I feel verbally empty...bahahah...yeah like that is possible. In reality I just feel silent. It's not like I have nothing to say, but my voice betrays language currently. I am caught between an emerging me and the me of my yesterdays. It's not that I miss the concept of an old me, I feel lost in the whirl of the up-and-coming me.
I hear the philosopher echoing in the folds of grey within my skull; I sense the rage of a college student finding her principles; I see the strength of a mommy with convitions and hopes; I taste the honey of dreams; yet I smell the pain of age and financial strain and confusion. I envy the young...wait...what did I just say...young...when did I become not young?! I believe middle age came a knocking and my mommy brain didn't think to ignore the visitor as if it were a collections agent. What trickery! I am not mourning my pre-baby self, I am lamenting my youth. WTF! Now let's think for a minute...I am not old, but i am no longer young, and that my friend is a fact.
The saying goes with age comes wisdom. Raised to respect others, especially my elders - they've been there done that...they know a thing or two - I believed that saying whole-heartedly. Now I cynically view the general population as idiots that become more ignorant by the hour. Wisdom where for art thou? Deeply entrenched in the workforce my elders morphed into peers in a blink, and I find it difficult to respect these same people whom I looked up to when I witness bad behavior, disrespect, arrogance, rudeness, stupiditity, and I could go on, but will spare myself and you.
Every human is fragile. Perhaps by physical health, mental state, emotional situation, whatever their edge...there exists that moment when we realize that we are susceptible, gossamer beings. Our nature evolved, originally, by protecting each others threads, yet once we reached the pinnacle of compassion we began to spiral into de-evolution and capitolized on another's frailty...any fracture or spindle solicits an attack. I am disgusted.
I corrolate my disgust to age. It was ok to be an independent sprite in high school, an elitist in college, a powerhouse after graduation, but then somewhere along the way I pondered me. I shiver at the realization that at some moment I will no longer breath. I miss my little girl, husband, sisters, mother and the rest of family and friends to an ache much like missing my father. I understand the importance of a family and the courage of life and accept that priorities adjust and change and realign for good reason. What escapes my comprehension involves those that fail to grown themselves, see blindly, and travel life without looking outside. I also despise sheeple and hope that I can raise my daughter to not one herself....let's not go there today.
So...silence...oblivion...muteness...me? Yes. I find myself often in a place of polar points...at once verbal and assertive and contemplative and mute. At times I can stop myself from a tirade or blasting bandwagon and propoganda, then at others I crawl into my void and philosophize. I sometimes think I am too quiet, especially around my daughter. She evokes a depth of meditation that I cannot verbalize. I enjoy the smiles and cuddles, scoff at the defiance, and revel in motherhood...I fall profoundly into my abyss...which at the moment is a positive place.
Darkness need not be bad, scary, morbid, hurtful: it can offer healing, safety, realignment, comfort. I hear the pendulum mark the passing of the sand. I feel the pain of the dunes slowing me and the rocks weigh me, but I am far from my destination...yet I accept that the easiest of my days are behind me.
01 February 2011
04 January 2011
Sinterklaas
So I'm going to call a spade a spade and say, "Santa Day was so much fun!" Am I christian, pagan, aetheist, gnostic, buddist...I'm not really sure myself. The reality is that I like the story of Jesus' birth and the wise men and accept that Christmas is actually January 6th (christian), I decorate a tree and celebrate the solstice(pagan), I think December 25th is Santa Day (aetheist), I contemplate the goodwill and spirit of something greater (gnostic), and honestly my husband says I'm more buddist than he. I think Americans in general secularized this holiday, and I'm fine with that. The spirit of "Christmas" is possible every day of the year, but if we must only meditate on it once a year: I'll do it in December.
As I've grown older Christmas has lost some of its spark and luster: it became perfunctory. As a child I wondered at the secrets of Santa, awed at the ideas of Bethlehem and wise men, I swam in presents that made me smile and giggle. As a teen Christmas felt greedy and demanding because mom and dad didn't get me what I asked for and it was a counting game at the end of the day, but I couldn't underestimate the "feeling" of Christmas. After my father passed I picked up the slack for my mother and became Santa for my sisters. Then each year, whomever was financialy more stable did so. We were a family and Christmas was my dad's holiday, so we would keep him alive in its spirit. Then my thirties happened. What the hell is Christmas anyway...too much money, too much pressure, too much too much. Now suddenly Christmas is seeping back into my heart as I watched Anya's amazement at the wrapping paper, lights, gifts, and all day partying with her family. She was so caught up in excitment that she thought Ron and Audrey's new puppy was a present for her too.
My little Anastasia Grace looked at the pictures of her with Santa and says, "tanta," "stanta and beebee," or something of the sort. Opening her stocking was a hoot. She had no idea what to do. I sat on the floor with her and showed her to pull everything out. One at a time she loved each item. Opening presents was a whole other affair. The first taste of recklessness she truely experienced. She was afraid to rip up the paper and the OCDs we already instilled in her (parents of the year) about throwing trash away were comical as she tore teeny tiny pieces of paper and threw them out one at a time. By the end of the day she was ripping with abandon and eager for one more present. She was exhausted and overwhlemed and ecstatic all day. She made me giggle again.
I started drinking at nooish. Yay. I started to feel the stress of the holiday and nipped it quickly with some vodka and some more. I was loopy by 2, but still managed a wonderful ham and mashed potatoes, and yum on the gouda and provolone chianti spread and Chrissy's spinach dip was the bomb. We feasted throughout the day. Anya had cookies and snacks and turkey and o my. She was in her glory and I was so warm and fuzzy and happy that the "feeling" of Christmas was in my home. We played Dance Dance Revolution on the Wii and Anya jumped in her bouncy bounce and Freyja knawed on her bully sticks and everyone had smiles on their faces. I love that my family and Rich's family and our close friends return every year to share this day together.
Christmas came and went without major incident, at least none that I care to declare. Our visiting plans post Christmas were interrupted by a rare Northeast bizzard that snowed everyone in to the east, but left us with a sprinkling of irritation only. I was peeved for a moment, but decided that I spend all year running around so I shoudl enjoy the excuse to be a couch potato for a change. And so I did. I was sad when my mom had to go back home, and melancholy about my vacation coming to an end, but I can say that I enjoyed my holiday and my family and my life. Now next year Anya will ask to write Santa a letter...can't wait!
As I've grown older Christmas has lost some of its spark and luster: it became perfunctory. As a child I wondered at the secrets of Santa, awed at the ideas of Bethlehem and wise men, I swam in presents that made me smile and giggle. As a teen Christmas felt greedy and demanding because mom and dad didn't get me what I asked for and it was a counting game at the end of the day, but I couldn't underestimate the "feeling" of Christmas. After my father passed I picked up the slack for my mother and became Santa for my sisters. Then each year, whomever was financialy more stable did so. We were a family and Christmas was my dad's holiday, so we would keep him alive in its spirit. Then my thirties happened. What the hell is Christmas anyway...too much money, too much pressure, too much too much. Now suddenly Christmas is seeping back into my heart as I watched Anya's amazement at the wrapping paper, lights, gifts, and all day partying with her family. She was so caught up in excitment that she thought Ron and Audrey's new puppy was a present for her too.
My little Anastasia Grace looked at the pictures of her with Santa and says, "tanta," "stanta and beebee," or something of the sort. Opening her stocking was a hoot. She had no idea what to do. I sat on the floor with her and showed her to pull everything out. One at a time she loved each item. Opening presents was a whole other affair. The first taste of recklessness she truely experienced. She was afraid to rip up the paper and the OCDs we already instilled in her (parents of the year) about throwing trash away were comical as she tore teeny tiny pieces of paper and threw them out one at a time. By the end of the day she was ripping with abandon and eager for one more present. She was exhausted and overwhlemed and ecstatic all day. She made me giggle again.
I started drinking at nooish. Yay. I started to feel the stress of the holiday and nipped it quickly with some vodka and some more. I was loopy by 2, but still managed a wonderful ham and mashed potatoes, and yum on the gouda and provolone chianti spread and Chrissy's spinach dip was the bomb. We feasted throughout the day. Anya had cookies and snacks and turkey and o my. She was in her glory and I was so warm and fuzzy and happy that the "feeling" of Christmas was in my home. We played Dance Dance Revolution on the Wii and Anya jumped in her bouncy bounce and Freyja knawed on her bully sticks and everyone had smiles on their faces. I love that my family and Rich's family and our close friends return every year to share this day together.
Christmas came and went without major incident, at least none that I care to declare. Our visiting plans post Christmas were interrupted by a rare Northeast bizzard that snowed everyone in to the east, but left us with a sprinkling of irritation only. I was peeved for a moment, but decided that I spend all year running around so I shoudl enjoy the excuse to be a couch potato for a change. And so I did. I was sad when my mom had to go back home, and melancholy about my vacation coming to an end, but I can say that I enjoyed my holiday and my family and my life. Now next year Anya will ask to write Santa a letter...can't wait!
Me
I suppose a "Happy New Year" is in order to you and yours. Two days back from the quickest moving two weeks of vacation ever, and enter 2011. Let's just start in shall we? I don't believe in New Year's resolutions. I think they are silly really. I can make resolutions any moment of any day, and, frankly, will hold on to them better this way. Who wants to start their new year off fucking up all ready. The running joke seems to be how soon until you break your promises into the new year? REALLY? Why.
If I make a promise I mean it. I will try so hard I screw myself up following through. Over the years this has led me to make less promises for sure. I have also learned that setting myself up for failure damages any sense of self-worth or confidence I achieved. Every year I wish for a better year than the last, and hope that I survive the trials and tribulations I will face. I also vow to try and win the lottery.
What will this year bring? I would like to teach belly dance in more studios. I would like to advance my Arbonne business. I would like to be financially stable again. All of these hopes hinge on my taking personal action to achieve them. But don't mistake these for resolutions. These are on going personal dreams. There is no failure to be had here. I will be me and work towards making my dreams a reality, but I will not destroy myself in the process.
I tried hard not to fill my FaceBook wall the first few days of the new year with negative comments about going back to work and not being on vacation anymore and O the misery. I knew that coming back to the office was going to suck. And I still harbor anger towards my paycheck writer for his inexcusable behavior regarding my time off. But this I must face and do so with the least amount of self-fullfilling depression possible. To my credit I've woken up before my alarm, although have stayed in bed for the cursory snooze anyway; I've packed my breakfast and lunch; I came home and actually played with and gave Anya a bath before I plopped on the couch exhausted; I went to bed at 8, but watched TV until 9:30...woohooo late night; totally fucked up my famously yummy split pea soup and had to throw it out - my bad; O and I put on makeup two days in a row for work - eveyyone said I look fab and did I change my hair - doh! I'm still looking forward to the day I cash in my winning lottery ticket.
So here I am. 2011. Anya turns 2 this year. What the Fuck! Yeah - did I tell you I vowed to have a trucker mouth this year? I pulled my combat boots out of the closet too. I look back at my blog with it's swiss cheese style and find it so painful still. I always feel one step out of the midst...sometimes It catches up to me and I can't breath for a bit, but I keep running and have freedom for a time. I almost want another child, but don't feel that it would be fair to do so in our financial rings of hell...not to mention my vodka therapy and I would love to start smoking again. I put Manson in the CD player and blackened my eye makeup. I feel tough as nails and miss my youth suddenly. I had so much fun being reckless and carefree and me. ...One thing I do resolve this year is to be me.
If I make a promise I mean it. I will try so hard I screw myself up following through. Over the years this has led me to make less promises for sure. I have also learned that setting myself up for failure damages any sense of self-worth or confidence I achieved. Every year I wish for a better year than the last, and hope that I survive the trials and tribulations I will face. I also vow to try and win the lottery.
What will this year bring? I would like to teach belly dance in more studios. I would like to advance my Arbonne business. I would like to be financially stable again. All of these hopes hinge on my taking personal action to achieve them. But don't mistake these for resolutions. These are on going personal dreams. There is no failure to be had here. I will be me and work towards making my dreams a reality, but I will not destroy myself in the process.
I tried hard not to fill my FaceBook wall the first few days of the new year with negative comments about going back to work and not being on vacation anymore and O the misery. I knew that coming back to the office was going to suck. And I still harbor anger towards my paycheck writer for his inexcusable behavior regarding my time off. But this I must face and do so with the least amount of self-fullfilling depression possible. To my credit I've woken up before my alarm, although have stayed in bed for the cursory snooze anyway; I've packed my breakfast and lunch; I came home and actually played with and gave Anya a bath before I plopped on the couch exhausted; I went to bed at 8, but watched TV until 9:30...woohooo late night; totally fucked up my famously yummy split pea soup and had to throw it out - my bad; O and I put on makeup two days in a row for work - eveyyone said I look fab and did I change my hair - doh! I'm still looking forward to the day I cash in my winning lottery ticket.
So here I am. 2011. Anya turns 2 this year. What the Fuck! Yeah - did I tell you I vowed to have a trucker mouth this year? I pulled my combat boots out of the closet too. I look back at my blog with it's swiss cheese style and find it so painful still. I always feel one step out of the midst...sometimes It catches up to me and I can't breath for a bit, but I keep running and have freedom for a time. I almost want another child, but don't feel that it would be fair to do so in our financial rings of hell...not to mention my vodka therapy and I would love to start smoking again. I put Manson in the CD player and blackened my eye makeup. I feel tough as nails and miss my youth suddenly. I had so much fun being reckless and carefree and me. ...One thing I do resolve this year is to be me.
14 December 2010
Stripped of Value
So my experiment has failed and the answer is, no, 1 voice cannot be heard in a crowd of a billion. Pity, really, I was looking forward to some good debate and action-oriented sentiment and a bit if a rally. I'm not that surprised, honestly, zombies are too self-absorbed to listen for that falling tree.
Post Partum evokes a cloud and suffocating and general confusion and fear. Regular misery and sorrow bring about something slightly different - similar to emotions on ADD. Once again I am faced with the fragile reality of my state of mind (or self - as the case may be). For the duration of my working life I have always, when the opportunity existed, taken the last two weeks of the year as vacation, a time to recharge, my summer vacation - since I never can afford to take holiday in the sunshine. I have worked for the same person for 13 of these working years and have always taken this time off. Suddenly, after two months prior approval, five days before my much anticipated vacation is about to begin, I am informed that it is unusual for him to have approved 2 weeks since he feels it's a support hole and feels that I need to warm a seat. Now mind you I have a company supplied blackberry and laptop and am very reachable in the event that something cannot wait for my return. I am, to say the least, devastated.
I have earned the support of my boss over years of hard work, determination and dedication. The only time in my life that I have been a less than stellar employee was during the throes of my post partum suffering. I have worked double time since then, been available 24/7, cancelled vacation days, worked while sick, at 10 pm, during dinner, while I had plans with my daughter...you name it I have bent over front and back to prove that I am and have worth (contrary to what resembled a preformance appraisal during post partum hell). I know the man is busy, but this is no way to treat a valued employee who has earned the time she is entitled to, he has stopped listening to the world around him, become so PC as to be un-PC. After 13 years, wouldn't I have known of a 1 week at a time rule? After 13 years, and 5 years in the same position, wouldn't we have this all worked out by now?
I spent the day in between tears and confusion yesterday. I spent my evening in between anger and deep breaths. I spent my night tossing and turning and generally suffocating and becoming frozen in the tundra of the new American Life. I tuned into some old friends that kept me company in the darkness of my search for me, the death of my father, my education. I wallowed in the comforting place of music and memories. This morning I drove into work with A Perfect Circle at top volume blanking my brain to allow some numbness to cleanse my thoughts. I'm sitting here at my desk with a resentment and scorn for a person I have always respected and valued and a job I used to love. I don't have any more to give.
I'm tired of being sad and unhappy. I'm exhausted to my core. Some days I don't feel like it's worth it, and if it wasn't for my little angel I wouldn't make it to see the dawn. And then I get it. Or think I may. My working problems only began with my pregnancy and have continued since. A friend asked if I am perhaps giving less than I used to or is it obvious that my priority is no longer work. The answer is no, I work harder and longer, but perhaps the flaw is not in my work but in someone else's perception of a working mom. I'm afraid to step here. This is territory that screams danger. Usually I take that step because I like the good old fashion debate, pushing the envelope to remind people to think and use logic and reality to stop being controlled and led blindly, and to make sure that the little person is not stepped on and beaten down. But here...I am most afraid. The implications are serious and the fall out too dangerous for my family that is already one breath away from drowning.
Post Partum evokes a cloud and suffocating and general confusion and fear. Regular misery and sorrow bring about something slightly different - similar to emotions on ADD. Once again I am faced with the fragile reality of my state of mind (or self - as the case may be). For the duration of my working life I have always, when the opportunity existed, taken the last two weeks of the year as vacation, a time to recharge, my summer vacation - since I never can afford to take holiday in the sunshine. I have worked for the same person for 13 of these working years and have always taken this time off. Suddenly, after two months prior approval, five days before my much anticipated vacation is about to begin, I am informed that it is unusual for him to have approved 2 weeks since he feels it's a support hole and feels that I need to warm a seat. Now mind you I have a company supplied blackberry and laptop and am very reachable in the event that something cannot wait for my return. I am, to say the least, devastated.
I have earned the support of my boss over years of hard work, determination and dedication. The only time in my life that I have been a less than stellar employee was during the throes of my post partum suffering. I have worked double time since then, been available 24/7, cancelled vacation days, worked while sick, at 10 pm, during dinner, while I had plans with my daughter...you name it I have bent over front and back to prove that I am and have worth (contrary to what resembled a preformance appraisal during post partum hell). I know the man is busy, but this is no way to treat a valued employee who has earned the time she is entitled to, he has stopped listening to the world around him, become so PC as to be un-PC. After 13 years, wouldn't I have known of a 1 week at a time rule? After 13 years, and 5 years in the same position, wouldn't we have this all worked out by now?
I spent the day in between tears and confusion yesterday. I spent my evening in between anger and deep breaths. I spent my night tossing and turning and generally suffocating and becoming frozen in the tundra of the new American Life. I tuned into some old friends that kept me company in the darkness of my search for me, the death of my father, my education. I wallowed in the comforting place of music and memories. This morning I drove into work with A Perfect Circle at top volume blanking my brain to allow some numbness to cleanse my thoughts. I'm sitting here at my desk with a resentment and scorn for a person I have always respected and valued and a job I used to love. I don't have any more to give.
I'm tired of being sad and unhappy. I'm exhausted to my core. Some days I don't feel like it's worth it, and if it wasn't for my little angel I wouldn't make it to see the dawn. And then I get it. Or think I may. My working problems only began with my pregnancy and have continued since. A friend asked if I am perhaps giving less than I used to or is it obvious that my priority is no longer work. The answer is no, I work harder and longer, but perhaps the flaw is not in my work but in someone else's perception of a working mom. I'm afraid to step here. This is territory that screams danger. Usually I take that step because I like the good old fashion debate, pushing the envelope to remind people to think and use logic and reality to stop being controlled and led blindly, and to make sure that the little person is not stepped on and beaten down. But here...I am most afraid. The implications are serious and the fall out too dangerous for my family that is already one breath away from drowning.
10 December 2010
Can One Voice be Heard in a Crowd of Billions
I used to laugh or ignore my sisters and friends when they talked about zombies and the recent onslaught of zombie movies and chachkies and whatnots, not to mention the fabulous "How to Survive a Zombie Attack" posters available to all interested parties. Then I begin to think...what a perfect metaphor for what I see has become of the US citizen. And I am not excluded from this generalized statement either.
We are fat and lazy and removed from all sense of the community of earthlings let alone residents of the country. I'm the last person to claim I am patriotic, and this, my friends, has N.O.T.H.I.N.G. to do with patriotizm, but instead a call to empathy and compassion and respect for humankind. Technology has enabled us to remove ourselves from the reality of the human plight and reinforce we are but the cancer of the earth. We can sit behind a screen and keyboard and say, "O yeah, I'm against that" or "I will join you in your cyber-world sit in" and just hit send to donate money or food or goods to those in need. But what this does is remove our soul and consciousness of the darkness that we are creating. We don't realize that the donation is going to our neighbor's house, or that arguement has gotten physical, or that kid just joined a gang because he's afraid of what tomorrow with bring - we turn our heads and go back to our games, and songs, and movies, and virtual world and tune out - we no longer need Leary's Tune Out opiates. We've lost sight of our community and the living breathing web that we live and that when one strand breaks it will affect the entire delicate foundation.
I challenge you to go to that soup kitchen and serve the food, volunteer at an orphanage and spend quality time with the youth of tomorrow, report the pet abuse or spousal abuse or child abuse or rape or car jacking! Connect with your human kind. Stop letting fear and ignorance destroy what has made us unique. This is by no means a Pay it Forward sentiment. This is meant as a lifestyle adjustment - one action, though it can make a difference, must be repeated for a total change to occur: a return to community. We suffer the consequense of our own needs to be special and have something and be someone and appear a certain way...instead all this has done is make us all the same, and useless. I remember my grandmother saying it takes a village to raise a child...and being a new monther I now understand that concept. We have been foolish with our drive to be independent and separate ourselves from our roots, our DNA our history. Humans have made it this far because we worked together and for each other. The further we slip away from what makes us human the more we have become the zombies.
We the people have also lost sight of WE THE PEOPLE. By no means do I single out a president, congress, House, Senate, Commissions, Associations, State, Local...I blame ALL of them. The agenda no longer concerns itself with THE PEOPLE, but a person or group or flippant ideology: a distraction from the important issues. America was built as a new land to include personal, religious, and many other freedoms as a RIGHT, not a luxury. Machiavelli was not invited to this new land...yet I look around and see his Prince everywhere.
I overhear one person say, "O you can't say that or you'll get put on a list," or my favorite, "I wouldn't go and say that...you might make them mad and they'll (insert verb here) and ruin it for the rest of us." WE THE PEOPLE are afraid. We are being governed by fear. We don't need to opiate our masses...although we seem to keep the pharmas in business these days...we are sheep, zombies, fearful little creatures who can't stand up and fight anymore. We sometimes picket and sign petitions and babble to our neighbor...but we don't DO anything. We assume it could be worse or it'll work out somehow or we accept that our fight is meaningless or won't make a difference in the end. We bicker and bumble around in circles always chasing our proverbial tail. We as humankind have devolved while our machinery now houses more intelligence and control and sophistication.
Consider our modern day entertainment and our obsession with "reality" TV, which thankfully is waning from our mainstream channels. We focus on pitting one person against another, glamourizing what should be considered in poor taste, disgusting and disrespectful. We no longer respect anyone including ourselves. We unashamedly cheer on the lowest form of human behavior and then make them role models for the next generation - my apologies to the Snookie and Situation fans. I'm all for sex, drugs and rock n roll, foul language, and pushing the envelope, yet there is a point when we've taken it to an extreme and have set the bar so low that the world sits back and laughs at what should be our shame. People should be free to be who they are; no one should judge based on race, religion, weight, sexual preference or any other difference, therefore, why glamorize the hate of it all.
Our media outlets sensationalize the small stuff and make issue where there should be none. They contribute to the fear mongering of our leaders. We fled the princes and kings and monarchs and oligarchs that behaved in these tyrannical and hypocritical and demoralizing ways - how could we welcome these symbols back into our lives. The News, as it is called, runs ADD segments of horor and misery in a tone that elicits the worst emotional response. No wonder we all have panic anxiety disorder and live in a perpatual state of depression and manic expression. We hear of this shooting and that death and this fire and that accident and this weapon and that funeral and this storm and that economic bomb and this riot and that disease and this loss and that loss and I could go on with every negative imagry available at my disposal. And the happy children who received gifts from Toys for Tots get 15 seconds until we are redirected to the local amber alert. What SHAME. The Media fuels the fear so that we remain puppets and zombies. All the news stations say "exclusive:" All our magazines claim "best results." All our commercials state "may cause serious side effects." Yet we follow like fools, unquestioning, afraid with eyes faced downward.
You ask, "Well do you have any answers or resolutions?" Or you ask, "What what the hell are you actually doing about it then?!" Have you mummbled, "I'm not fat, lazy, a zombie or otherwise." Or maybe you are calling me an idiot or liberal or far something. I choose to call myself me. I don't care if you like me, agree or disagree with me. I just want to know if one voice can be heard in a crowd of billons.
We are fat and lazy and removed from all sense of the community of earthlings let alone residents of the country. I'm the last person to claim I am patriotic, and this, my friends, has N.O.T.H.I.N.G. to do with patriotizm, but instead a call to empathy and compassion and respect for humankind. Technology has enabled us to remove ourselves from the reality of the human plight and reinforce we are but the cancer of the earth. We can sit behind a screen and keyboard and say, "O yeah, I'm against that" or "I will join you in your cyber-world sit in" and just hit send to donate money or food or goods to those in need. But what this does is remove our soul and consciousness of the darkness that we are creating. We don't realize that the donation is going to our neighbor's house, or that arguement has gotten physical, or that kid just joined a gang because he's afraid of what tomorrow with bring - we turn our heads and go back to our games, and songs, and movies, and virtual world and tune out - we no longer need Leary's Tune Out opiates. We've lost sight of our community and the living breathing web that we live and that when one strand breaks it will affect the entire delicate foundation.
I challenge you to go to that soup kitchen and serve the food, volunteer at an orphanage and spend quality time with the youth of tomorrow, report the pet abuse or spousal abuse or child abuse or rape or car jacking! Connect with your human kind. Stop letting fear and ignorance destroy what has made us unique. This is by no means a Pay it Forward sentiment. This is meant as a lifestyle adjustment - one action, though it can make a difference, must be repeated for a total change to occur: a return to community. We suffer the consequense of our own needs to be special and have something and be someone and appear a certain way...instead all this has done is make us all the same, and useless. I remember my grandmother saying it takes a village to raise a child...and being a new monther I now understand that concept. We have been foolish with our drive to be independent and separate ourselves from our roots, our DNA our history. Humans have made it this far because we worked together and for each other. The further we slip away from what makes us human the more we have become the zombies.
We the people have also lost sight of WE THE PEOPLE. By no means do I single out a president, congress, House, Senate, Commissions, Associations, State, Local...I blame ALL of them. The agenda no longer concerns itself with THE PEOPLE, but a person or group or flippant ideology: a distraction from the important issues. America was built as a new land to include personal, religious, and many other freedoms as a RIGHT, not a luxury. Machiavelli was not invited to this new land...yet I look around and see his Prince everywhere.
I overhear one person say, "O you can't say that or you'll get put on a list," or my favorite, "I wouldn't go and say that...you might make them mad and they'll (insert verb here) and ruin it for the rest of us." WE THE PEOPLE are afraid. We are being governed by fear. We don't need to opiate our masses...although we seem to keep the pharmas in business these days...we are sheep, zombies, fearful little creatures who can't stand up and fight anymore. We sometimes picket and sign petitions and babble to our neighbor...but we don't DO anything. We assume it could be worse or it'll work out somehow or we accept that our fight is meaningless or won't make a difference in the end. We bicker and bumble around in circles always chasing our proverbial tail. We as humankind have devolved while our machinery now houses more intelligence and control and sophistication.
Consider our modern day entertainment and our obsession with "reality" TV, which thankfully is waning from our mainstream channels. We focus on pitting one person against another, glamourizing what should be considered in poor taste, disgusting and disrespectful. We no longer respect anyone including ourselves. We unashamedly cheer on the lowest form of human behavior and then make them role models for the next generation - my apologies to the Snookie and Situation fans. I'm all for sex, drugs and rock n roll, foul language, and pushing the envelope, yet there is a point when we've taken it to an extreme and have set the bar so low that the world sits back and laughs at what should be our shame. People should be free to be who they are; no one should judge based on race, religion, weight, sexual preference or any other difference, therefore, why glamorize the hate of it all.
Our media outlets sensationalize the small stuff and make issue where there should be none. They contribute to the fear mongering of our leaders. We fled the princes and kings and monarchs and oligarchs that behaved in these tyrannical and hypocritical and demoralizing ways - how could we welcome these symbols back into our lives. The News, as it is called, runs ADD segments of horor and misery in a tone that elicits the worst emotional response. No wonder we all have panic anxiety disorder and live in a perpatual state of depression and manic expression. We hear of this shooting and that death and this fire and that accident and this weapon and that funeral and this storm and that economic bomb and this riot and that disease and this loss and that loss and I could go on with every negative imagry available at my disposal. And the happy children who received gifts from Toys for Tots get 15 seconds until we are redirected to the local amber alert. What SHAME. The Media fuels the fear so that we remain puppets and zombies. All the news stations say "exclusive:" All our magazines claim "best results." All our commercials state "may cause serious side effects." Yet we follow like fools, unquestioning, afraid with eyes faced downward.
You ask, "Well do you have any answers or resolutions?" Or you ask, "What what the hell are you actually doing about it then?!" Have you mummbled, "I'm not fat, lazy, a zombie or otherwise." Or maybe you are calling me an idiot or liberal or far something. I choose to call myself me. I don't care if you like me, agree or disagree with me. I just want to know if one voice can be heard in a crowd of billons.
08 December 2010
Of Mice and Moors
Romeo and Juliet - star crossed lovers - destined for destruction and misery...no Cinderella tale for them. And I begin contemplate Disney versus Shakespeare.
Both Juliet and Cinderella were high born, and both were banned from their love. Romeo from perhaps the other side of the tracks or the opposing palace, depending on whose interpretation you ascribe, and Prince Charming, ruler of the kingdom. Why does Cinderella live happily ever after, but Juliet suffer death and pain? Is Disney to blame for our perpetual belief that it will all work out in the end or that we will find gold at the end of the rainbow? Was Shakespeare the realist that kept the population in check from run-away fantasies and behavior?
The comparisons and contradictions zip around behind my eyes. I'm not able to focus...so I wonder...am I to be Juliet or Cinderella.
I always tell my husband that if it's not worth fighting for it isn't worth anything at all, and I believe we are worth fighting for. Then he replies that he doesn't believe in fighting for anything, you should just walk away - this coming from a man with some anger issues that have been a source of legal trouble for him in the past - does he even know who he is. There in lies the fundamental difference in our foundations. By nature I am a peacemaker, but when it comes to something I believe in my battle gear comes out. Perhaps I should look to our modern love stories as well if I am going to blame our books and movies on our perceptions...in today's world we always see the guy fighting to win over his lady. We consider this chivalrous and manly and honorable because those that don't always lose. We say this is romance and that is what it's all about. So again we have the venus versus mars syndrome.
It takes 2 to make any relationship work, but not 50/50. A wise person once explained to me that a relationship is 70/30...at any time one person is pulling 70 and the other 30, then at another time it is reversed. So why then do we perpetually expect 50/50...come on now...this has nothing to do with equality. So when trying to maintain the relationship and survive the hurdles life throws does someone throw in the towel instead of pulling their 70 (or 30) percent of the current burden. We all need a hand at some point...and aren't you supposed to be able to rely on your better half?
I'm so tired of the lemons....I hate lemonade. I don't really feel I have the right to complain since there are others far worse off than I and with situations out of a nightmare instead of daily life dredgery. I will allow myself the disappointment and saddness though...I am human. Time to eat an apple or prick my finger or something like that....I'm keeping away from the damned spots because they never end well.
Both Juliet and Cinderella were high born, and both were banned from their love. Romeo from perhaps the other side of the tracks or the opposing palace, depending on whose interpretation you ascribe, and Prince Charming, ruler of the kingdom. Why does Cinderella live happily ever after, but Juliet suffer death and pain? Is Disney to blame for our perpetual belief that it will all work out in the end or that we will find gold at the end of the rainbow? Was Shakespeare the realist that kept the population in check from run-away fantasies and behavior?
The comparisons and contradictions zip around behind my eyes. I'm not able to focus...so I wonder...am I to be Juliet or Cinderella.
I always tell my husband that if it's not worth fighting for it isn't worth anything at all, and I believe we are worth fighting for. Then he replies that he doesn't believe in fighting for anything, you should just walk away - this coming from a man with some anger issues that have been a source of legal trouble for him in the past - does he even know who he is. There in lies the fundamental difference in our foundations. By nature I am a peacemaker, but when it comes to something I believe in my battle gear comes out. Perhaps I should look to our modern love stories as well if I am going to blame our books and movies on our perceptions...in today's world we always see the guy fighting to win over his lady. We consider this chivalrous and manly and honorable because those that don't always lose. We say this is romance and that is what it's all about. So again we have the venus versus mars syndrome.
It takes 2 to make any relationship work, but not 50/50. A wise person once explained to me that a relationship is 70/30...at any time one person is pulling 70 and the other 30, then at another time it is reversed. So why then do we perpetually expect 50/50...come on now...this has nothing to do with equality. So when trying to maintain the relationship and survive the hurdles life throws does someone throw in the towel instead of pulling their 70 (or 30) percent of the current burden. We all need a hand at some point...and aren't you supposed to be able to rely on your better half?
I'm so tired of the lemons....I hate lemonade. I don't really feel I have the right to complain since there are others far worse off than I and with situations out of a nightmare instead of daily life dredgery. I will allow myself the disappointment and saddness though...I am human. Time to eat an apple or prick my finger or something like that....I'm keeping away from the damned spots because they never end well.
Assholeness Part Deux
Today's world is unique and our generation is suffering the consequenses of it's own design. We grew up in the opiated 70s and prosperous 80s and tech revolution. We have access to information and distractions that our grandparents couldn't even dream. We are now the ones raising disrespectful, selfish children and don't take resposibility or accept blame for anything and we pass that onto to the next generation in the process. We behave like spoiled brats that are owed something. Admittedly, I'm guilty of the I've earned it mentality myself. We have no community and we stand up for nothing or only in word, not action. Take, for instance, all our Facebook status adventures...do we believe that we are making a difference just by saying so. We are dumb, stupid, ignorant and arrogant. Our easy lifestyles have made zombies out of us all.
Women are entering the workforce in droves. The unemployment of America has hit everyone, but our men seem to cry poor me...I am man and now I feel emasculated. Some blame their women, some the government, but none stop for a second to ponder their part in this puzzle. We are greedy and selfish as a people. We don't care about anyone, including ourselves. We feast on cakes and wine and must have things, instead of remembering what's important in life...life itself. We can't take things with us. Frankly, we don't even know if there is a place beyond here. Things are fleeting and easy: instant gratification and temporary happiness. The love I have for my daughter can never be described or replaced or explained. The emotions I have for those people who bless my life in many different ways makes the hardships seem bareable.
I cannot take anyone elses blame any longer. I cannot accept anyone elses cranial malfunctions another minute. I cannot carry the world one more breath. I didn't hear Atlas got laid off, and really...you can't outsource his job.
Women are entering the workforce in droves. The unemployment of America has hit everyone, but our men seem to cry poor me...I am man and now I feel emasculated. Some blame their women, some the government, but none stop for a second to ponder their part in this puzzle. We are greedy and selfish as a people. We don't care about anyone, including ourselves. We feast on cakes and wine and must have things, instead of remembering what's important in life...life itself. We can't take things with us. Frankly, we don't even know if there is a place beyond here. Things are fleeting and easy: instant gratification and temporary happiness. The love I have for my daughter can never be described or replaced or explained. The emotions I have for those people who bless my life in many different ways makes the hardships seem bareable.
I cannot take anyone elses blame any longer. I cannot accept anyone elses cranial malfunctions another minute. I cannot carry the world one more breath. I didn't hear Atlas got laid off, and really...you can't outsource his job.
I'm not letting general assholeness ruin my holidays
I'm still here. Long vacation, eh...lost a little in life's labrynth. I could apologize, but really I don't have to. I've wanted so many times to drop in and leave a note...but I found I was too happy to write, too tired to elaborate, too angry to articulate, just not today. Today, however, I feel the need to complain, generally vent, be the ass I am and share my dirty laundry.
When is something unfixable? I mean...at what point do you just decide that it's broken beyond repair or the previous repairs haven't fixed the problem? So you have this old car that you love; it's been your best friend through cold winter snow storms and hot summers to the shore, you've belted out dance tunes and sad songs inside it's metal protection on your crusing getaways, but you dump money into every month...when do you send it to the car graveyard and buy a new one? Or when do you decide it's not even worth donating...just chuck it? I'm a tosser. My parents were pack rats so I keep very little and it has to have extreme sentimental value (even then I can sometimes justify the decluttering). So I apparently don't really know how to translate that to my life outside of "things." So I ponder...I would never toss out my child even though I have to leave the room to catch my breath and count to ten sometimes. Or my pets even with their costs and frustrations when they pee outside the litterbox or scratch up the rug. Or my sisters or mother or my family in general if they are having turmoil that conflicts. Or my friends even if they offend me at times. So why then would I even consider that for my partner?
I keep promises. I make committments firmly and dedicate to their fullfillment - sometimes even to my detriment. I believe in sanctity and partnership. I know in this world we need togetherness just to survive these times and is a fulfilling part of life...at least in my perspective. I don't do anything half hearted either: I do it completely or not at all. I'm fully capable of taking care of myself. I'm willful, strong, independent to a flaw and know that I don't need anyone but myself...but I want to share my life, love, desires, hurts, beliefs with someone. It's not about not wanting to be alone...it's about not being selfish like these times glorify.
I don't glorify much. Least of all the trials of life and family and motherhood. I know these require work and patience and a will to work through the hard times. I believe that if it comes easy it usually isn't worth much. I don't give up either. I fight to the death so to speak. Maybe...maybe that's it. Maybe this battle has been going on longer than I knew and the warriors are spent and littering the field with their rotten carcases and stinking up the place. And now the remaining knights must retreat limping and bleeding and wander nowhereland since their home has been destroyed beyond repair.
PArt of me says that everything is fixable. Do you rebuild or find a new home?
When is something unfixable? I mean...at what point do you just decide that it's broken beyond repair or the previous repairs haven't fixed the problem? So you have this old car that you love; it's been your best friend through cold winter snow storms and hot summers to the shore, you've belted out dance tunes and sad songs inside it's metal protection on your crusing getaways, but you dump money into every month...when do you send it to the car graveyard and buy a new one? Or when do you decide it's not even worth donating...just chuck it? I'm a tosser. My parents were pack rats so I keep very little and it has to have extreme sentimental value (even then I can sometimes justify the decluttering). So I apparently don't really know how to translate that to my life outside of "things." So I ponder...I would never toss out my child even though I have to leave the room to catch my breath and count to ten sometimes. Or my pets even with their costs and frustrations when they pee outside the litterbox or scratch up the rug. Or my sisters or mother or my family in general if they are having turmoil that conflicts. Or my friends even if they offend me at times. So why then would I even consider that for my partner?
I keep promises. I make committments firmly and dedicate to their fullfillment - sometimes even to my detriment. I believe in sanctity and partnership. I know in this world we need togetherness just to survive these times and is a fulfilling part of life...at least in my perspective. I don't do anything half hearted either: I do it completely or not at all. I'm fully capable of taking care of myself. I'm willful, strong, independent to a flaw and know that I don't need anyone but myself...but I want to share my life, love, desires, hurts, beliefs with someone. It's not about not wanting to be alone...it's about not being selfish like these times glorify.
I don't glorify much. Least of all the trials of life and family and motherhood. I know these require work and patience and a will to work through the hard times. I believe that if it comes easy it usually isn't worth much. I don't give up either. I fight to the death so to speak. Maybe...maybe that's it. Maybe this battle has been going on longer than I knew and the warriors are spent and littering the field with their rotten carcases and stinking up the place. And now the remaining knights must retreat limping and bleeding and wander nowhereland since their home has been destroyed beyond repair.
PArt of me says that everything is fixable. Do you rebuild or find a new home?
21 July 2010
The Birth of Zadyra
Today is one of those rarities that involves a level of clarity and motivation that usually fades as quickly as it arrived. I feel strong and energetic and compulsively positive. I'm working on 3.5 hours of sleep with cramps and a migraine, but somehow I will perservere today. I really don't know how or why, but I'm running with it...and most likely scissors.
Once in a while a moment comes along that borders a grande change...ususally (or hopefully) for the better. Sort of like spring cleaning in January. Today I'm there. I want to run without taking a breath before the lights go dim. I posted my FB status as time to dust off some long forgotten dreams...so philosophical of me...so me. And that's it...so ME. OMG OMG OMG OMG....breathe...ME.
The ellusive me or prodigal me or lost me or me on vacation arrived home...for a visit for a while forever...who can tell. I'm enjoying me today. Actually too much since I'm doing everything but working. I want to write and market my two new businesses and network and branch out and enjoy all that I've ever dreamed of in a life for myself. I'm ignoring the fact that I am chained to a desk in an overly-cooled office, albeit having a much needed quiet day at the reigns. I'm taking advantage, and glad for the opportunity.
I'm believing that my two recent ventures may afford me some respite from this dreary world I find myself sulking around. I'm exhausted from worrying and the calls from the debt collectors and working working working and missing out on the lovely moments of my daughter's flying-by first years. I'm putting faith in a possibility...a dream. I want to write, and dance, and teach and share good health. I want to support my family doing what I love and make each day valued for more than another day-in-the-life. I'm at least taking those first steps out of the dream and building a reality.
I gave birth to Zadyra...a long day coming. She's my dancer, my performing artist, my confidence, my ME. I want to hold her and hug her tight and reap the rewards of her arrival quickly without blinking. From my tiny ballerina days to my larger than I should be belly dancing days I've always dreamed of the performance. And I always stopped short of going there. I denied a Philadelphia Ballet hope; I hid from performances at Morraccan restaurants; I did all I could to be hyped, but always failed to follow through. Having accepted the opportunity to teach belly dance at a newly opened dance studio, I found myself following through for the first time. I shook through my first class and a few thereafter. I struggle still to select the correct music, and sometimes the best explaination, but I don't give up. I've begun networking in the community and accepting opportunities for private parties for instruction. The next step will be a real performance...not going to hide, but it will take more time with Zadyra, more lessons in me.
My manic excitement sends me off and onward...o please don't stop...I like this, and I know my family will too.
Once in a while a moment comes along that borders a grande change...ususally (or hopefully) for the better. Sort of like spring cleaning in January. Today I'm there. I want to run without taking a breath before the lights go dim. I posted my FB status as time to dust off some long forgotten dreams...so philosophical of me...so me. And that's it...so ME. OMG OMG OMG OMG....breathe...ME.
The ellusive me or prodigal me or lost me or me on vacation arrived home...for a visit for a while forever...who can tell. I'm enjoying me today. Actually too much since I'm doing everything but working. I want to write and market my two new businesses and network and branch out and enjoy all that I've ever dreamed of in a life for myself. I'm ignoring the fact that I am chained to a desk in an overly-cooled office, albeit having a much needed quiet day at the reigns. I'm taking advantage, and glad for the opportunity.
I'm believing that my two recent ventures may afford me some respite from this dreary world I find myself sulking around. I'm exhausted from worrying and the calls from the debt collectors and working working working and missing out on the lovely moments of my daughter's flying-by first years. I'm putting faith in a possibility...a dream. I want to write, and dance, and teach and share good health. I want to support my family doing what I love and make each day valued for more than another day-in-the-life. I'm at least taking those first steps out of the dream and building a reality.
I gave birth to Zadyra...a long day coming. She's my dancer, my performing artist, my confidence, my ME. I want to hold her and hug her tight and reap the rewards of her arrival quickly without blinking. From my tiny ballerina days to my larger than I should be belly dancing days I've always dreamed of the performance. And I always stopped short of going there. I denied a Philadelphia Ballet hope; I hid from performances at Morraccan restaurants; I did all I could to be hyped, but always failed to follow through. Having accepted the opportunity to teach belly dance at a newly opened dance studio, I found myself following through for the first time. I shook through my first class and a few thereafter. I struggle still to select the correct music, and sometimes the best explaination, but I don't give up. I've begun networking in the community and accepting opportunities for private parties for instruction. The next step will be a real performance...not going to hide, but it will take more time with Zadyra, more lessons in me.
My manic excitement sends me off and onward...o please don't stop...I like this, and I know my family will too.
16 July 2010
The Backwards Alchemist
Thud thud thud gasp thud gasp gasp thud thud thud...my heart pounds in my ears, my chest tight from a shortness of oxygen...pay attention...slow deep, meaningful breaths...slow down...blank the brain...hold it back. Did you know it only takes 1 false drop for the alchemist to taint a moment?
The salt air tickled my nose as the long-familiar scenery sped by on the darkening road. It's been so long: too long, a magical place for me, a home. A spontaneous deal with the devil allowed me a visit to la Mer. O I didn't care. It felt wonderful and exciting and right.
We pulled up to our 24 home at well past bedtime. Anya sensed the change in atmophere and awoke with fascination at this strange place. She wandered and touched and smelled and breathed deeply. Freyja and Bailey wagged and bowed, and learned the place while good friends settled into beers and stories. The trax, second floor deck beconed for company with a rocker and plenty of seating. The house was sparse, but contained all that was needed for a life outside of reality with no maintenance required. I shut the bedroom door behind me and cradled Anya in the full sized bed, hoping she would relax back into slumber. Alas...you know how the story goes...she tossed and turned and grabbed at my locks and kicked my ribs and at 30.75 inches long nearly hogged the expanse of mattress. I put her in the pack n play only to have her wake the other house guests...grunt...long night ahead.
At odd intervals throughout the night sleep was granted, then denied, then granted again. The antique window unit struggled to maintain what should have been a comfortable temperature...I should have put the ceiling fan on. But ahh you could still smell peace in this place. With so little sleep, yet enough, Anya woke at 7:30am with a smile and curiosity; I was only too eager to share with her my secret love.
Pleasantries and coffee filled the early morning as we sat on the balcony watching the sun burn off the dewy air. We have no where to be and no where to go just breath. Anya fascinated by the grainy stuff sticking to her feet and hands, didn't know if she should cry or lick or rub into her hair the small granuals..."that's sand honey, o no don't eat it, do this to shake it off." She waved to the sea gulls that past by and snuggled with the doggies keeping her special company in this strange land. At about that time we ventured off to take Freyja and Bailey on an adventure to Poseindon's realm.
Longport beach: an amusement park for the furry variety. Freyja has never been to the beach, never seen an ocean, and never ran free without blockade fencing; there are far a few locations where Charlie Brown doesn't resonate, "No Dogs Allowed." We all walked onto the small and rugged beach...not quiet what I had envisioned, but should have expected. Rocks and seaweed and dark, muddy sand marked the short beach along the road between here and there. A few other canine vacationers were already on the scene racing in the sand and waves like 5 year olds in Chuckie Cheese. Leashed and testing we laid out a towel and Anya's bucket in a random clear spot wondering if Bailey would show Freyja the joys of a beach dog life.
Within a few breaths Freyja was chomping to get at the foaming white-caps taunting her and chase the wet, smelly playmates on the softness beneath her paws. Rich got brave and disconnected her leash, and we stood there holding in the salty air until we were confident Freyja had found utter pleasure. She sprinted and chased and ran laps and bound into the rough sea. She played tag and catch and bounced and laughed as only a dog could. She was her old self, chasing Bailey around the magical island. Anya was tickled to see so many doggies in one place. Some greeted her with licks and nudges, but mostly they ignored her for the overwhelming fancy of the sea. After an hour of non stop movement univited guests swarmed the beach at Longport, inflicting misery on all variety of life. They were here and there and merciless. Green Heads, the dreaded mascot of the Jersey Shore...and hungry. I kept Anya in movement and bore their mealtime pain. In the water, outside the water...swatting and ouching. Soon the others were doing the same dance as I and the beach quickly cleared. Freyja and Bailey laid down in the back exhausted and gratful for the beach dog adventure.
Time for pizza lunch and naps. It seemed like we had already enjoyed a full day that was barely half begun.
Perfect Day part two was for the 2 leggers. Towels and blakets and chairs and water bottles and snacks and O my packed into bags and the car. The sun had gotten hot and the sky clear in this after noon hour. I hadn't been to a Sea Isle beach since my teens: that was too long ago now. I vaguely remembered the difference from Wildwood Crest and the beach home of my adult years...as foreign as Sea Isle seemed, the more like home it felt. I carried Anya through the hotest white sand at the entry point while the boys carried everything to our landing space. Anya was overstimulated by all the people and colorful blankes and umbrellas and playing, screaming children of all ages. She looked outward at the expanse of the sea and smiled...my child the pisces, just like her mother.
We found a spot before the waterline, but beyond the hot dry sand....perfect. We set up camp quickly and darted across the broken shells and seaweed to the water - a chill, then refreshing. Anya hesitated as the first wave ended its traverse inches beyond her ankles. She splashed a bit as the second one surprised her little aqua shoes. She walked forward a few steps to touch the next wave that didn't quite make it far enough...then she was hooked. We held her one on each side tightly as she tried to venture a little deeper each wave. Soon she was waist deep and giggling in delight. No sooner the water fell back into the sea and she dizzily teettered backwards, confused. After we were all cool we introduced her to sand.
I grab the bucket and guide Anya towards the little hill just in front of our blanket. Some kids earlier in the day had dug a trench and remnants of castle dreams cluttered the area. I plunked down in the sand, which makes me cringe for a moment, then I plop Anya down next to me. Instantly she lifts her sandy hands flat, towards me not sure whether to cry or be mad. I show her my hands and how I slapped them together to get the sand off, then I toss a pile of sand onto her leg and over my ankle. She smiles, but still holds those hands stiffly outward. I hand her the shovel. She forgets her hands and begins digging. She wrecks each bucket tower I build and is totally absorbed in this digging thing. Feeling the hot sun bake on my back Anya and I go back to the ocean edge for some cooling off.
Slashing away this time I sit her down in the shallows and show her the mini clams and how they dig as the water pulls back. She is fascinated by these tiny, colorful diggers. We sat there ebbing and flowing with the waves. She didn't mind dirty hands in this sand and picked it up and let it flow through her fingers. A few times some clams found their way ito her mouth. Poor things with me shoving my fingers into her clamped jaws to rescue the mini mollusks. This spot in between the wet and dry worlds was Anya's favorite. Can't say I disagreed either. Even daddy came down to join us too.
After some time I needed a cool down and left daddy and Anya to play in the waves. I slowly stepped through the water, stopping every few feet; it had been years since I bathed in the sea. I wasn't close to either lifeguard stand, and wasn't so sure of my footing and strength in Sponge Bob's realm, and frankly didn't feel like joining Bikini Bottom for eternity. I looked beyond to the cluster of vacationers neck deep, rolling in pre-wave relaxation. Instantly Sea Isle was mine again. I held my dad's hand, shaking with excitment and fear as he showed me the ocean beyond foamy, forceful of waves. He showed no fear of the ocean even though he didn't know how to swim...he could float and believed that's all he needed to know. He mocked me until I trudged out past the shell covered bottom to the satin under my feet and the calm beyond. He floated completely relaxed and I paniced as the current pulled us away from the lifeguard tower. But we were safe. We always stole those peaceful moments in the sea. The world didn't exist out here. Free from everything solid and firm and bound and staid. We bobbed with the sea, saw dolphins, and sometimes a fish that the sea gulls would attempt to have for lunch. The boats were more than specks on the horizon and the sounds of people vanished in roar of the sea.
I thought about finding the strength to bring Anya out here when she's old enough. I want Anya to understand the sea and its peace and beauty. Then I wonder if there will be a sea that's safe to swim in by the time she's old enough; I'm clouded by oil spills and trash dumping and melting ice caps. I say a little prayer to the gods of the deep to fight off the human disease. How could humans destroy something so pure? We are the cancer of the earth. I turn around and catch Anya, playing at the water line with her daddy, and the voices of the vacationers are audible again, snapping me out of my nightmare.
I watch her giggling and digging in the wet sand with her daddy, and again think back to our annual vacations here in Sea Isle. I remember having dinner as a family: me, Erica, Chrissy, and Connie, my parents and dad's parents, all filling the dining room and kitchen island in my godparent's beachhouse after our outdoor showers...you know you can't bring sand into the house...and fighting off those nasty green heads with soapy hands. We couldn't wait to gulp down the food and head out to the boardwalk. It was so routine, but we never caught on to it.
The Sea Isle boardwalk might have been Disneyland to this wild-eyed child. We hurried through dinner with the promise of the amusement park, mini golf, and skee ball...don't forget the ice cream. Every night my dad marched us hand in hand the 2 blocks to the boards, and we would play the night away. He played the dart and toss games and won us the life-sized stuffed animals, and bought us cotton candy against our mother's pleas. We rode the ferris wheel and tea cups and thrashed through funland. Other nights we parked in the arcade for a marathon skee ball adventure, saving our tickets each day to turn in for awesome junk at the end of our vacation. My dad lined us up and encouraged us to keep trying...and cheered when we hit anything above the gutter. We thought we had a million tickets at the end of each season...we couldn't wait to cash them in and took dibs on what we would trade for this year. And still other nights capped off time on the greens, or astro turf more applicably. Sister against sister and daughter against father we meandered through the course with the concentration of the US Open. We always held our breath at the last hole to see which one of us scored the whole in one that night.
Our days at the beach seem to be most memorable and accessible to me. I never realized how in tune I was to the beach and ocean and how strong those memories really are. I know that I need to find a way to bring them back to my life, and into Anya's. I have too many memories still scrolling across my mind. I can't even pick another to step into for a time. So I stepped out of the breaking waves back to Anya and daddy and into their little world of clams and receeding water.
We covered Anya up a bit and Rich took her for a walk on his shoulders from one guard tower to the next. I watched them disappear from sight and faded into anther moment in time...to the early morning walks on the beach with my grandmother and father. Every morning after our bike ride or roller skate or walk from one end of the boardwalk to the other, my grandmother and father would pack us kids up and stroll down to the beach for some quieter play in the sand. This was not swimming time, this was adventure time. My dad took us older girls, while the younder ones built castles with yiayia, to the jetties and showed us the tide pools and all the sea creatures that lived in this bizzare habitat. We collected sea shells and star fish and sponges and spent hours of adventures playing around the jetties. We would trek home afterwards tired and full of dreams and napped until lunch and round two. Rich brough Anya up to the blanket sound asleep slumped over his shoulders, exhausted from her first day at the beach.
After a nap under the umbrella we cleaned up and set off for the house for showers, dinner and the car ride home. Maybe we were all tired. Maybe the sun was too much. Maybe we thought we had too much fun and a balance needed to be maintained. Maybe the devil came for his part of the deal. But no more than five minutes into the ride home all hell broke loose. I'm not doing it. I'm just not going to be accused of the rage that I didn't ellicit. I'm not going to accept blame for someone else's tabtrum. I'm tired of being blamed and accused and yelled at and defeated and beaten to a pulp. I'm emotionally spent. I need him to take responsibility for his emotions and behavior and words and to be a man not a man-child. I need to him to show respect and thoughfulness. I need for him to think on his own, jesus fucking christ, just once....please. The rage and victim mentality cannot continue. He's becoming his father I think, and it scares me. I'm running out of excuses and strength. I don't even know what the right course is. I have nightmares now about the last brick falling, and it hurts too much. But I don't know if there is enough mortor for repairs. How do you turn something so beautiful into something too horrid to comprehend?
The salt air tickled my nose as the long-familiar scenery sped by on the darkening road. It's been so long: too long, a magical place for me, a home. A spontaneous deal with the devil allowed me a visit to la Mer. O I didn't care. It felt wonderful and exciting and right.
We pulled up to our 24 home at well past bedtime. Anya sensed the change in atmophere and awoke with fascination at this strange place. She wandered and touched and smelled and breathed deeply. Freyja and Bailey wagged and bowed, and learned the place while good friends settled into beers and stories. The trax, second floor deck beconed for company with a rocker and plenty of seating. The house was sparse, but contained all that was needed for a life outside of reality with no maintenance required. I shut the bedroom door behind me and cradled Anya in the full sized bed, hoping she would relax back into slumber. Alas...you know how the story goes...she tossed and turned and grabbed at my locks and kicked my ribs and at 30.75 inches long nearly hogged the expanse of mattress. I put her in the pack n play only to have her wake the other house guests...grunt...long night ahead.
At odd intervals throughout the night sleep was granted, then denied, then granted again. The antique window unit struggled to maintain what should have been a comfortable temperature...I should have put the ceiling fan on. But ahh you could still smell peace in this place. With so little sleep, yet enough, Anya woke at 7:30am with a smile and curiosity; I was only too eager to share with her my secret love.
Pleasantries and coffee filled the early morning as we sat on the balcony watching the sun burn off the dewy air. We have no where to be and no where to go just breath. Anya fascinated by the grainy stuff sticking to her feet and hands, didn't know if she should cry or lick or rub into her hair the small granuals..."that's sand honey, o no don't eat it, do this to shake it off." She waved to the sea gulls that past by and snuggled with the doggies keeping her special company in this strange land. At about that time we ventured off to take Freyja and Bailey on an adventure to Poseindon's realm.
Longport beach: an amusement park for the furry variety. Freyja has never been to the beach, never seen an ocean, and never ran free without blockade fencing; there are far a few locations where Charlie Brown doesn't resonate, "No Dogs Allowed." We all walked onto the small and rugged beach...not quiet what I had envisioned, but should have expected. Rocks and seaweed and dark, muddy sand marked the short beach along the road between here and there. A few other canine vacationers were already on the scene racing in the sand and waves like 5 year olds in Chuckie Cheese. Leashed and testing we laid out a towel and Anya's bucket in a random clear spot wondering if Bailey would show Freyja the joys of a beach dog life.
Within a few breaths Freyja was chomping to get at the foaming white-caps taunting her and chase the wet, smelly playmates on the softness beneath her paws. Rich got brave and disconnected her leash, and we stood there holding in the salty air until we were confident Freyja had found utter pleasure. She sprinted and chased and ran laps and bound into the rough sea. She played tag and catch and bounced and laughed as only a dog could. She was her old self, chasing Bailey around the magical island. Anya was tickled to see so many doggies in one place. Some greeted her with licks and nudges, but mostly they ignored her for the overwhelming fancy of the sea. After an hour of non stop movement univited guests swarmed the beach at Longport, inflicting misery on all variety of life. They were here and there and merciless. Green Heads, the dreaded mascot of the Jersey Shore...and hungry. I kept Anya in movement and bore their mealtime pain. In the water, outside the water...swatting and ouching. Soon the others were doing the same dance as I and the beach quickly cleared. Freyja and Bailey laid down in the back exhausted and gratful for the beach dog adventure.
Time for pizza lunch and naps. It seemed like we had already enjoyed a full day that was barely half begun.
Perfect Day part two was for the 2 leggers. Towels and blakets and chairs and water bottles and snacks and O my packed into bags and the car. The sun had gotten hot and the sky clear in this after noon hour. I hadn't been to a Sea Isle beach since my teens: that was too long ago now. I vaguely remembered the difference from Wildwood Crest and the beach home of my adult years...as foreign as Sea Isle seemed, the more like home it felt. I carried Anya through the hotest white sand at the entry point while the boys carried everything to our landing space. Anya was overstimulated by all the people and colorful blankes and umbrellas and playing, screaming children of all ages. She looked outward at the expanse of the sea and smiled...my child the pisces, just like her mother.
We found a spot before the waterline, but beyond the hot dry sand....perfect. We set up camp quickly and darted across the broken shells and seaweed to the water - a chill, then refreshing. Anya hesitated as the first wave ended its traverse inches beyond her ankles. She splashed a bit as the second one surprised her little aqua shoes. She walked forward a few steps to touch the next wave that didn't quite make it far enough...then she was hooked. We held her one on each side tightly as she tried to venture a little deeper each wave. Soon she was waist deep and giggling in delight. No sooner the water fell back into the sea and she dizzily teettered backwards, confused. After we were all cool we introduced her to sand.
I grab the bucket and guide Anya towards the little hill just in front of our blanket. Some kids earlier in the day had dug a trench and remnants of castle dreams cluttered the area. I plunked down in the sand, which makes me cringe for a moment, then I plop Anya down next to me. Instantly she lifts her sandy hands flat, towards me not sure whether to cry or be mad. I show her my hands and how I slapped them together to get the sand off, then I toss a pile of sand onto her leg and over my ankle. She smiles, but still holds those hands stiffly outward. I hand her the shovel. She forgets her hands and begins digging. She wrecks each bucket tower I build and is totally absorbed in this digging thing. Feeling the hot sun bake on my back Anya and I go back to the ocean edge for some cooling off.
Slashing away this time I sit her down in the shallows and show her the mini clams and how they dig as the water pulls back. She is fascinated by these tiny, colorful diggers. We sat there ebbing and flowing with the waves. She didn't mind dirty hands in this sand and picked it up and let it flow through her fingers. A few times some clams found their way ito her mouth. Poor things with me shoving my fingers into her clamped jaws to rescue the mini mollusks. This spot in between the wet and dry worlds was Anya's favorite. Can't say I disagreed either. Even daddy came down to join us too.
After some time I needed a cool down and left daddy and Anya to play in the waves. I slowly stepped through the water, stopping every few feet; it had been years since I bathed in the sea. I wasn't close to either lifeguard stand, and wasn't so sure of my footing and strength in Sponge Bob's realm, and frankly didn't feel like joining Bikini Bottom for eternity. I looked beyond to the cluster of vacationers neck deep, rolling in pre-wave relaxation. Instantly Sea Isle was mine again. I held my dad's hand, shaking with excitment and fear as he showed me the ocean beyond foamy, forceful of waves. He showed no fear of the ocean even though he didn't know how to swim...he could float and believed that's all he needed to know. He mocked me until I trudged out past the shell covered bottom to the satin under my feet and the calm beyond. He floated completely relaxed and I paniced as the current pulled us away from the lifeguard tower. But we were safe. We always stole those peaceful moments in the sea. The world didn't exist out here. Free from everything solid and firm and bound and staid. We bobbed with the sea, saw dolphins, and sometimes a fish that the sea gulls would attempt to have for lunch. The boats were more than specks on the horizon and the sounds of people vanished in roar of the sea.
I thought about finding the strength to bring Anya out here when she's old enough. I want Anya to understand the sea and its peace and beauty. Then I wonder if there will be a sea that's safe to swim in by the time she's old enough; I'm clouded by oil spills and trash dumping and melting ice caps. I say a little prayer to the gods of the deep to fight off the human disease. How could humans destroy something so pure? We are the cancer of the earth. I turn around and catch Anya, playing at the water line with her daddy, and the voices of the vacationers are audible again, snapping me out of my nightmare.
I watch her giggling and digging in the wet sand with her daddy, and again think back to our annual vacations here in Sea Isle. I remember having dinner as a family: me, Erica, Chrissy, and Connie, my parents and dad's parents, all filling the dining room and kitchen island in my godparent's beachhouse after our outdoor showers...you know you can't bring sand into the house...and fighting off those nasty green heads with soapy hands. We couldn't wait to gulp down the food and head out to the boardwalk. It was so routine, but we never caught on to it.
The Sea Isle boardwalk might have been Disneyland to this wild-eyed child. We hurried through dinner with the promise of the amusement park, mini golf, and skee ball...don't forget the ice cream. Every night my dad marched us hand in hand the 2 blocks to the boards, and we would play the night away. He played the dart and toss games and won us the life-sized stuffed animals, and bought us cotton candy against our mother's pleas. We rode the ferris wheel and tea cups and thrashed through funland. Other nights we parked in the arcade for a marathon skee ball adventure, saving our tickets each day to turn in for awesome junk at the end of our vacation. My dad lined us up and encouraged us to keep trying...and cheered when we hit anything above the gutter. We thought we had a million tickets at the end of each season...we couldn't wait to cash them in and took dibs on what we would trade for this year. And still other nights capped off time on the greens, or astro turf more applicably. Sister against sister and daughter against father we meandered through the course with the concentration of the US Open. We always held our breath at the last hole to see which one of us scored the whole in one that night.
Our days at the beach seem to be most memorable and accessible to me. I never realized how in tune I was to the beach and ocean and how strong those memories really are. I know that I need to find a way to bring them back to my life, and into Anya's. I have too many memories still scrolling across my mind. I can't even pick another to step into for a time. So I stepped out of the breaking waves back to Anya and daddy and into their little world of clams and receeding water.
We covered Anya up a bit and Rich took her for a walk on his shoulders from one guard tower to the next. I watched them disappear from sight and faded into anther moment in time...to the early morning walks on the beach with my grandmother and father. Every morning after our bike ride or roller skate or walk from one end of the boardwalk to the other, my grandmother and father would pack us kids up and stroll down to the beach for some quieter play in the sand. This was not swimming time, this was adventure time. My dad took us older girls, while the younder ones built castles with yiayia, to the jetties and showed us the tide pools and all the sea creatures that lived in this bizzare habitat. We collected sea shells and star fish and sponges and spent hours of adventures playing around the jetties. We would trek home afterwards tired and full of dreams and napped until lunch and round two. Rich brough Anya up to the blanket sound asleep slumped over his shoulders, exhausted from her first day at the beach.
After a nap under the umbrella we cleaned up and set off for the house for showers, dinner and the car ride home. Maybe we were all tired. Maybe the sun was too much. Maybe we thought we had too much fun and a balance needed to be maintained. Maybe the devil came for his part of the deal. But no more than five minutes into the ride home all hell broke loose. I'm not doing it. I'm just not going to be accused of the rage that I didn't ellicit. I'm not going to accept blame for someone else's tabtrum. I'm tired of being blamed and accused and yelled at and defeated and beaten to a pulp. I'm emotionally spent. I need him to take responsibility for his emotions and behavior and words and to be a man not a man-child. I need to him to show respect and thoughfulness. I need for him to think on his own, jesus fucking christ, just once....please. The rage and victim mentality cannot continue. He's becoming his father I think, and it scares me. I'm running out of excuses and strength. I don't even know what the right course is. I have nightmares now about the last brick falling, and it hurts too much. But I don't know if there is enough mortor for repairs. How do you turn something so beautiful into something too horrid to comprehend?
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