Miss Communication

Dancing around the box.

2011-01-25T23:03:00.000-06:00

So, I'm taking a class this semester called "Psychodrama". Never has one class ever described me so succinctly. I love it! Anyway, part of the course requirement is that I have to write about class each week... keep a journal of sorts. I decided that I would blog instead, because this class is bound to have some amazingly awkward, interesting moments that I really shouldn't hog to myself. I mean, we danced around a box while listening to "The Saints Go Marching In" on the first day of class. We also renamed ourselves and screamed in a circle. Not necessarily in that order (actually I can't remember what order that occurred in... too much peyote. KIDDING).

I really think this class will be invigorating. It's going to be fun to be free and silly and spontaneous inside the same room that I used to do case staffings last semester. Last semester the room was filled with food, paperwork, Tylenol, coffee cups, and our semi-faithful computer equipment. This semester, all the tables are gone, the ceiling lights have been replaced with stage lamps, the chairs sit in a circle and we don't use any computers. All we have are our voices, our thoughts and each other.

We'll see what happens...

Brand new start.

2010-09-30T23:31:00.005-05:00

I just finished reading “The Zahir” by Paulo Coelho and it talks about an interesting idea… It says how sometimes we have to tell our story over and over until we can let it go, until we don’t need it to define us anymore. We need to get comfortable with it, find the resolution, and let it be. We have to stop allowing our old stories trap us into the characters we used to be; we have to let go of the old storyline and become who we were meant to be (also, I can't seem to stop typing 'to be'). Sounds simple enough, but I know it’s not. It’s about as simple as ripping my own heart from my chest, burying it, and growing a new one.

But all growth is pain, and any major change for the good is hard. I know this, yet I've been living my whole life as if someone guaranteed it was supposed to be easy. Where on earth did I get that idea?

Lie to me (honestly).

2010-09-08T23:39:00.004-05:00

It's amazing the unspoken societal rules we live by today, especially in regards to relationships. More specifically, I'm referring to the rules we follow in the exquisitely tortuous social construction called DATING. And while there are certainly self-imposed, socially influenced rules within established relationships, I'm going to speak to the dating game that I so often get tangled in (mostly because I'm awkwardness personified, but also because I try to play by the rules that don't make sense, but we follow anyway).

Most of us have played the Dating Game, which is really more of a marathon with rules and uniforms and referees (yeah, I'm mixing sports metaphors, bear with me). You know this game - it's the one that goes, "Well, I want you to know that I like you, but only if you like me back, because if you don't, then I don't want you to know that I like you." And because of this rule, fear, whatever you want to call it, we do things like call and hang up, text and pretend it was on accident, flirt with them, but not too obviously, et cetera. When we like someone, we're consumed with the fear that they'll find us out, and at the same time, consumed with the fear that they won't. And if they do find us out, and don't return the feeling (which happens most of the time), we're completely and totally mortified, as if by our liking them we are issuing a grave and unforgivable insult:

"Oh my gosh, I can't believe I've told you that you're so wonderful you've caught my attention. I'm sorry to have made you feel so special by my innocent, heartfelt confession! You must feel terrible that you're so awesome people like you!" I mean, really?

I was talking to a friend the other day about this, saying to her how frustrating this whole game is. We both shared how foolish we have felt in the past for liking someone that may or may not return the favor. But shouldn't we be proud of our declarations? Are we really so self-loathing that we think it an insult to say we (who are wonderful just as we are) like someone? Shouldn't that person be honored by such a confession? But no, it doesn't work that. We're too scared, self-conscious, defensive or some other paralyzing excuse. Instead of being true to our feelings, we bury them so deep that not even a bit too much alcohol can pry the secret loose. We hold the feelings close to our heart, praying that if the person returns the favor, they will somehow find the courage to be honest with us... in the same way we wish we had the courage to be honest with them. But if our confessions never come out, if that person never pursues us, what then? Then the regret starts to seep in, nice and slow, pulling a couple dozen "What if's" behind it.

So why can't we just be honest with each other? Why can't we tell the truth, get our feelings out, be confident and see what happens? Because that would be breaking the rules. And what happens to rule breakers? They get disqualified. Or more realistically, we have a reeeally awkward moment with the person in question, and if that person happens to be a friend, then there are all kinds of continued awkward scenarios to be had if you stay friends. And so instead, we lie, or at least conceal the truth until we do one of three things:

1. Give up.
2. Find courage and fess up (perhaps motivated by the possibility that the love of a lifetime may be lost if you remain silent).
3. Combine 1 and 2, or create some other personal strategy that somehow gets the two of you to come together naturally.

And those that get to number 3, are truly blessed indeed.

How do relationships even begin? I can't remember. All I know is that they must begin out of awkwardness, nerves and disbelief. All I know is that I will continue to play the game, will continue to play by the rules, and will probably be grateful to all the men who let me down by lying.

"So lie to me once again
And tell me everything will be alright.
It's the same old story."
- 12 Stones

Regret.

2010-09-01T23:06:00.000-05:00

I suppose everyone has regrets (if we're truly living).
Of course, it's easy to look back and see what you could have done differently (hindsight's 20-20 and all that).
It's not so easy to look at the present and scry all of the outcomes and options (though some of us try anyway).
When we're in the moment we generally don't write up the pro's and con's of every possible move, and then confer with a panel of ethical peers before making a decision (unless you're Donald Trump... Money can buy that kind of surety).
We do what we do and it's not until we've lived through the consequences do we realize how we could have done things differently (read: better).
This is the worst torture because you can't change it; you can't take it back (only in dreams).
All you can do is comb the wreckage for things worth keeping, learn from it, and let your past influence your future (change IS possible).
Besides, what's the point of history if you don't learn from it (and have the courage to try again)?
Regrets, when coupled with hope, can build our future (if we're truly living).

"Wisdom comes with winters." - Oscar Wilde

Passive aggressive coffee drinker.

2010-08-23T12:59:00.000-05:00

Okay, I admit it: I am a coffee freak. I have been drinking coffee since the 9th grade, and haven't stopped since. I like (love) all kinds of coffee: dark, light, espresso, mochas, cappucinnos, you name it. I'm fairly certain coffee is the only reason I ever graduated from any institution or completed any difficult task. Ask me to live without it, and I'd ask you if you wanted a swift punch to the kidney. Seriously. Coffee keeps me alive. There was even one point in my life when I could drink coffee before bed and still sleep like nobody's business. Though I've toned down my habit a lot over the years, coffee still remains my breakfast of champions.

But before you begin to think I have problems (at least in relation to caffeine), please know that I do have some limits when it comes to coffee. A few examples:

1. Once while camping, we ran out of pots and ended up brewing coffee in the same pot we used to boil hot dogs in the night before. Somehow I didn't think meat-flavored coffee would be palatable (just ask Allison). So I skipped the caffeine until I returned to civilization.

2. When I used to fix books for a living, my coffee cup was always full. You try spending 8 hours with nothing but glue and paper backs and see how long you can keep your eyes open without the aid of legal stimulants. It's not easy. The one time I tried, I glued my fingers together and my paintbrush to my desk. Anyway, one day I placed a full, perfectly blended cup of coffee on my desk, only to discover a couple of minutes later that a freaking horse fly landed in it. Gag. I promptly dumped that sucker down the drain.

3. I'm pretty open-minded about different coffee types, except for instant coffee. Why? Because it's a poser, a liar, a weak imitation of what coffee should be. I don't care what you put in it, you can't hide the taste of cheating.

4. I'm one of those annoying people at Starbucks that will order the "grande-sugar-free-vanilla-latte-with-soy" with the practiced air of a true coffee addict. But I will never drink Starbucks coffee black. NEVER. I would like to keep my stomach lining intact, thanks.

These examples aside, I used to think myself a pretty hardcore coffee drinker; one who would drink under the most severe instances... But a visit with my dad proved to me just how far I have left to go.

While visiting my family last weekend, I put on a fresh pot of coffee while catching up with my dad, the man who introduced coffee into my life in the first place. Now my dad will drink coffee under any circumstance - I've even seen him drink Starbucks "dark roast", which resembles tar more than coffee, and which would dissolve the esophagus of a lesser person. But he does it like he's drinking water. It's amazing! Anyway, after pouring myself a mug, I turned my back on it for just a few moments.

Then I heard my dad said, "I think something just landed in your cup."

I peered in the mug, and was horrified to find that the "something" was actually two gnats. A wave of disgust and regret overcame my caffeine-stimulated senses. "Oh, gross! There goes a perfect cup of coffee."

My dad shook his head, "What? Just dig them out and drink it. It's fine!"

I shot him a grossed out look, "Ew... no thanks."

"Oh, c'mon Brittany. I do it all the time." And with that, my dad reached into my cup, scooped out the gnats, smiled and said, "Good as new."

I don't know what look was on my face, but it wasn't a pleasant one. Would I really stoop this low to save a cup of coffee from being wasted? Never! Hadn't I already had coffee at Kneaded Pleasures that morning? Well, yes, but... Would I let my tough dad persuade me to join the leagues of the truly hardcore coffee enthusiasts? Actually...

I seriously considered it.

My hesitation has led me to believe that I have fallen, no JUMPED, off the wagon of socially acceptable coffee addiction into the realm of "seriously, she has a problem" addiction. You will soon see me drinking the black tar coffee that has congealed at the bottom of Starbuck's coffee pots. I will give up sleeping entirely. I'll eat espresso beans for dinner. I might even begin drinking instant coffee.

Whoa, whoa now. Let's not go crazy here. Nothing is happening to me, really. I'm being overly dramatic, which is quite typical of me. Still... maybe I should consider giving up coffee?

Yeah, right.

Three years changes everything.

2010-08-13T10:59:00.002-05:00

So, since I have yet to finish any new entries, I've been going through old essays and decided to post one of them while my tired brain tries to find inspiration for a new post. Yeah, I know I'm cheating. Anyway, I wrote this one three years ago (THREE YEARS AGO! How time does fly...) and I never really posted it because I was too chicken. But now, three years after that whole drama-fest, I'm in such different (read: better) place, and this writing doesn't bother me anymore. In fact, it was so long ago, and I've changed so much, that it doesn't even seem like I wrote it. But that's a good thing, right? Right. Anywho, without further ado, here it is...

"His Smile” - Fall 2007

I remember his smile the most.

Shining and brilliant, it never failed to inspire one of my own. His eyes would crinkle up at the edges and his entire face would light up like his joy was a heat coming from the inside. It was warm and intense, cool and easy, all at once.

That’s what got me in the very beginning. Every part of his face, his eyes almost more than his mouth, took part in his smile. It was a miraculous thing, and he wasn’t limited to just one.

Even now, I can pinpoint each of his smiles. I can tell you everything about them: what they looked like, how they felt, who he wore them for and when…

He had his fake smile, the one he put on with people he wasn’t comfortable with, or in situations he wished he wasn’t in. This smile didn’t reach his eyes. It was automatic, an immediate wall of defense. He wore it in public and it wasn’t until we were alone that he would let me coax it off of his face.

He had his sincere, completely ecstatic smile. This smile would burst into life without pretense or effort. A winning football game, a small kiss, or even just finding a new favorite song would elicit this smile. He could wear it for hours, and even when the intensity faded, the sweet feel of it hung in the air, leaving us both relaxed and happy.

He had his laughing-so-hard-I-can’t-breathe smile. His eyes would squeeze shut and he would clutch his stomach with his rough brown hands, shaking all over. The energy from it would buzz and giggle through me until I couldn’t catch my breath either. No matter what I was doing, there was a part of me continuously trying to find this smile.

He had his I’m-trying-not-to-be-angry smile. This was the smile I would see when we got lost because I wasn’t paying attention to the road, or when I reorganized his room without asking. This smile looked almost painful, and made his cheeks tight and frozen. It also made me laugh, which only kept it there longer.

He had his I-love-you-and-only-you smile. His eyes would soften and all the lines would smooth from his forehead. This smile could stop time, and often did. He would come so close that all I could see were the corners of his upturned mouth. But, I wasn’t looking for his smile then, not really. Locked into his gaze and the thoughts behind it, I lost myself in a world that only existed when he looked at me that way.

He had thousands of smiles, countless and ageless. But of all his smiles, there is one that stands out above the rest. It's the smile that I will remember the most, the one that is ingrained behind my eyelids. This smile I saw once and never again: it was the one he wore when we stopped existing. When he knocked on my door that night, he was already wearing it. It was a quivering smile, a wet and uneven smile, a smile that broke apart everything I thought I knew. It stripped the air from the room, pulled the life from within me, left me curled on the floor in a pain I didn't understand. He left me there and took his smile with him.

Now all of my memories of him, good or bad, are tainted with these smiles. Some of them have faded, others have haunted, and still others have left scars where love used to be. Though time has lessened their affect on me, I know they're affecting someone else... Someone new and different and beautiful in ways I never was. They have his smiles now, and I have only shadows.

That's it, and all it should be.

Vestiges of his memory are all that I want now; They're all I need to keep the parts of life I lived with him, the necessary parts I must carry.

So, I remember his smile the most, though it no longer remembers me.

Wisdom? More like random neuron firing.

2010-07-12T10:36:00.000-05:00

I found this journal entry today... I wrote it at work over a year and a half ago. I don't know if I agree with it completely now, but it's interesting to see what my little naive brain was thinking back then:

It’s amazing how things can come together for you. I was reading an article in ‘Psychology Today’ about happiness and how it’s not our reward for avoiding pain. It’s also not something that is guaranteed, nor is it reasonable to expect that happiness will follow you 24/7. It went on to discuss all the necessary emotions in life that we must experience, because after all, you must “know the darkness to appreciate the light”. Just after I read that article, I read one on attachment theory and how deep down, we are all (female AND male) programmed to want, need, crave love and close relationships with other people. It went on to describe recent research that shows how our brains react when we see or perceive the loss of someone close to us. It actually triggers a panic response in our amygdala (the organ in the mid-brain responsible for things like attaching emotion to learning and memory; it’s basically the emotion center). Of course this reminded me of the time when my amygdala panicked because someone close to me actually did leave. So then, I thought about my current, boyfriend-less situation and thought, “Why the hell am I even looking? It’s not even worth it if they just end up leaving and freaking out my brain.” THEN, when I went back to my desk, Garth Brooks’ ‘The Dance’ came on the radio and I had to bite my lip to keep from crying (I know, I know... I'm such a sap). I went full circle. I realized again, that the small moments of happiness in life are always worth it. Always. Living through the pain is just a part of life; it’s a given. But happiness will find us all again. The opportunity for joy is ever-present.

Time means nothing.

2010-06-30T23:27:00.000-05:00

It’s amazing how long the heart can hold on to love. It’s amazing how it keeps hoping when there’s nothing left to hope in.
Love is not logical, reasonable or understandable. We try to make it fit into theories and boxes and books, but how can anyone objectify something so brilliant, unknown and complex?
Love moves and morphs and ages and changes… Over and over and over, making time and distance irrelevant.
I can't comprehend it. After so many years, I see that since God is love, and I can't understand God, then there's no way I can understand love either.
Love just is. It defies time; It defies logic... Yet we have to choose it every day.
Love is everything.

And the person who loves wholeheartedly feels free. - Paulo Coehlo

Chocolate is deceiving.

2010-06-23T15:26:00.000-05:00

I've been suffering from writer's block lately, or at least that's the excuse I use. Whatever the excuse, it's keeping me from the one thing that keeps me sane. Maybe I'm afraid of what's going to appear on the paper once I give myself space to think. Maybe I'm tired of it because when I sit to write, my mind and fingers get disconnected and I stare dumbly at the screen until I give up and just read a book. Or maybe I don't write because when I let my heart in on the writing action, my fingers take off and pretty soon I have pages and pages of things I'd rather not think about.

Just thinking about it makes me stressed. And stress makes me crave chocolate. Speaking of which... I'm an addict to these little Dove dark chocolates that come with little sayings hidden in the wrappers. One piece of "advice" I keep getting over and over is this: "Follow your heart - it will never steer you wrong." Um, yeah. That's a bunch of crap. It's because of my heart that I get into so much trouble and wind up in such existential angst. My heart often has a mind of it's own, and it rarely cares what the rational side of my brain has to say. And since I usually keep my true feelings and thoughts cooped up in my heart all the time, when it does decide to speak, there's no stopping it. My heart is idealistic, irrational, whimsical, demanding, and oh-so naive, which is why I tell it to shut up so often. Maybe too often.

I'm sure there's a lesson in all this, which I'll be sure to mull over some other time. As for now, the only advice I can take away from Dove (and this blog) is this: don't listen to chocolate.

Here comes the sun.

2010-03-26T16:43:00.000-05:00

So, it has come to my attention that my blog title is a lie. Most of you who know me well, know that I am an eternal pessimist. If there is a negative perspective on anything, I'll take it. If there's a gloomy book in a 3 story library, I'll find it. If the glass is half-full, I'll empty it out. Eeyore and I could have been BFF's. I have a blackened, shellacked heart that beats in tune to every emo, rock ballad that comes on the radio.

You get the idea.

I used to think that pessimism defined me, that I couldn't be anything rosier. But then I got a clue. Why the hell do I HAVE to be a certain way? Why can't I change my perspective, fill up my glass, flip on The Kooks and rock some rose colored glasses? I can be optimistic if I want, damn it. And I will!

It turns out that optimism takes practice. Since I wasn't born as a Miss Merry Sunshine, I'll have to work at it. Optimism is a daily practice that will hopefully become a habit, which will then become a permanent part of ME. And I think now is the best time to start... With the beautiful sunshine, spring weather, fresh produce and happy people, I can do it.

Bring on the happy!

"I'm only happy when it rains
I feel good when things are going wrong
I only listen to the sad sad songs
I'm only happy when it rains..."
- Garbage

And it feels like letting go.

2010-03-04T15:40:00.000-06:00

The weather is gorgeous today: clear blue sky, whispy streaks of clouds, brilliant yellow sunshine and enough allergens to make your eyes swell shut. (Okay, so it's gorgeous minus that last part.) So naturally, I spent part of today driving around familiar country streets, listening to happy music and basking in the glory of the day. It was fantastic.

But every time I experience a day like today, I always feel a small twinge of something I can't quite understand. Regret? Sadness? Boredom? Congestion?

Seriously, days like today remind me of all the previous times in my life when I've experienced weather like this. Usually these memories entail other people I used to be close to... friends, family members, loved ones... People that have, in some way or another, left my life completely. I think of these people on beautiful days like today, and sometimes I feel them again. I can see their smile or hear their laugh, or I remember a stupid joke they would always tell or song they used to always sing...

Memories are powerful things, leaving behind vestiges that sometimes feel so real you have to double check to make sure you're not actually losing your mind. They bind us to people in ways that don't even make sense sometimes, making us associate them with little, seemingly inconsequential things. For example, every time I drive by this deserted mailbox in Cedar Park, I think of an old friend who I've lost touch with over the years. This person and I never actually visited the mailbox, nor did we ever come close. But when I see that box waiting for mail that will never come, I'm immediately brought back to days when I too waited for them to return. (Or maybe I'm just a romantic, poetic freak who likes to make connections that are just ridiculous and cheesy. Probably the latter.)

In any case, weather like today's is a good chance to practice the art of letting go. Letting go of people, places, memories, feelings, thoughts, confusions... Letting go of things that were once ours but left in the night when we weren't looking. Letting go is necessary and freeing. What, if anything, do we really have control over or possession of in this life? Not much. But hey, that's how it should be. Letting go doesn't mean forgetting or not loving. Letting go is freeing yourself from the pain that comes with missing someone so much it hurts. In this you can forgive yourself, appreciate the memories, and move on a little lighter than before. Maybe those people will come back. Maybe not. Whatever the case, you have those memories of them to turn to on beautiful days. The good memories, the beautiful ones that can carry you through the darkest times, are the ones that will stay whether you hold onto them or not.

Days like today are perfect for letting go.

"The time of departure is not mine to choose; I must find my way alone in
this darkness...
Love likes to wander from one to another,
as if God willed it so. My darling, farewell."
- Wilhelm Müller

Being Zen in 2010.

2010-01-02T01:52:00.001-06:00

In the beginning of two thousand and ten, during the second hour of January the 2nd, a youngish girl sits down to write her first blog of the new year...

And hits writer's block. Ouch.

Hopefully, that's not an indicator of how the rest of the year will play out. I need my brain to be fully functioning this year, damn it. It's going to be a year of change and growth and art and love and peace and faith and hope!

Maybe.

Which reminds me, I'm going to try to be more optimistic this year. And productive. Also, having a mindful, zen-like attitude wouldn't hurt either...

Anyway, since my mind is otherwise blank, I'll go ahead and end this little excuse for a blog...

Here's to an optimistic, productive, mindful and zen 2010!

Feel and Forget

2009-12-30T23:13:00.000-06:00

What does being forgotten feel like?

Does it feel like no one sees you or hears you? Does it feel like a constant cloud hanging above your head, threatening to drench any mote of hope or happiness even before it’s brought to fruition in your head? Does it feel as if you could fall or crash and nothing would break, because you were made of nothing in the first place?

Being forgotten is being numb, ignored, cheated, neglected and pushed aside. It’s a horrible, haunting reminder that your life is seemingly insignificant simply because others deem it so. Being forgotten is the realization that someone you put importance in, someone whom you gave substance and form to, someone you placed faith and hope in, turned away and left as if you were no more than the last breath they exhaled: used and unnecessary.

Insignificant.

But how can we forget anything that houses a soul and spirit? How can we discard something as precious as another living, breathing, thinking being?

And yet, some of us do it so easily. We do it to the overworked cashier who smiles good morning, even when we can’t be bothered to look them in the face. We do it to the people on the street. We do it to babies in the womb. We do it to people we once loved more than ourselves; people we’ve whispered promises to in the dark; people we’ve given our own tears and sweat and souls to...

We do it over and over and over. We do it unfeelingly, or with so much feeling that it becomes impossible to feel anything anymore.

We forget because it's easier than carrying the burden of memories. We forget because we're weak or tired or scared. We forget when we all know that deep down, forgetting isn't permanent. Forgetting is just throwing the dust cover on a piece of furniture you don't want anyone to see. It's pretending.

Forgetting can't be permanent.

The Face

2009-12-29T23:41:00.000-06:00

Men make many faces when they speak to women. But there is one that stands out above the rest.

Most women have seen it; most men have no idea that they do it. It's a face that's made usually while the man is gazing at the woman while she's speaking, or while he's speaking directly to her.

His eyes go half mast, the lines around them smooth out. His cheeks relax into a soft, little smile, a smile that barely raises the corners of his mouth. This smile is quiet and still, yet unexpected. His gaze may flicker from the woman's eyes, down to her mouth, and back up again. His eyes are deep and brilliant and full of secrets.

The Face is always welcome when it comes from a man you like. In those moments, The Face is beautiful and causes all kinds of butterflies and bashfulness. For example, the man and woman are on a date, and when the woman is talking about her job, the man inadvertently reveals The Face. The woman immediately senses it (we're good at this) and all of sudden, everything looks different. It looks BETTER.

However, The Face is not welcome when it interrupts an otherwise platonic man-woman conversation. For example, a man and woman are having platonic coffee, and he shoots her The Face while she makes a joke about sports or something. Said woman sees The Face, is immediately alerted, and switches to "WE'RE JUST FRIENDS, BACK OFF" mode.

The Face is real and without pretense. It's a glimpse into the thoughts of men that so often elude the rest of us.

Tonightless

2009-12-22T16:32:00.000-06:00

Online dating is damn depressing, yet damn insightful. When looking at people’s profiles, I see them post things like, “I’m only trying this out” or “No one knows I’m doing this” or “I’m new to this whole dating thing” or “I’m just looking for the third person to my threesome”. (I've seriously seen that last one... and my faith in humanity lowered a bit more.)

Okay, so in addition to the people who have to preface all of their stuff with “Oh, I would NEVER normally do online dating”, there are the people who are looking for casual sex, multiple partners of either sex, or who try to deny monogamy on some stupid philosophical level. This all points to one thing in my mind: simultaneous fear of and desperate need for intimacy. The people not wanting monogamy are probably so afraid of the vulnerability that comes with monogamous intimacy, that they spread the love around in hopes that the burn won’t be so bad. Or maybe they’re just horny bastards, but honestly, I believe that even horny bastards wanted true love at some point and just got turned around by fear or trauma or something else entirely.

That brings me to my next pondering: every last person on this planet craves intimacy. We crave it so badly we look anywhere for it. ANYWHERE. As humans, we need closeness. We need to love and to belong. Somewhere inside us is someone who wants the responsibility of loving someone else so completely that we forget everything else. I believe we are all, on some level, looking for that connection, that one person who finally - FINALLY - gets us.

I mean, the sad truth is that no one will ever know us completely, as we know ourselves. That’s impossible. And in our fast-paced, electronic society it’s becoming harder and harder to find the intimacy that even comes close. We’re having to go through our freaking computers for goodness sake! After high school or college or the age of 21, it becomes increasingly difficult to meet people. Sure, you can go out to clubs or concerts or random people’s parties, but how often will you meet anyone different enough to risk your heart on?

And so… people go online. Like me. I don’t think there is a damn thing wrong with using the internet AS A TOOL. It’s when people use it as a replacement for the real thing; those people who just chat with other people and use that as a means to feed their need for cheap intimacy. But try as they might, computers will never get close to producing the one-of-a-kind, heart breaking, bittersweet, breath taking love that we are capable of sharing (if we find the courage). Computers can help you find someone, but they stop there. Computers can't love you or hug you or do anything other than lead you to someone you might not have found otherwise. We have to build that connection with a living, breathing human being. And we have to have endurance and faith and hope. Always hope.

Somewhere inside all of us is the inexhaustible desire to feel a little less alone (even the sleaze-bags feel that, only it’s buried beneath all that machismo bullshit). And seeing these electronic faces searching relentlessly for love, gives me hope that maybe I won’t be alone forever, that I won't always be tonightless.

Because at the end of the day, that is one of my greatest fears.

"Am I gonna be tonightless again? All the loneliness has got to end." - Eighteen Visions

The Damn Cat

2009-11-12T03:35:00.000-06:00

It's 3:36AM and I am sitting in my bed, wishing my Australian penpal was online so I had someone to talk to. My heart is racing, I'm shaking and I feel like something horrible is about to happen. Which it isn't, but it's just a wonderful side-effect of a nighttime panic attack. I'm serious! I've been having them for awhile now, and they're different from my normal night terrors. Or maybe they're the same thing, I don't know. I'm not a psychiatrist. But I do have a DSM, so maybe I should diagnose myself...

Anyway, to make matters worse, I keep hearing these little noises, bumps and such. It's freaking me out. And I KNOW it's Booju. Who is Booju, you wonder? Well, you may have already guessed from the blog title, but Booju is the damn cat himself...

We got Booju the Christmas of 2007. He was from a litter that was born on my birthday. Also, he looked exactly like Booba, our long-haired black cat that disappeared (aka became coyote chow) when we moved across town. And so, we fell in kitty love with Booju, which aptly stands for Booba Junior. Yeah.

He seemed like such a normal, quiet kitten. When we brought him home, he romped and played with the Christmas bows under the tree and we thought we might choke from all the cuteness in the room. Little did we know that he was crazy. Is crazy.

I really think that Booju has feline amnesia. Every day. He'll walk into the kitchen some mornings, all creeping and wide-eyed, and look at everything as if he was on an alien planet and was checking for signs of life. And if you so much as say his name, he jumps 10 feet in the air. Other mornings he'll meow and meow until someone feeds him, and if they don't hurry, he'll bite their feet. Some days he disappears only to be found hours later, napping in a shoe box or on the back of a chair (which he has all his claws dug into in case someone tries to ricochet him off the back... which may have happened before...).

In any case, right now he's probably either biting his own tail, or attacking dust bunnies; both of which cause little noises that just make my heart rate spike. That damn cat. So much for calming down enough to go to sleep again before the sun rises.

Eh, sleep is overrated. That's what coffee is for.

Listen at Your Own Risk

2009-08-19T17:02:00.000-05:00

The other day I was browsing the hair products in Target with my sister. I saw a pink bottle of curl scrunching spray and said, "Oh look! Squirrel crunching spray!"

This was not on purpose.

This was my brain's lazy-ass attempt at speech. The more stressed I get, the worse it gets. Sometimes I will develop a lisp that lasts half a sentence. Other times, I try to say two things at once and get "borrible" (horrible + bad) or "nood" (good + nice). And still other times I stutter or stop mid sentence because my brain decides to put on the screen saver. It's embarrassing.

Moral of the story: more sleep plus less stress makes for easier listening.

I'm a jerk.

2009-08-06T23:03:00.000-05:00

No really, I am a jerk. For the first time in a long time, I am seeing the past with unclouded eyes. Mostly, I've been ruminating over my past relationship and WHOA.

I had it all wrong. I messed up big time.

I see this now, but there's nothing to do with it. How can I change what already happened? I can't. All I can do is use this newfound insight to make the 'now' better.

Sigh. What's a recovering jerk to do?

Boxes of nostalgia...

2009-06-20T00:46:00.000-05:00

I've been cleaning out my keepsakes. I didn't realize how much stuff I considered significant enough to keep. I also didn't realize how easy it is to get caught up in all the 'what ifs' those keepsakes bring.

Moral of the story: Reminiscing should only be done when you've completely and totally accepted your present as it is. Which is hardly ever... going back in time is a dangerous undertaking, hence my pseudo-zen attitude of "now is all that matters".

Namaste.

Faith.

2009-05-24T23:51:00.000-05:00

I freaking hate it because I have this urge, no need, to write all day but by the time I get home, I’m too tired/stressed/depressed/feeling sorry for myself that I hop into bed and distract my brain. When I’m at work, I’m constantly living in my head, letting it spin and swirl and take me where it needs to. I wish I could take notes while it does this – I would have a lot of material by now. But instead, I sit and stew until I go into a mind coma. It gets so bad I do stupid stuff like take my stapler to the kitchen thinking it's my coffee mug. Or I forget how to load labels in the printer I've used 34878932408976 times (approx.) It’s hard for me to focus on people, even talk to them, because it takes a lot of effort for me to pull my consciousness out of itself. I eventually do though, just in time to drive home and complain about it.

I experience the world by peering out of my brain, when I should be living it with my whole body, mind and soul. I feel like I’m just working through this hour to get to the next hour to get to the next hour. I’m waiting, biding time, wasting time… I think I’m waiting for my real life to start. The problem is that I don’t know what that real life is, where to look for it, or if it even exists for me. Isn’t the present my real life?

I find comfort in knowing that I’m not the only one experiencing this. At the same time, it’s nice to feel original. Originality is pretty much extinct; we merely copy everyone before us, but do it from our own perspective. Somehow this makes it original, when really it’s just a fresh spin on something that’s been done before. Well, I guess that is one definition of original. Whatever.

I’m tired of feeling trapped. I feel trapped at work. I feel trapped in this tiny room at my family’s home. I feel trapped within my own loneliness and doubt. Usually when I go outside, the relief is overwhelming. Sometimes I cry. Okay, a lot of times I cry. At church yesterday, the priest talked about faith. He said, “We need to move from our minds to our hearts, from understanding to believing.” That really struck a chord with me. I realized that I am so full of doubt, wariness and suspicion, that I have no room for faith and love! What happened to me?

Maybe if I held on to my faith, if I gave it reason to stick around, then maybe I wouldn’t feel so suffocated. Faith, and belief in God and all that He is, is an instant mood stablizer. Having faith implies having love, patience, acceptance and peace. I must have faith. I must.

Works well under pressure.

2009-05-06T13:09:00.000-05:00

Instead of studying for my final in two days, I'm sitting in a study lounge listening to a woman discuss how disappointing soy cheese is. I do this every time: procrastinate until my test anxiety rises so high that I buckle down with a week's worth of coffee, and study until my eyeballs fall out. Sometimes I even have the audacity to complain that, 'Ugh... this teacher requires too much! I don't have time for this!'

Oh, but I have had time. Plenty of time, in fact. Yes, I'm working. Yes, I have hobbies and other activities that take up my time. And yes, I am quite capable of rearranging my priorities to accommodate my studies. But I don't.

Blame it on my work load, blame it on my teachers, blame it on our increasingly electronic society for providing endless amounts of distraction. Blame on anything, really, but the truth is, I'm just plain ol' procrastinating. Others, namely older people who are holding me accountable, may assume that I'm unmotivated, uninterested, lazy, undeserving, blah blah blah.

I am actually none of those. I think I'm just overwhelmed. And not just with my studies, but life in general. It has a tendency to blow by with such speed and ferocity that I have to distract myself from watching it pass me by. I procrastinate to keep myself from working towards a potentially unsuccessful end, and thus just more lost time. Besides, it's too depressing to wave at that time and those lost possibilities. 'Bye back-packing across Europe! So long novel-length manuscript! Take care kick-ass job opportunity! Don't let the door hit you on the way out!' See what I mean? Oh but wait. I'm ruminating, aren't I? And I'm making excuses, too? Well, hell. I'm fairly certain that's another form of procrastination.

Alright, alright. Fine! I get it. What's life without living in the moment and taking chances? Why let test anxiety represent not just school failure, but the ultimate fear of failing at life? Why the hell am I wasting time being such a baby, forever looking backwards and ignoring the beauty of the present? Time to buck up, Holan. Get up and get moving!

Sigh.

Procrastination is a huge waste of time. But yet... there is something comforting in being pressed uncomfortably against a deadline. I've gotten accustomed to working well under pressure. Call it a defense mechanism, but hey, it's gotten me this far.

Once I find some coffee, it's business time, baby.

Oh, bother...

2009-04-20T22:36:00.001-05:00

There are lots of things that bother me: Squirrels. People who eat crunchy food in a quiet room. Scrunchies. Odd numbers. The words 'squat' and 'munch'. The list goes on and if I were to exhaust it, I'd most likely fall into a fit of manic self-analysis. No thanks. Lately, I've only been noticing the things that bother me about myself. Where did all of this super self-criticism come from? That was rhetorical because, believe you me, I know EXACTLY where it came from.

Top 5 Culprits:

1. Mirrors
2. Books on dating advice for women
3. Singleness
4. Men (or my ideas of them)
5. Seeing people I knew in high school

My stupid, freaking, constant inner dialogue takes all of these and uses them to fuel it's bitter tirades. I'm too pale/fat/short/bossy/stupid/overwhelming/annoying et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. This isn't self-deprication - this is honestly what runs through my head on a constant loop. The volume varies depending on where I am, or who I am with. The longer I'm alone, the worse it gets. If there are no distractions or people in my midst, my inner idiot uses these to reinforce all the self blame and hatred. It's really depressing if you think about it. And I know I'm not the only one who does this. And I also know that most of the inner dialogue I entertain is maladaptive, distracting and most importantly, exaggerated. I am aware that I'm not as horrible as my conscious claims. I have my faults of course, but if I truly embodied the traits my mind thinks I have, I'd be living in a remote hermit colony in some distant cave. Or I'd be clinically insane. I'm not sure which would be worse.

Moral of the blog is, don't always trust your inner critic. It usually doesn't have a healthy perspective, nor does it display the real truth. It serves a purpose on some level, but unless it's helping you be a better person to yourself and those around you, it should be listened to with uber massive filters.

"The Bible tells us to love our neighbors, and also to love our enemies; probably because they are generally the same people." ~G.K. Chesterton

Bunnies and Loneliness.

2009-04-06T23:03:00.000-05:00

I have never made the connection between bunnies and loneliness until today...

Today at work I processed a book called 'Emmaline' or something. It was a kid's book about a little girl who finds a gray bunny and tries to keep him. She tells him, "If you let me, I'll take care of you and protect you forever." This girl doesn't have any friends - at least no human ones. After looking at that I laughed, then immediately thought of John Steinbeck's 'Of Mice and Men' which then made me think of the Bugs Bunny cartoon where he meets the Abominable Snowman (that was a long-ass sentence). In both the book and cartoon, there is a lonely, unique creature who finds comfort in a furry companion. They both make promises to take care of them... if only the little bunnies don't leave them all alone.

Are bunnies drawn to lonely people?

If that wasn't enough weirdness, I recently read a book that has bunnies, the Abominable Snowman, loneliness, and Jesus. It was a fictional comedy by Christopher Moore about the part of Jesus' life that's not in the Bible (i.e. his teenage, young adult years). Jesus goes to train with some Buddhist monks in India (did I say this was fiction?) when he encounters the Abominable Snowman. Jesus takes an instant liking to the lonely guy, and befriends him. He keeps him company until the creature dies. The book highlighted the idea that both Jesus and the Snowman were experiencing the loneliness that comes with being one-of-a-kind. Where are the bunnies, you ask? Just wait. Later on in the book, Jesus is chillin' after turning water into wine, when this little girl hands him a fluffy white rabbit. Jesus gently takes the animal and is fascinated with its vulnerability and softness. He carries it around for awhile, being comforted by it and keeping it safe.

What is with the bunnies and the loneliness??? Bunnies represent new life and springtime, but how does that connect with lonely people? I can't figure it out! It's so weird.

Perhaps I'll just chalk it up to coincidence and go back to reading my 'Neverwhere' book. Because that makes total sense (not).

Fortunes of Candlelight

2009-03-01T23:42:00.000-06:00

I got a fortune cookie last week. I don't like the cookie part - I imagine they taste an awful lot like a cereal box would if you were so inclined to chew on one. Though I don't like to eat fortune cookies, I will bite them just so I can get the ever-so-helpful words of wisdom that are supposed to be inside. Most of the time I don't get anything other than a laugh when I read them, and that's only because I add "in bed" to the end of them (I am totally, like, mature and stuff). I once got a fortune that read:
"You will get a fortune cookie." Uh, ya think?

My fortune cookie last week read:

"It is better to light one small candle than to curse the darkness."

My first thought was, "What the hell does that even mean?" So I pocketed it to ask someone about it later. That night I gave to my little brother and asked him to read it out loud. He did, and when I asked him what it meant he simply said, "You should light 2 big candles, not just one little one."

Hmmm... he has a point.

Justification Station

2009-02-25T16:03:00.001-06:00

I realized that I hadn't updated my blog in 6 months. Holy crap. While I would like to start new and fresh with a long entry, I have to write a paper instead. So, I'm posting old stuff until I can get around to writing for realz.

Just thought you should know that I'm airing laundry from last year that has been long gone. Go ahead and have a look at the clutter and mush otherwise known as my brain, circa 2008.

Literary Love

2008-08-10T00:25:00.000-05:00

This is what happens. You’re in a library on a Monday night, wandering around half-heartedly, wondering how long you’re going to put off your homework, when suddenly you see a gorgeous guy browsing in the nonfiction. Before you know it, your staring at him stupidly while a fantasy bursts to life in your head without your consent… You, him, a castle or maybe a cottage or beach house, love, happiness, whispered promises of forever…

Okay, at least that is what happens to me. I have these fantasies about how romance should be, about how I want it to happen for me. Most of these fantasies are a jumbled reincarnation of all the romantic comedies I’ve seen or romance novels I’ve read. I have found that if you were to throw together all of these movies and books, you’d find only two different scenarios, only with different names and varying degrees of charming character flaws.

In scenario number one, you have the beautiful but slightly damaged woman in need of rescuing, usually with a name like Shanna or Rebecca, who can’t help but fall prey to the cold, self-centered men who make them weak and weepy. Then you’ve got your aggressive, roughish man, Drake or Jonathan, who’s brooding good looks go unnoticed by him and he can’t imagine why women collectively sigh and swoon whenever he’s rescuing babies or fighting crime. Drake too is misunderstood, and he’s jaded by women who only want him for the good looks he still has yet to admit he has. But wait! Here comes Shanna who notices his good looks but looks beyond them to the misunderstood man beneath, and finally – FINALLY – they each have found someone who understands them, who looks beyond all the physical beauty, into the beauty of their souls, of their minds, the things that truly matter.

In scenario number two, the woman is confident (still beautiful, of course) and self-sufficient, with a name like Charlie or Sam (something befitting of a woman who defies traditional gender roles) who is still damaged, but not as weepy as Shanna, and who hates men until she meets the one who’s witty enough and sensitive enough to make her feel again. And that’s where quirky, artsy, and always funny man number two (let’s call him Remy) comes in, whose heart has been broken by carbon-copy blondes who can’t appreciate his love of art or passion for playing the guitar. He happens to run into Sam, spilling coffee on her high powered low-cut suit or something equally choreographed, and he sees the real woman underneath, the woman who, as a little girl, had dreams of making pottery or helping orphans, and doesn’t really care about her 6 figure paycheck. Remy helps Sam loosen up and Sam in turn helps Remy see his potential and in the end they both succeed and fall in love.

Happily ever after. The end. Lights out.

I fall victim to these scenarios all the time, whether they play out in a book, on a screen or in my head. Then as soon as I’m done dreaming, watching or reading these scenarios, the blinding lights of reality send my mind crashing back to where I really am: single, lonely, and wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life. Or as it happened last Monday, standing in a library, clutching a math book, and still staring at Mr. Gorgeous.

I don’t know who he was, but he reminded me of why I hate being single. Before I could stop myself, I started envisioning how cool it would be to date someone who loved reading as much as I did; who would understand my obsession with David Sedaris and my love of the way new books smell.

For so long I have been hiding and pretending, all the while waiting, for this person. Not for library boy specifically, but what he represents. It’s such an awful feeling sometimes, this waiting. It’s not that I think about it all the time or that I’ve stopped living just to wait for it. I live my life and have fun, but the feeling is always there in the back of my mind. Like the old leaky faucet, drip drip dripping a reminder that I’m still alone no matter how many people I surround myself with. Usually, I ignore it enough to enjoy my life anyway. Because really, I don’t need a significant other right this second to make life worth living.

Still…

I hope and pray that there is someone out there for me. I live for hope. That’s all I have. It’s the only thing I have the power to possess or destroy. No one can take it from me. At the end of the day when I’m mulling over everything my life has become and everything it will never be, hope is what gets me through.

This is What Happens - Take 1

2008-07-25T00:03:00.000-05:00

This is what happens...

You're sitting alone in a bar (because your friend is chatting up some guy across the room), watching the weather on the plasma screen, and you find yourself thinking, 'What the hell am I doing?' And for the hundredth time tonight, you peer around at the people drinking and laughing and try to shake the feeling that you just don't fit. Anywhere.

That was me about two hours ago. This is me now, still recovering from my wild night of rain forcasts and watered down soda, sitting in my room wondering. What am I doing? Obviously, I'm doing many things, breathing, typing, blinking... but what am I really doing? And how is it that whatever I'm doing leaves me to feel out of place?

These questions all led me to the realization that I needed to write. And for some reason, my ever-faithful Word document just wasn't going to cut it. I needed the vulnerability that comes with laying your heart out - in written form - for the world to see. (And yes, I realize that assuming the world will see this is slightly grandiose, but I'm nothing if not unrealistic.)

So, here I am, writing my very first blog. I hope this is the start of something. Anything.