been awoken.

Even if just for a moment.

 

That nurse was a ray of light.

She was hope.

She was a sign that there were still people who cared.

A light in that blank canvas of nothing.

 

Because that’s what a small ray of sunshine can do.

Because maybe that’s why that door was open in the waiting room.

 

There is still light.

There is still hope.

There is still… something.

 

“They call her name at 7:30.”

 

Another nurse.

Another room.

Cold still.

Nothingness still.

 

“It won’t be like this forever. It won’t be like this forever. It won’t be like this forever.”

 

Another nurse came in.

“So you’re here to get an ultrasound to find out how far along you are?”

“Yes. I am not sure if I want to proceed beyond that.  I know that knowing that much will help me with my decision and my options.”

 

I was told to disrobe from the waist down.

She would return and we would find out my answer.

 

 

I looked up at a monitor.

It was waiting for someone.

It was waiting for me.

It was waiting for…

 

The nurse returned.

We started looking.

Measurements were taken.

Pictures were taken.

 

The nothingness that I felt disappeared.

I began to cry again.

 

Inside of me there is a seed of love created in happiness.

Of something once undeniably there.

Of something that…

 

I don’t know how it got away from there.

I don’t know how it never seemed to leave there.

But there it was… cozy and comfy in black and white on that screen.

 

A sign of life.

A sign of hope.

A reminder of…

 

Months ago…

once upon a time ago…

our time ago…

 

And while my heart fights the reality of that potentially never being anything more than a memory again

 

You’re still there.

 

I’m still here.

 

I’m not ready to say goodbye to either one of us.

 

And these were my steps.

Little steps.

First steps.

Potentially last steps.

 

There was a part of me sentenced to die…

Whom it seemed you wanted to die.

 

Maybe it did that day.

But maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t the way either of us thought it would.

 

That little piece of black and white was hope.

It was a sign.

A light in that blank canvas of nothing.

 

Because that’s what a small ray of sunshine can do.

Because maybe that’s why that door was open in the waiting room.

 

There is still light.

There is still hope.

There is still… something.

 

And while I admit I’m completely scared and not sure about the details of what’s about to happen I know that it’s going to be ok.

 

Because that’s what a small ray of sunshine can do.

There is still light.

There is still hope.

There is still… someone.

And I can’t wait to meet you when you get here.

In Remembrance: The Morgue is alive with words

image by Dan Simmons, Dan Simmons.com

Oh my dears.. there is so so much to tell you.  I fear that I have neglected you so.  I’ve hoarded my words.  I’ve stashed my thoughts away in a safe hidden place.

I don’t want to do that anymore.

At least… not the way I have been for months.

This is a forewarning to those who are faint of heart…

Things are about to get… very very real again on here.  Real beyond love stories.  Real and sometimes mundane.

I just want to tell these stories before they disappear.

Because unfortunately, my genetics are telling me that it may very well be my destiny.

Two sets of grandparents are currently undergoing this painful process that doctors call “The long goodbye.”  My grandmother on my mother’s side is farther along.  She is becoming a shell of the person she once was.  She barely remembers my mother or my aunts and uncles.  And, while she and I were never really close, nor me with my mother, I know that this is hurting the family around her who are close to her.

My grandfather on my dad’s side is also going through stages of Alzheimer’s.  Ironically, he is one of those unforgettable people.  He is the guy that is constantly making friends everywhere.  Who is the reason I probably talk so much.  Who… is one of my absolute favorite people (outside of my children) in the entire world (the other being his wife).

My heart is breaking as I am seeing one of the most wonderful and inspirational people-  slowly but surely forgetting more and more of his life… of his memories… of the beauty that he helped to show the world… that he gave to me… that….

I don’t want the world to disappear without knowing my stories anymore.

Granted, I’m not going to tell you everything.  If you want that, pick a lifecaster.  There are some things beautiful about sharing every single detail about ones life, and there are things beautiful in not.  I’m choosing a land of in between.  And that’s… ok.

It is my hope that you find something in these posts to bring you back again and again.  Perhaps it’s because of something inspiring.  Perhaps it’s just something silly.  Perhaps it’s comfort in mundane (oh how I wish some days to be more mundane).  But, if nothing else, I want these stories out there.  For the one day I can’t remember them.  For the chance that someone will. Because words are the way a person never truly dies.

—-

But until then, here are a bunch of silly pictures of tombstones.  Because there are enough posts coming up that you can be sad about and well, some of these images hopefully will help make you smile.  Note: none of these images are mine so please don’t sue me folks.

Happy Birthday Maddox

Happy Birthday Maddox

I’ve been up all morning and late last night thinking about this post… about the beautiful memory of you to write on Little Girl, Big City.  I feel, like the lack of ability to write.. the lack of courage I have had to do right by you, even though I’m arguably better now… I fear I’m still doing it wrong.

I wanted to tell you that even though our time together has been short in your now 8 years of living that, while I have forgotten so much as I struggled to even remember if this was your 9th or your 8th birthday, please know my dearest little (but growing) boy that your mother has not forgotten you one bit.

It brings me such sadness each day that we are away.  Of even more knowing that as much as I’ve tried, I’ve also failed.

The memories are the only thing I have of you nowadays.. and our hearts forever beating are the place we will always be together.

I want you to know that I’ve written and tried to see you but your father has not been forthcoming with things… even when I tried recently to bring you to see your dying Great Grandmother and Great Grandfather.  Your father has denied any sort of interaction between us even in the most simplest of terms.  I tried messaging this year requesting to talk to you and your sister this year just as I did last year.

But I’d hear nothing in return

It’s still early and I’m hoping and praying that I get to hear your voice again.  I worry about you.  Not because I don’t think your dad isn’t doing his very best to take care of you but because I’m your mother and I always will be.

From the day you were born I feel like I might have done wrong by you.  I was scared when you were stuck the day you were born.  I remember when the doctors tried to get you out of me how I couldn’t handle the pain and I freaked out- grabbing the tube to the vacum that was being used to try and pull you out of me.

And then I saw you.  You were the most handsome little man in the world.  And I worried that I might have robbed the world of that because I couldn’t handle a little bit of pain.  When you got older I watched as your dad tried to tell me that everything was alright with you.  Deep down I knew something was off.. and I felt responsible.  Know that I did everything I could to plead with your father to put you into a special program so that you could get the attention and help you deserved.  I hope that it’s helping.

I’m out of words.  I don’t know what else to say.  So I guess I’ll just say it.  I love and miss you my dear growing little man.  Happy Birthday Maddox.   You are my heart.  I wish I was a better mommy for you.  I wish your dad would put away the bitterness so that we could spend more time together.  You deserve that much.

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.

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.

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.

Per request-

Mia: Don’t you hate that?
Vincent: What?
Mia: Uncomfortable silences. Why do we feel it’s necessary to yak about bullshit in order to be comfortable?
Vincent: I don’t know. That’s a good question.
Mia: That’s when you know you’ve found somebody special. When you can just shut the fuck up for a minute and comfortably enjoy the silence.

That, my dears, was my weekend.  But you’re going to have to wait to hear that tale.

With that, the sound begins again.

I know that it has been awhile since I’ve done this.  So much has been going on.  But don’t fret.

I have not stopped writing- I just changed mediums for awhile.

I have not stopped dating.

I have not stopped smiling.

(Non sequitor.)

I have not died.

(Well, that part is only partially true.)

I still exist.

I guess part of what happened is, as generic as it may sound…

life.

I was walking through the art supply store yesterday waiting for my friend to be free to cut me some canvas.  I can’t remember the last time I painted.  I was inspired and felt it was time.

My weekend had been a blur.  A punch drunk fury of hours come and gone like a gust of wind.  Perhaps the rain this week washed away more than just a few dirty streets.

I think I know what I’m going to paint.

My best had to help a customer.  I found myself lost in shelves lined with magic.  I called the one person who I knew was a combination of both worlds.

“Grandma what are you doing home?  You’re supposed to be in Dwight enjoying your childhood memories.”

“Next weekend.”

“I want to have sand in my paint but I forgot what I need for that…”

“To thicken it up you need a medium.  Or you can just use oils because its thicker.”

You see, and this should not come as much of a surprise, but my grandmother… is an artist.

“Grandma I had… All I want to do right now is paint.  I want to hike and paint and watch sunrises and sunsets over the city and paint for awhile.  It’s been too long.  I have a lot on my mind.”

“I think thats wonderful.  Do you still have those brushes your aunt and I bought you years ago?”

“I do.  I’m going to have to dig them out.  I’m buying a couple of artist pallates.  I want to go to the beach and paint so I want something that if I lose I won’t be super upset about losing.”

“Buy a plastic one or get paper ones for that.  Best bet would be plastic. It’d be easy to clean.”

“Grandma, tell me about how it was to date in your time  What was that like for you.”

“I don’t talk about that.  I did date before your grandpa but I’m a very private person.”

Oh what she doesn’t know…

We walked around and talked about life.

“Why as a society are we brought up and told “Be honest. Be yourself.  Be open.” but then when you actually are, people crucify you for it… because there’s something about them that they can’t fully express and they’re envious… because you are the colorful painting and they are stuck in black and white.”

“Because people are hypocrites!” She said with a laugh.

I guess that’s part of why I took a pause.  My scrawlings, despite being vague and relatively ananomous nature have been both uplifting and the knife of the final move of my demise.  Despite my openness about this blog before I ever even enter into anything, men seem to become entransed by the words and then… when the plot really thickens and the soufle is in the oven… well, they fall short.

“Choose your words wisely.  They make or break you.”

I am not broken anymore.

I may not be that black and white picture all of the time but…

Life has been busy.  I have eased into a semi normal lifestyle believe it or not.  I have slept some wonderful nights and I have also tossed and turned with dreams of a ghost.

But those tales shall come later.

Know that I have been to hell and beyond and… it’s good to be back.  We have a lot of catching up to do my friends.  And thank you for the messages telling  me to get back to this.

More later.  But for now?  I have to get dressed.  Someone got a normal 9-5 office job downtown.  Mind boggling huh?

Cheers,

j.

Postal Project in found art

To Mr Cheng

I’ve always been a little off.  This idea has been something that has actually done by my family at one point, but for a reason that wasn’t art.

The picture seen here is from Swedish Artist Eric Ericson.  He spent many years sending objects through the mail and these are a few of them.  I have every intention of copying it.  My mother does not know it yet, but she is about to get sent random miscellaneous objects from me.  So if anyone reading finds something quirky that they want me to mail (within reason), I will send it to my mother.  And when I say within reason, I’m talking stuff that she will likely just laugh at as opposed to something I will get a lecture about.  As it is I’m sure she’s going to mail me a list to therapists in the area and tell me to seek help after this.

I called my grandmother this morning and told her about it.  She is doing much better.  She told me she’d received the postcards I’d sent her and asked me about my weekend.  She was more curious about the things I was doing.  She told me many tales about her life.  We talked a little bit about the hospital and then I mentioned this.

My friend the dark prince said he will help me in the experiment if I want to send him things.  The project is for art as well as humor.

My grandmother reminded me of the time my grandfather did this.  He is far from being an artist though.

In a box somewhere is the muffler from my dad’s old Seabring convertible.  My dad was moving back to California from IL and wanted to try and get a trailer hitch on the back.  Grandpa’s brilliant idea was to saw off the muffler- which he did- take a permanent marker to it and some stamps and mail it to my dad’s new address in California.

It did indeed get there and has been a family joke for nearly 10 years now.

Seeing this post made me smile and so did my grandmother.  I told her I was going to send various objects to my mother and not tell her beforehand.  My grandmother didn’t help.  She actually encouraged the project.

“I found one of your shoes here.  Just one.  You should send it to him or your mother.” she said with a giggle.

“Oh really?  Which one?”

“Some black and white one.”

I told her some of the things I planned on sending my mother already.  Just miscellaneous crap that’s around the apartment that I really have no clue why it’s there.  I told my roommate to let me know what he finds while he’s cleaning to send to mom.

“I may be little but I’m odd.” I quoted Eddie Munster.

“I know.” he said and chuckled.

And now my postman is going to know too.  Yay!

Epilogue:  My grandmother thanked me for the cards I’ve sent.  I told her I will send her more.  She told me “Thank you for making me smile today.  Thank you for making me laugh and feel full of life again.”  I think this is the start of a beautiful morning.

Epilogue 2: I’m going to see if I can actually tape some of this but will need a partner in crime and would prefer not to do it at the post office near me as I’m there twice a week as it is already.  If you are interested in being said counterpart please send me an email to inquire about this position or I may just post it on Craigslist.

Unconditional: My grandmother’s heart starts to fail

“How is your grandmother doing?”

I froze.

I was at a bar last night trying to get my mind off of things and I really didn’t want to hear that.

You can tell who is really there for you when things like this happen.  It’s a mixture of the people reaching out and the ones that know when to let it be.  In this case, though I know you weren’t trying to upset me sir, it just…

My best friend heard little about what was going on but wanted to make sure that I was out and about.  He didn’t want me at home miserable and contemplative.

I’m happy I went.

I reached out to a few people about it.  A very tiny handful of friends whom mostly know only bits and pieces off of twitter.  I really don’t enjoy talking about it.

When I got the news yesterday with her updated condition, I broke down.  I feel horrible saying that I wish I had my camera for it.  In my mind that day will forever be encased.

“There’s 3 options.  All of them have risks.  One.  They can give her a full surgery and she could potentially die when they’re trying to put her back together.  Two.  They can give her partial surgery and medication.  She can still potentially die.  Three.  They can send her home with just the medication and she would be at risk of a stroke.  She could potentially die.”

I’m in the middle of a starbucks after I’d just walked along Venice Beach trying to unwind.  But I’ll be damned I didn’t care.

“She is not allowed to die right now do you hear me?”

“Grandma doesn’t think its her time.  We’re all worried though.  We’re going to talk about it.  Ultimately it’s her decision though.  I’ll call you and let you know more when I can.  Are you going to be ok?”

“I’ll be fine.  I think I just need to find a bar now.”

The people at the Starbucks turned on music.  I might have been a bit loud.  I don’t think I was.  Starbucks feels more and more cash and carry than ever.  I’m hesitant to go back now.

I’ve been crying off and on since it happened.  My best friend from back home called me to find out how I was.

“Well I think I may be going home.  Awesome huh?”

“Not really.  I’m sorry.”

We talked a bit more.  My brother called back.  I had to take the call.

“It’s John Paul.  I’ll call you back.”

“Goodluck chicky.  I’m here for you.”

“Thanks.  I appreciate it.  I’ll talk to you soon.”

I switched over.

“What’s the status dude?”

“We talked about it and we think it might be best to send her home with the medication.  None of us want her dying on the operating table.  This is what we think she would want too.”

In my mind, that’s not how I would ever envision her going.  That’s not her.  No one believes that.

“I’m going to write Andre an email and try to see what I can do about getting the kids if I can drive out there. Let me talk to dad.”

He handed the phone to him.

“I need you to be strong now.  I want to come home.  Can we please figure out how to do that?  I want to pick up Maddox and Sakura if I drive out.  It’s important.”

“This isn’t the place for kids.  That’s why I didn’t bring Ethan.  He’s never going to follow through with that…”

“Dad, let me try and take care of that.  Can you get me home?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

More time passed.  I messaged the grip and told him it was an emergency.

“I’ll see when I can get out.  How bad is she?”

“Not good. Please get out soon.  It’s important.”

My cousin (who is close to my dad and grew up here in California) called.  She is a hypochondriac.  She believes she has a heart condition.  Years ago, I thought so highly of her.  Now, I’m not sure what to think.  But for what she was going to say on that call… I’m a bit insulted about.

“We think we’re going to send her home.”

“What?!   No.  That’s just stupid.  She is going to die then.  Not getting that surgery is the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard.”

She continued as my jaw thudded on the ground.

“She has 100% blockage in one area, 90% blocked in another, and 70% in another.  And one of them has a blood clot in it.  Why the hell would that be a good idea?”

I hadn’t heard the specific numbers.  The updates I’d had were the ones I’ve gotten from my younger brother.  My dad was in no position to deal with it.  He didn’t have it in him to tell me.  He didn’t want me to know how badly he was taking it.

“I know dad has to be taking it the hardest dude.  I’m worried.”

“I don’t know Jen… I think its a tie.  Grandpa is really bad too.  They’re both breaking down.  I think Grandpa will likely go soon if she does.”

Right now my family is pushing to be strong.  Those of us who grew up with her.  Those of us who’d spent years upon years with this woman.  What my cousin said really was out of line.  She put herself on a high horse and then spouted off about her own “heart condition” and proclaimed she was more knowledgeable.  But that wasn’t all.

“This is my grandmother and ultimately it’s her choice what she wants to do.  If she was to go home, she would be surrounded by her family and loved ones.  It is better than being in a sterile hospital. I want her better.  But I also want her to have what she needs.”

“That’s my aunt.  My grandmother is her older sister.  I’m just as close to her if not more as you are.  I’m very close to just jumping in the car and driving out there now…”

A few visits with her may have been lovely.  My grandmother is one of those people where everyone quickly adores upon meeting her.  She is genuine, vibrant, old fashioned, conventional, artistic, talkative, and sincere.  She is a rare individual of beauty and art where I doubt anyone could ever compare to.

But my cousin does not know my grandmother.  Not like I do.  Not like my family that grew up with her.  Not my sister and brother that still live a few miles away from her.

She didn’t spend holidays there eating tons mediocre food.  (Sorry my grandmother wasn’t the best cook.)

She didn’t spend holidays watching how she would decorate the inside of the house and argue with my grandfather to help with the outside.

She didn’t watch all of the things that she grew up with remain there as she grew older:

• some little chairs from when me, my sister and brother were toddlers
• a tiny piano
• of dolls, nicknacks, a bulb vintage hanging black & white television, and happy meal toys

She didn’t spend summers painting on the screened in porch.

She didn’t…

She didn’t…

“I’m going to a place that has girls dressed up in nurses costumes for a show.  Come out with me and get your mind off things.” my best friend told me.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Jen, you don’t sound good.  Are you going to be ok?” Molly asked me again.

The other line beeped.  Mo was here.

“I’ll be at a bar.  I’ll be fine I guess.” I told her.

We didn’t feel like buying booze there so we grabbed a flask of vodka and a chaser. Down the hatch it went.  Not to get drunk- but just to feel something different than what I was.  I drank very little.

The new bar wasn’t really great.  I stood there blankly and watched the show.  My best friend and I talked about other things… things that will likely get blogged about later and elaborated on.  Things I’m reflecting on.

The crowd dispersed around midnight.  We headed to our bar.  We walked into…

“How is your grandmother doing?”

I’m hitting refresh on my inbox hoping for that response from my ex.  As soon as he gives me a green light I’m most likely going home quicker than Dorothy with a pair of ruby slippers.  I wish it was all a dream.  Please just tell me this is all a really bad dream.