damn those dots

not sure if i ever mentioned it, but i have been reading tarot cards. in fact, i took a class. it is endlessly fascinating. most people think that it’s about predicting the future, but really it isn’t. . . it’s about reflection and looking within.

but more on that in some other post.

i actually do a reading every morning - a one card reading. i usually ask something like, “how should i guide myself today.” the accuracy of my situation reflected in the cards borders on the ridiculous and absurd, but always nails accurate.  today was no different. 

this morning, i am sitting here in the airport on the verge of a reset button while i wait for my plane to take me to mexico where i will be infused with all things writer and artist and become whole again. i need this trip more than even i probably know because the last year has been less than stellar (this is the king of understatements).  i have been nervous to go this year because i don’t have my personal interpreter (she really isn’t. . .but i have had the good fortune to travel with her so many wonderful times) and i am doing this solo, so i haven’t really let it sink in that i’m going to this most amazing bubble in San Miguel where i will be healed.

it hit me this morning when Terri came to pick me up. i hugged her, put my bag in the back, and got in the front seat. as soon as the door closed, i actually started crying. a flooding of relief and exciting and exhaustion - but mostly - relief that i am on my way to getting filled back up. 

i hadn’t actually done my tarot reading this morning because i was too busy remembering to put shit in my suitcase, take shit out of my suitcase and forget to put shit in my suitcase. so, i thought it would be a good thing to do while i was eating my glutinously delicious mcdonald’s breakfast (yes. yes i did) - so i shuffled and shuffled and shuffled, breathed in the cards, put them to my forehead and asked, “what should i remember to do on this trip?”

it really never does cease to amaze me what comes up. today it was the ace of cups.  i could go into all the fancy ways i read the cards, but here’s what this one means in one simple sentence. . . 

be open to receiving 

yeah. . . so - that happened. 

so, yes, i’ll be down in mexico -  being open and receiving. . . damn those dots like to hit me in the face.

it was rough and amazing. cuz that's how life is. . .

and it’s that time again. time for me to put goals out there and then promptly not meet them. i’m a great beginner, and a terrible finisher. this time last year i decided i was going to “live the Ray Bradbury way.” it was my hair brained idea that i could read something every single day of the year. and to add to it, i also said i’d read a whole bunch of other shit and go to a bunch of shows and visit the library - oh, and of course, write a whole bunch. on the blog, not on the blog. . .oh, the goals i had.

i don’t think i made it to the library one time. i almost went last month when my parents were in town, but i am not sure that would have counted at all.

i feel like i failed. . . again.

i looked back at how many postings i did in 2014. and it’s less than 2013 (which was less than the year before that). . . and i wonder why on earth i can’t keep up a writing habit. i love to write. it makes me feel right, normal. the gap in the middle of the year makes complete sense to me.  so - here’s what happened.

at the beginning of the year, i had just moved back into my house. i had moved out (this was the second or third time) because of a major disagreement of how a marriage should work. i had high hopes, i posted 5 times in january. that was amazing for me. at least once a week i posted something. 

in february, i went to mexico to a writing conference and - it was an amazing time.  i was inspired. i felt renewed and invigorated and i thought i would write and write and write.

San Miguel Febuary 2014

however, my return was ruined by the fact that another marriage disagreement (of major significant factors) occurred. details don’t necessarily matter, but know that i don’t deserve what happened. i have enough self esteem to know i am a good person who deserves an equal partner willing to participate in life. and not just in my life. in their own life, too.

i wrote a blog posting in march about how i needed to forgive myself about what i hadn’t done. and it’s true, i did need to forgive myself. i was depressed. so depressed it was hard to get out of bed every day. i had tried very hard to write, to read, to be inspired, but it was hard. when your marriage is dissolving before your eyes, it’s hard to focus on much else. it would be short sited to not look back at that and think - shit - she should forgive herself - she did all of that during a very difficult time. 

that time lasted for a long time. my breaking point was in the middle of may (probably at the beginning of may, but i hadn’t found enough courage to do anything). there is a quote by Meg Cabot -

“Courage is not the absence of fear but rather the judgement that something is more important than fear; The brave may not live forever but the cautious do not live at all.”

it’s a quote i’ve told to others, on many occasions, to help them know they are more important than any fear they have. so hypocritical of myself. it’s always easier to give others advice - you can see the problem so objectively when it isn’t you. but this time i had to see my own problem. it was hard and it was terrifying. but i had decided that i was more important than my fear. more important than my fear of loneliness, more important than my fear of being hated, more important than my fear of thinking i could never find my center, more important than the my fear that i deserved this unhappiness and disrespect.

i didn’t leave my house this time. it’s my house. on June 1^st, i got my space back. my house and safe place. i was mercifully and terrifyingly alone. i thought it would be enough to break the depression. but it didn’t get better. it got worse. and along with it came some other scary things. 

i woke up one morning, in july, without being able to put a hair tie in my hair. i couldn’t grab things correctly. and i knew this mean there was something wrong with my neck. and i had been through this. two and a half years ago i had my disc removed and my spine fused to get rid of this problem only to find out that well - there are these canals that were being pinched by the disc but that are now narrowing so. . . disc or no disc, my nerve was very angry. two neck injections later and i’m better. . . but. . . just better. it comes and goes.

a month after that i woke up and found  this crazy creeping red thing going up my arm.  i waited all day because it didn’t hurt or anything, but after work i went to the doctor and she sent me straight to the ER. they promptly said i had a blood infection and needed antibiotics - oh - and hey - i guess i’ve developed an allergy to that antibiotic (WHAT?). they sent me home with two OTHER antibiotics and said if the red moved outside of this marker line they drew on me to come back in the morning. and it had.  and they gave me another antibiotic that i promptly and painfully found out that i’m terribly allergic to. only to be told to take the antibiotics they gave me in pill form. WHICH I AM ALSO ALLERGIC TO and had to go into the ER for a THIRD time in 48 hours to get treatment for anaphylactic shock. it was fun. and they have no idea what the blood infection was. and all of that led to more depression. so much so that my best friend came into my house to make sure i was ok. i wasn’t returning phone calls or text messages or emails.

blood infection

then came the panic attacks. i was receiving emails and letters from my estranged husband. each and every one caused me to have an alien bursting from my chest episode. i could hardly work and would cry at the drop of a hat. i needed to file for divorce but the mere thought of having to think about him made me spiral into these horrible panic attacks where i felt like my chest was going to explode and i would end up in a lake of tears. it was crippling. i spent a lot of time hiding in my house. avoiding things. avoiding places. avoiding people. going to work was an enormous effort. and i would be so exhausted when i got home i would just want to sleep. and while i could fall asleep, staying asleep never worked because if i woke up for even a few minutes, i would start thinking about what i had to do. that would become completely overwhelming.

and so it went for months. and months. then my friend moved in for a couple of weeks. it was amazing. i felt like i had a purpose. i had to get up every day. i had to make sure the house was clean. i had to be a good roommate. and i wanted to do things with her. having her live there was sort of like having a booster shot of b12 those celebrities get when they are overwhelmed with their schedules. but if you have ever read anything about that kind of thing. it’s very short lived. it gives you a boost, but it isn’t a solution. and that is sort of what happened when she moved out. i fell back into the old habits.

but the healing has started. i think it’s started because i finally filed for divorce and asked that all communication go through my lawyer. there are few emails here and there that still give me panic attacks, but for the most part, i find myself doing things like going to the grocery store regularly. cooking. walking. seeing my friends instead of watching endless amounts of investigation discovery. it’s not perfect and i haven’t quite figured it out, yet. but it sure as hell is better than i felt the first part of 2014. 

and how did i do in 2014 with the Ray Bradbury way? Actually not to feakin’ bad for not finishing. i didn’t have goals for the entirety of all the things i’m about to show you, but i am going to use it. i’m going to improve on what i did. 

Category	# of items	% of goal completed
Poem	30	8%
Short Story	31	8%
Novel	22	183%
Essay	15	8%
Show	25	208%
Story Idea	8	15%
Film	7	13%
Blog	10	100%
Non-Fiction	5	100%
Written Short Story	2	4%
Writing	25	48%

a quick % explanation

• Poems, short stories, and essays were out of 365 (one a day)
• Novels were out of 12 (one a month)
• Shows were out of 12 (one a month)
• Story ideas were out of 52 (one a week)
• Films were out of 52 (one a week)
• Blogs were out of 10 (mostly because i didn’t give it any goals. . . so anything more than 1 was good)
• Non-fiction was out of 5 (because i didn’t have a goal and shit, i did five, so fuck - yeah!)
• Written short stories was out of 52 (one a week - that was ambitious, wasn’t it?)
• Writing - in general i wanted to write every week. . . so, this is out of 52 (at least once a week, right?)

The funny thing is that i was pretty disappointed in myself when i saw how “little” i wrote. so, i went back through all of my writing over the last day, blogs, journals online and written long hand, and letters. oh, the letters i wrote. i actually wrote more tun 40,000 words. that can seem like a lot or a little, depends on who you are (an author might say that is shameful, a non-author may be amazed). the point is, if i say (which is pretty reasonable and accurate) that i didn’t write enough, i should call myself a liar. most paperback books have between 250 and 350 words per page, i wrote the equivalent to a 114 to 160 page paperback book. while it’s not the next american novel - shit - that’s a lot of pages. it’s a lot of words.

not sure if you care, but there were some amazing things I saw, read and wrote. here are some highlights:

• poem - Anna Akhmatova - Drink my soul, as if with a straw. Ciara gave me this author. she's amazing.
• short story - Neil Gaiman - the goldfish pool and other stories. a sad tale about how hollywood just forgets.
• essay - Cynthia Ozick - A drugstore winter - lovely lovely sad story - so reminiscent. 
• novel - John Scalzi - Agent to the stars - just fun. and funny. love this novel.
• shows - too many i love to name - Amanda Palmers book tour (me and a friend sang and cried like there were no tears left on the planet - it broke us open), Blood Countess (my roommate was amazing), Rose's Pawn Shop (best song ever and a great boy introduced it to me), It's a Wonderful Life - omg - I can't pick and there are 21 more. . . .
• Non-Fiction - Kathi Diamont - Kafka's last love. i left her seminar with mascara down my face. amazing.
• writing - well, everything i ever wrote my mother. it's more inspired and amazing than anything i've ever published. 

it helps me think, every day, i’m not horrible. i’m not less than. i am good. i am trying. and some day i’ll get there. i don’t even know where there is, it’s just not here. and i think if i keep striving to be better than now, better than here - that’s something. the second i stop caring, then you need to be worried.

the most significant thing that happened this year (yeah, something more significant than divorce and blood disease happened) is that i turned 40. it was amazing. my parents came (they won't let me show you pictures, but they were adorable and everyone loved them). i had the best time and here's one of the many many days i celebrated. so - onward to the next 40, because, fuck - life can only go up, right?

look! baby wolf

i can’t decide if it’s that i have NADD or if it’s “the trauma” or if it’s my ENFPness. . . but i can’t seem to follow through. i can’t seem to finish. i can’t seem to. . . well, complete a thought without going off the deep end about something else. i feel unfulfilled and tired. i’m unhappy. this manifests itself in so many ways. 

at work, while my list is very detailed and i write one every day, i can’t seem to ever get through the list - it just grows. and i never do it in the order i think it should be done. you know that order. do the hardest thing first because it’ll take the longest, is the hardest, and mostly likely you don’t want to do it. i can’t even figure out why i don’t want to do things. and i only feel worse about it because i am usually the reason it’s on the list. i get these bursts of “yes! this is the idea! this is the thing we should be spending time on.” remember folks, do not come up with an idea unless you are willing to do the work because either no one else cares enough to do it or you know the most about what should be done, so you cannot escape. plus, if you don’t finish things or do things that you bring up that you think are important, you start to look like you can’t do your job. like you can’t finish things.

the kind of concentration it requires for me to stick to my list at all is IMMENSE. i only try to start with five things. just five. anymore and feel like i will not be able to finish them in one day. so five things. but then the meetings start. and the numbers get longer with more digits and higher on the scale from 1 to 100. today alone i know i added 10 things to the list. and that doesn’t even count the things i put down on the bottom of the page to remember to follow up with tomorrow because the things on the list from today need to have responses and then get communicated. . . it’s exhausting. 

and then there are the not-meetings that happen. i love the not-meetings. those are the times when i get those inspirations about what i REALLY should be spending my time on. what our team should be spending their time on. i know this because those not-meetings are with people who believe i can make a difference. those not-meetings are meetings with people ON my team and people that are most definitely NOT on my team. some of them are just people i have come in contact with and  we have connected about an issue we both care about. some of them are mentees. people that sought me out for which they would like to get career and personal growth advice. some of those people are people i used to work with on teams long ago in far away lands (our company is big) talking to me about things we still should be sharing across groups. these not-meetings are the spaces in the day that make anything i do in a big corporation completely worth any reservations i have in my political, moral, ethical, socialist, liberal mind. . . because i am a non-profit junkie and working in corporate america, no matter how good the company is, seems pretty counter to who i probably thought i would be when i grow up. (see what i did there?). anyway - i love the not-meetings. with the not-regular-people-who-aren’t-scheduling-meetings people.

some of those not-regular-people-who-aren’t-scheduling-meetings people are my friends checking in on me for not-meetings. because i am so scattered. because they are worried. because of “the trauma.” i haven’t actually gone into what “the trauma” is, but suffice it to say that if isn’t one thing now, it’s another thing later and by making it “the trauma” in quotes, i give myself a pretty easy way for the find-and-replace functionality in my word processing application. (clearly that needs to be addressed.) 

but even the not-meetings bring up more items to put on the list. today? today, i think there were about three items that were added to the to-do list from a not-meeting. . . i think that means were up to 18 items on the to-do list plus the seven items at the bottom for which i will need to follow up which, of course, will lead to more items in later days for which i will need to communicate about.  what’s that? 25 items. i started with 5. how many did i do?

today was a banner day, actually. i had to work really really hard at it. lots of deep breaths. if you know me, you know that the deep breaths are hard too because they make me want to punch something. the fact that i even need to do deep breaths is actually why i want to punch something. not the actual breathing. unfortunately, it helps, which makes me annoyed. hence the desire to practice unmitigated fight club shit. but back to how many i finished. well, after re-reading the list multiple times, one had to be crossed off due to it’s duplication of another item. that left 24 things. the seven follow up items did not get completed because i was trying not to get distracted and moving on to the other things on the list. that left 14 items. i know i didn’t do two specific tasks because 1) i feel like i shouldn’t really be doing it at work since it seems like funish projects. . . and creative. . . and gifty. and 2) because they are both really really hard and labor-intensive. that leaves 12 items.  i did 10 of them. and there were some pretty hard things on them. . . just not as hard as the two i didn’t do. the other two items where just. . . not “hot” enough to give them attention. besides. i was exhausted by the time i got those 10 items checked off of the list. 

did i mention, that not only did i get 10 items checked off on my list, but i attended five 1-hour meetings and three 30-minute or less not-meetings (that’s a low not-meeting number, actually). i also had lunch which means i only worked 8 hours today. i could have worked 9 - i have an extra hour to spend downtown today, so i could be working an extra hour. . . like on the hard thing. but i’m not. because i couldn’t concentrate anymore. i couldn’t think about work one more second. i was even given a great white paper to read on bright spots (a pet buzz wordy type idea that comes from one of my favorite business books called Switch: how to make change when change is hard) but i couldn’t even concentrate to read that.

but i could concentrate enough to come up with what i wanted to write about. but i never write anything anymore. because of “the trauma” - or maybe it’s my ENFPness. . . or my self esteem, or my NADD or  - HEY - LOOK!  BABY WOLF.  yeah. . .

look at that - i just patted myself on the back for getting 10 to-dos done and having six and half hours of meetings in one 8-hour work day. but i did it by telling you what i DIDN’T do. . . or why what i didn’t do should have been done first. i even just told you about not writing. except that i am. i am writing right now. in the lunchroom at work. but i never feel like i am writing. i am distracted ALWAYS (they teach you to never say “always” and “never” in business, but i figured since i’m not talking about work anymore, i can break that rule.

even now, i wanted to listen to music, but couldn’t get the music i wanted to listen to to work and i didn’t want to not listen to music, so i just went looking for music. without finishing a thought. without finishing a sentence or a paragraph - i just started doing something else. it’s INFURIATING. (in case you didn’t catch that i actually went back and finished that paragraph and sentence, i did. thank god for the editing process)

but work isn’t the only place i never feel like i finish anything. i just don’t anywhere in life. 

i wrote to my mom about a week ago asking her if i ever finished anything. well, writing is a strong word. i texted her. i never did get an answer. when we finally talked to each other, all we could do was catch up and talk about things and get distracted by thoughts that were spawned by previous things. . . so. . . i’ll have to ask her again.

the point is, i never finish anything. or at least it doesn’t feel like it. i become paralyzed. right now i’m paralyzed by fear of failure to even write anything on my novel. i’m so distracted that i’ve written several blog postings and taken a few notes here and there about ideas.  i’ve mapped out a story arc of some story that i may want to tell some day. and at writing group last week, i remembered a story i need to write that was inspired by a dream my mom told me about. it’s a beautiful story and i have tons of ideas and everyone at group was really excited about it. yet, i have not put one word to page about it (except here). it’s terrifying that it won’t be what it is supposed to be. it’s beautiful in my mind. if i could just rent out my mind for you to see the story, it would be so much easier.

i have distracted myself from writing and doing and being and from what will really help me feel satisfied. the distraction is made up of watching endless episodes of criminal minds (if you knew how many seasons i went through in a week you’d wonder about my sanity). it’s made up of watching movies, reading books (Amy Poehler’s Yes Please is amazing and she’s my spirit animal right now), going to plays (Blood Countess - a must see before it goes!), hanging out and singing karaoke, planning and attending happy hours and brunches. it’s all quite wonderful, of course, but it sure as shit isn’t getting any of my stories written. i’m not cleaning my house, which is essential to my happiness. an orderly clean house is a happy house for me. except here, i am, writing. right now.

 i’m feeling this shift. a shift bringing order. a shift towards starting to care about being happy rather than just laying on the couch watching endless amounts mindless crime drama. i’ve graduated to fight club, seven, avp, sophie’s choice, and insomnia. . . not exactly a recipe for happiness, except it works for me. they help me get into the writing cave. it’s dark in there and sometimes pretty awful, but so so productive. i’m even impressed that i am close to finishing this as a blog posting.

my home list is getting longer, but this week was the first time i actually crossed anything off of it in about. .. two months. it’s things like -) take willie to the vet -)buy cat litter -) do the dishes -) finish divorce shit (hint. . .part of "the trauma") - and then there is the more complicated and repetitive things on the list like, -) write daily morning pages -) find ways to focus -) don’t be a dick to your best friends -) do one push up a day. . . these are harder and i haven’t started them. well, i’m trying really hard at the don’t be a dick one. it could be going better, but it is the most important one so i’m keeping at it.

and so the shift continues every day. this weekend i will have written another 1,000 words, crossed off things on the list that will take guilt bricks away, and generally feel. . . less like my body can’t get out of bed. i’m pretty sure i will never be able to not get distracted. i’m trying to accept that it’s part of my charm. but i do, like the rest of humanity, like to tick off accomplishments. i like to turn around and say - hey - look, i did that.

so - hey, look - i wrote this blog.

p.s. - the research to put baby wolf pictures in here made for a very long and adorable distraction. . . i highly recommend searching the intertubes for baby wolves

intuition and dots.dots.dots....

i decided to go out and write (not this - definitely something more substantial and literary, i’m sure) and needed to figure out what to eat, which kind of meant i had to figure out what restaurant i would go to since there is no food in my house (that’s only a small lie - there is a block of cheese in my house. . . a house without cheese is a not a home). and what happened next commanded me to write to you about it.

i’m not sure what told me that this would be the right place… intuition, probably, since it’s what i studied yesterday - intuition. yes. that. or the dots. they lead me there. dots are sometimes hard to follow, but sometimes, when you are really paying attention, the dots - they appear like a roadmap to your next dot. your next destination. your next destiny.

 so i ended up here, bleu grotto. it’s sort of my first time, but not really my first time. bleu, I remember, from when it was on the corner of broadway and john, where the american apparel currently resides. it was a place i had gone with alistair. i remember very clearly two things. i liked the place because a) it had hidy holes made of small spaces and thick dreamy drapes and b) they had a four cheese mac & cheese on the menu. (did i mention the cheese thing i have?) i don’t think alistair and i had gone there more than three times before we moved to hawaii. so, when i returned to seattle 8 years ago, and i saw that it had closed and then subsequently opened again (blah blah blah), . . . the point is that i’d been here maybe three times in the last four years and likely all three of them occurred in the first two years.

it was kind of amazing when i arrived. and it’s continuing its awesomeness. i walked in and passed by a short hallway of hidy holes all covered in those drapes and . . . privateness. intimate. interesting. dot.

but they were all taken. dot.

so i stopped in front the bar. i guess i was standing there for a moment, looking lost, because two men started talking to me. the bartender (hard not to listen to his accent) and the main waiter who is likely the nicest waiter (and likely regular person nice) i have ever encountered. it soon became clear why they started talking to me after my dazed and confused look. the waiter asked, “are you. . .(i think he was waiting for me to fill in the name) . . .here for the reservation.” 

“nope, just me. i’m here to write.”

“well, take anywhere you like. hey that hallway bit back there looks like a good secluded spot. you should take that.” (did he know that’s what i require? most definitely a dot)

i walk to the back and there are two tables in this “hallway” (which i think actually is just an ante room to the staircase and the kitchen.). The small one is high and has two stools and is abutted up to this bookshelf with old looking books in it (seriously?? could the universe tone it down a bit?). the other one is a long(ish) table with no less than 6 chairs. it’s huge. i sit at the small table.

the menu. . . it’s complicated. there is something to be said for brevity and descriptive three word menu items that describe for to a tee.  after seeing this menu, i am convinced succinct menu writing is an art to be appreciated. this menu has beer, wine, liquor, two pages of cocktails, sides, starters (which suspiciously look like sides), salads (this is where it gets REAL descriptive. . . paragraphs), sandwiches, pasta (which is mostly gluten free - that’s a thing for pasta now? in restaurants?), at this point i actually don’t know what is left because the effort to read the menu items has become a book-like endeavor. . . needless to say i stopped there and didn’t read much more. . .too much work. 

wait - there is more. . . they also give you ANOTHER menu. which is more dense than the last half of the actual menu. one side has drinks. . . very detailed drinks. the other side has entire books separated into columns that have headlines screaming the smallness of their plating. . . if they were small, why wouldn’t the description be smaller? but alas . . .i didn’t even read that one. the dense menu makes no difference what so ever, thought. . . the people here rule. it also didn’t matter that i didn’t finish reading the menu because the waiter came back.

“what? oh - you took that one? i was thinking you would take this one.” gesturing to the large table with no less than 6 chairs. the avoided table.

“oh? well, i didn’t want to take up a table for 6 people. i don’t need to take up that much space.”

“no. you need this space. you need the space to write. i think you need to take this place. it’s a wednesday. i think you should take this spot.” (his insistence was. . . validating….in a weird…good way)

“ok. . . “ 

at this point, i’m ducking my head and assuming the ‘i’m sorry’ posture and affect (blergh). and i move all my stuff over to the bigger place. i put my bag holding the precious on one seat, take out the precious and put her in front of the next seat and then waiter brings me the beer and it goes in front of the third spot.

“now see? doesn’t that feel more like it?”

 dude - i am SPREAD OUT. and they are treating me like hemingway. we joke about me using (or not using) the outlet and how apple are liars (in the affectionate, ‘yes, i’m an apple fan person too but we hate ourselves for being fans’). hemingway. i am hemingway (except for that misogyny stuff. . . ).

due to so much work to look at the menu, i take a chance and ask the waiter what i should have.

“are you a vegetarian?” you can only barely tell there is an underlying . . . contempt . . . (which might be too strong a word - but it was funny) for the vegetarian.

“no. i’m a “not anything except for raw onions.”

“yeah, i don’t like those much either. or cooked ones. . . “ he stares off into space.

“so, what should i get?”

“how hungry are you?”

i have not eaten anything today and it’s 7pm. i try to look for words to explain that while i am hungry i probably can’t eat very much and i just give up in between my words.

“i’m starving.” and i am. terribly.

i am recommended the meatball sandwich. very very recommended this meatball sandwich. i am not to have this sandwich due to the direct orders to not eat nightshades. nightshades? they are inflammatory which is bad for the swollen crap in my neck causing all this stupid pain. but it’s very recommended. so i order it.

and i order the kilt lifter which comes in a frosty glass.

i open the precious. i don’t go immediately to the internet, which is what i would do normally. i want to log onto the blog and start a blog post. instead, i open scrivener. which is weird. it’s the place i write my stories and work on my book and the place i write things i can’t tell you about. the first 3 seconds of entering blue grotto and following 10 minutes convince me that i can only write this accounting of dots. dots. dots. (did you read that blog posting that i just retweeted? no? well, i’ll wait.)

the meatball sandwich comes (with a side of chips and salsa). it is very good. it has nightshades. it’s still good. i will not feel guilty.

i order another beer. the waiter comes to my table with another frosty glass AND a bottle of beer that’s he’s pouring into it. i am embarrassed that he’s done this. he doesn’t need to do that for me. i am uncomplicated and the bottle would do me just fine. i share with the waiter my views of his never having to do that again.

“but ‘frosty’ is so good.” he gestures to the beautifully frosted and impossibly cold beer. i thought it was an on tap beer. . . 

“yeah, but that’s more work than necessary. . . really.”

“it’s a beer, dude. i promise, not that much work.”

he’s right. probably about both things, but mostly the “is so good” part. it tastes good and is very cold.

i write more.

he comes back and takes the bottle away.

“can i get you anything right now?”

“will my stuff be ok if i smoke a cigarette?”

“oh, well, i’m going to sell your computer. . . of course it’s fine.” he goes on to tell me about a patron that comes once a month, sits at this table, writes (or something on a laptop), gets the black bean burger and sometimes a strongbow, though one time he got a gin and tonic. he is here for hours. it’s where they put those of us that want to be alone and do whatever it is we do on these laptops in public places. places we need to be alone but not really alone. . .dots - so many dots.

i feel stupid for being worried and then thank him. i put my coat on, look for my cigarettes and then realize i need to have fire. i think i remember leaving a lighter in the front pocket of my bag. i did not leave one there. or anywhere else in my bag. or in my jeans. or in my coat. so, i take a very slow stroll to the front of the grotto to get to the door - desperately searching for matches. i get to the end of the bar and the waiter is there talking with another patron. as i pass by him (hoping beyond hope there will be another smoker outside) he hands me, in one smooth motion, the candle lighter. 

dots.dots.dots.

i am clearly meant to be here. hi universe. i see you. and i see you see me.

the waiter comes back and asks me if he should take away the chips and salsa. i confide in him that i can’t eat it because of the tomatoes. and even though the meatball sandwich had tomatoes, i had to get it because it was so recommended.

“you aren’t gonna die are you? i can’t have that on my conscious, man.”

“no. . . i just can’t have nightshades.” 

a conversation ensues about how potatoes are inexplicably and terribly included in this list. he takes away the salsa (sad face).

i like it here. they have hidy holes. they are angels or guides or the chorus in my greek tragedy.

and the music makes me happy. it’s a random assemblage . . .

toto’s hold the line is a song i have heard a million times, but didn’t know a) that it was by toto or b) that it was called hold the line. i’m pretty sure i have been singing some other words to it’s title. . .

kc and the sunshine band come on with shake your booty. how can you not want to dance to that shit?

the whole time, i’m writing. . . and these other songs play becoming the soundtrack to these words.

hey there delilah - Plain White T’s

demons - Imagine Dragons

that’s the way of the world - Earth Wind & Fire

precious little diamond - Fox the Fox

shake your body (down to the ground) - The Jacksons

the way you make me feel - michael jackson

the sweetest taboo - sade

you give good love - whitney houston

i’m every woman - Chaka Khan

love remains the same - Gavin Rossdale

santeria - Sublime

we’re going to be friends - Jack Johnson

apologize - Timbaland Feat. OneRepublic

she will be loved - Maroon 5

fool in the rain - Led Zepplin

simple man - Lynyrd Skynyrd

i said i would only write until i ran out of battery. that was an hour and a half ago and i have only used 25% of my battery. i feel like i should have a point to all of this. and i guess there is and there isn’t. the “isn’t” part is that it’s just a slice of my life. an account of an evening i decided to go out. in and of itself, it is not amazing or ground breaking or even interesting. but the “is” part is because it’s just another way i see dots connecting. dots. dots. dots.

they connect constantly. and if you are open to it, you connect with them, too. i feel like i was meant to be here tonight. i was meant to have read @chuckwendig ’s blog telling me to shut up and write (over and over and over, in case i missed the point, because, seriously, shut the fuck up and write). i was meant to have seen @totemka’s blog posting about dots.dots.dots. i was meant to walk into this place and meet these people and hear this music. it makes things feel a little right with my world. there aren’t a lot of days things feel right with the world, lately. (also, that was 2000 words. more words in one sitting than in the last 10 sittings).

and my battery has run out. not the computer one. . . the phone one. i was automatically shazaming all the songs. so, i guess i’ll have to get my check and go home. 

i think that’s ok.

thank you bleu grotto. thank you waiter. i will ask your name when i leave because i will come back (it’s walter - fuck yeah - that’s a cool ass name). you let me be alone without really being alone.

it’s a good night.

i miss good nights. kind of a good reminder, this night.

words on a page

so, here's the deal. i haven't written, and if i have written, i'm not proud of it. but like it does, my life reminds me to do shit. so, here i am, doing shit - writing shit. and let's be clear. it's shit.

but i can't go around giving advice about writing and "just do it" and "there is no pressure" and "who cares about what people think" without actually fucking writing. i can't believe i've gotten away with it for this long. but alas, i have escaped the fraud police. i hear they aren't real anyway. also, you should check out this lady (i use the term loosely - and i'm pretty sure she'd be offended if i didn't think i should use is loosely - she's likely planning my demise as we speak) - she's funny and amazing and interesting. read her stuff, it is NOT shit.

so - hi - i'm writing.

also, this author said this:

so yeah, it's not brilliant. it's not really about anything. it has no story or arc. it is me putting words on a page because for some reason i feel compelled to do so even though the last five months, i have been patently unable to do this very thing. can you imagine the gas buildup? i mean, if you have ever felt extreme gas that just won't move anywhere and won't go away and just rolls around at the top and bottom of your GI, teasing you that it will escape - yeah - for five months straight. i'm not saying this is satisfying, but sometimes it doesn't feel good when it stops, it just stops happening.

also, i appear to be 12.

we'll see if i can do it again tomorrow. i have little faith. i currently hate everything i wrote. but at least i wrote, yeah?

i am not a failure - so shut up you stupid little voice. . . SHUT UP

i haven't updated in a while.  and i was wondering how much of it was because i am embarrassed for my lack of progress OR how much of it is because i'm embarrassed for what i wish i was doing OR if i'm embarrassed because i don't feel happy about what i HAVE done (in terms of writing). . .

the fact is. . .i'm embarrassed and ashamed. embarrassed that i haven't updated, embarrassed that i haven't met my goals, ashamed that you should call me on it but if I write it down, then i'm open to you calling me on my shit. then ashamed that i don't want to be called on my shit. . . ugh, such a vicious circle.

these last two weeks were pretty rough.  you know when you say things - things you wish you hadn't said? and then all you do is dwell on those things and berate yourself.  it's total self-flagellation without even a good religious reason. . .and sometimes the things you said don't even warrant any second thought. . . so you beat yourself up because of that. . .ugh, such a vicious cycle.

so - last night i was looking at what i HAD done. . . and i have decided to cut myself some freakin' slack.

so here's an update -

today is Day 75 of the year and is the start of week 12. if i don't count anything i've written, i have consumed AT LEAST (aka - i have recorded it) SEVENTY-THREE (73) individual items of art.  i have read and/or listened essays, poems, short stories, novels and non-fiction. i have watched old movies and original plays and shows. these are things i recorded. that means, except for the last TWO days, i have consumed some form of art every day.

and i'm not even going to sell myself short there. i've also watched four oscar winning films, one ENTIRE season of a VERY cool BBC America tv show, several non-oscar nominated films that i never saw before, organized a baby shower, worked more than 40 hours per week, got my cat into the vet (and am learning how to give fluids. . .), and attended trivia, friend gatherings, a reading event, got the first part of my tattoo, bid and won an auction which led to a very wet, but still very awesome opening season game for the Sounders, signed up for another marathon, and started training, took apart a blanket i knitted (b/c, dude, it was lopsided) and restarted it and am one skein in, entertained a guest for oscar's weekend, i'm in the middle of another book and i listened to three new albums by two new to me groups and lastly, have helped to organize a very important (to me) get together about writing. . .

so - FUCK YOU stupid little voice telling me that i'm a failure. i'm not.

and if i look at what i have PRODUCED. . . it's week 12 - i've written 7 blog posts (including this one), 3 letters of more than 2500 words a piece to significant people in my life, 2 short stories, and 6 story ideas. i've also written 24 haikus (even if some of them are bad) and discussed a potential writing project with my friend and came up with a novel idea through a conversation with my mother. Not bad. . . more than one creative thing per week.

so - again - FUCK YOU STUPID LITTLE VOICE. i am not a failure.

and then there was that time you were too busy to write at a writer's conference . . .and it broke you wide open

to even know where to start is difficult. you just spent one of the most magical but exhausting weeks in Mexico at the San Miguel Writer's festival. you didn't know what to expect and you were scared not knowing what to expect.  you figured everyone would know what to do and how to act and that you might not fit in.

the fitting in part . . . well . . . you were young in comparison.  one morning at breakfast, you were talking with someone and you said something about 20 years ago and high school.  the woman to your right stops you short and demands to know your age.  when you tell her you will be 40 this year, she exclaims, "oh!! i thought you were in your twenties!" you tell her you love  her and would like to take her every where with you.  so as far as fitting in, in your age group, you are one of only a handful under 40.  you were few and far between.

as for the fitting in with the "writer" part of you - you have no problem at all. everyone there was there because they love to write or want to write or are trying to get their writing published, read, out there.

the first thing everyone asks you upon your return, is, "did you write your heart out???"

no. no, you did not. you did almost no writing at all. but you have a good excuse . . .

every morning, you wake at about 7:30ish, get ready for the day and head out for breakfast which is to be taken with about 200 other people in large tables. so, you have to find a place that isn't taken yet that has silverware and fruit at the place setting. this is usually between people that are already seated and likely know each other. some are kind and some are not. you talk about what is coming up for the day or what happened the day before. you discuss what you like and what you don't and what you are writing and whether or not you talked to an agent or what strikes you as absolutely amazing from
another author. you wish each other luck and sometimes exchange information and sometimes not have enough time. you re-introduce yourselves because so many people makes remembering names so difficult. your favorite one of these moments is this:

a playwright turns to you as she is running to give her next workshop, "what was your name again, dear?"

"kp, like kitchen patrol."

"kaypea," she repeats, like she is rolling it around on her tongue. "that sounds like a writer's name."

"well, it's the one i've used for the last 20 or so years, so i'm hoping so."

she nods as if this is just right. "well, it's a good one. i'll see you later, kp."

it feels like validation, even if she hasn't heard anything you have written.  she has heard you read before though. you have taken her workshop on what "action" is in a play and we read Gypsy (you read the stage directions). it is fascinating and makes you really appreciate a good play and what moves the play forward. you think it will really help in scenes your fiction.

after breakfast, you run to find a seat in one of your workshops. they are full to the tippy top with 40 or more people in each one and if you don't get there at least 15 minutes early, you will only get a chair and no table (which, of course, makes it difficult to take notes).  then you stuff your brain for the next hour and a half with what ever wonderfulness that happens in the workshop.

after the first workshop, you have a half an hour, along with the other 900 people at this conference, to find a bathroom, grab some coffee or tea or water, change out of your sweater (because now it's no longer FREEZING), and find your next workshop room in time to get a seat with a writing space and that is if you don't talk to anyone - and believe me, you want to talk with people because you've just had this weird shared experience but you can't because you need to pee and you need some water and you need to figure out where you are supposed to be . then you spend the next hour and a half stuffing your brain full of more exciting and cool stuff only to want to talk with someone about that workshop too - and the one before, but you need to find a bathroom and lunch and there is a line and there is a keynote speaker you want to listen to in less than an hour and you want a good seat.

then you listen to a most amazing author tell you about his or her experience with their writing and their research and how they fell in love with what they do. and you cry. hard. so hard that you go back to your room an hour and half later, having taken no heed of the wetness on your face that your best friend says, "um, you have mascara all down your face." and you look, and you do - you have mascara all down your face, and you don't even care.

then you go on an amazing "excursion" where you are crawling to some local cantinas listening to a beatnik inspired performance that takes you back to when Uncle Bill really existed and you cry because you think of your first husband and how cool he would think this is. you look over to your best friend and you squeeze her hand for so many reasons, not the least of which is her being there Like Water for Chocolate. and when you aren't there, you are eating tacos and running into those same said people.
with  you and not the most of which is her just knowing this is the thing you need and will love and is the most right thing for you. and if you aren't crawling to cantinas, you are watching cooking classes and giving beer to the presenters and hearing a most amazing new orleans accent tell you of all the wonders of

and after these excursions, you are trying to find your place in a ballroom for another author speaker where you are inspired to buy his book (and spend hours trying to find a way to buy it in the united states since it's only available in canada) to send it to your favorite artist because she's writing her own book about art and what it means to ask for supporting art. and you think about how weird it is that all things are connected and how everything finds itself eventually, over and over and over.

then it's time for dinner, or a fiesta . . . with a donkey. . . and mescal with shot glasses around your neck. . . and then it gets to be after 11pm and you know you are supposed to be up for the next day to do this all over again.

and you do this for five days. . .

and you are so busy you aren't even taking pictures and you are so glad because your best friend is here taking pictures. you are too busy to take pictures, or read, or write, or even have time to pick at your fingers. . . they've never looked so good.

and while you are at a fiesta with a donkey you meet the production manager and sound and lighting people and you gush over how much you noticed how they saved the day. and they give you their card and the next day when you are barely figuring out where you are supposed to be, they want to see you and they ask you if you will help them with this Shakespearean play that is to go on the next night and can you do rehearsal? and OF FUCKING COURSE YOU CAN because you cannot wait to see the actual show and these people want you to HELP THEM?  of course you want to do this. and you rehearse with them and these two amazing Shakespearean actors who tell you that you are doing great work and they are tired, and you are tired, and the sound and light people are tired and you tech this show like a bitch. and they love you and you love them and they give you cupcakes and water. because they are awesome.


and then you go through your day and stuff your brain and run a show like a boss. and you are proud and you have fun and you are grateful. and then you get to go out with your best friend who came all this way to hang with you and your new friend (her old friend) and you talk and drink and listen and eat volcanoes of shrimp and pork and steak and chicken and fish and it bubbles and erupts and is amazing. . . and comes with a side of guacamole you cannot possibly replicate.

and on the last day you have where you aren't in some workshop reaching too deeply within yourself , you explore the city with your best friend and her friend, your new friend. you hike up crazy hills, worse than you have ever hiked on any of your marathons (and maybe it only seems like this because you are at 6000 feet). you take so many pictures of doors while thinking of your mother and magic and stories you want to write. and you spend money on rings and bags and other day of the dead-type fabrics for your family. and you eat - oh, do you eat. and then you try to nap by the pool, but the sky is so blue and the temperature is too hot and you are to distracted by both to be able to read or write, so you still do neither and you go back to your room to nap because, HOLY HELL, you need a nap on this 6th day.

and then you get on a plane, and you cannot sleep, but you read. voraciously. you read your new friend's work and a book by an author that did a workshop that touched you so deeply you buy her books. you don't buy anyone else's books, but you buy hers and you carry them around for days waiting for her to be available to sign them for your step-daughter. and you cry while you read this book and you realize how all of these things are so connected over and over and over.

and you think about this whole week and how amazing it all is - you think how all these things are connected to each other over and over and over.

and then you break open - wide

and THEN you write 

you write your mother. and you cry, unabashedly as you write more than 2000 words to her with less than an hour left on the plane ride home. and you still don't care that the tears are coating your neck as you cannot type fast enough to share with her all of the things you need to tell her. and how you will always write to her from now on.

and you are happy. because you are a writer. and you have been opened like a new book cracked - that sound that is so satisfying yet a little sad because it is the only time that sound will be made.

and you continue to share. . .

the sky is the limit. . . looks pretty wide open to me