Time is moving faster. I can't imagine even 10 years from now how fast time will go. What is WITH THAT? It kind of creeps me out.
I am not what I'd consider a popular person (I use this term oh-so-loosely, since we're not in high school anymore). Yet, somehow every weekend there are far too many things to do and people to see and it's hard to keep up. The summer passed me by completely.
I guess I don't write much about the everyday stuff simply because most of it is rushing around, trying to get places on time, enjoy the fun parts, ignore the bad parts, try not to mess up, and get in bed by 11:30 every night.
Here's what today looked like:
7:00: Alarm goes off. Tap Wm to get up.
7:30: Wm attempts to wake me up. This usually takes a couple attempts. I am never pleasant in the morning. Ever. Even if I try.
7:45: In the shower. Coming to, ever so slightly.
8:00: Making coffee. Blessed, blessed coffee. The smell is perking up my attitude.
8:15: Oh shit, it's 8:15. I need to hurry up. *This is a thought I have EVERY.SINGLE.DAY.
8:30: OK, you have T-minus 20 seconds to get out the door. Do you have keys? Phone? Coffee? everything else goes on hold. *Also an everyday occurrence.
8:30-9:10 listen to either the public radio's music station or my iPod on the commute to work. Lament that I'm not still in college when I drive through my alma mater's campus.
9:10: At work, starting up computer.
12: Eat lunch at my desk. (Today: Tuna salad on crackers with red pepper and avocado, a Zestar apple, a Ghiradelli dark chocolate brownie.) Drink the worst flavor of ANYTHING ever invented: The Tranquilo VitaminWater. It tastes EXACTLY like the stuff dentists rub on your gums before they give you a Novocain shot. Refuse to drink the rest.
7:30: Leave work. This is not common, but not unheard of, either. I usually leave around 5:15. It's a busy week. (The sun is already going down when I leave work. Sigh. Fall is upon us.)
8:00: Pick Mo up at Mom & Dad's.
8:30: Catch up on blogs, post my own. Catch up on phone calls or random things I need to do.
9:00: Watch Top Chef. (Or Project Runway, or the Office and 30 Rock...whatever night it happens to be.)
I usually read before I go to bed.
And now, you are glad I don't write about everyday life, right? ;) That said, I'll try to incorporate more of what's going on daily.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Bringing It
I want to write so well on every aspect of everything I think of to bring to this here blog that everyone who stops by usually comments. As much as I like writing for me, for a record of my own life, for my own therapy, I also love the community that was built here.
I took some time off, I slacked, I deserve losing some audience.
But I know some of you are still out there.
Some of it is keeping my head in the blogging game, and seriously bringing it here. But I need your help—and no, this isn't a casting for compliments or post ideas:
What is it that makes you come back here? What types of posts resonate with you? Are you still there? What types of things do you wish I wrote more about? Less about? What could I do better? What moves you to comment or create discussion (on any blog, not necessarily mine.)?
Don't leave me with crickets!
I took some time off, I slacked, I deserve losing some audience.
But I know some of you are still out there.
Some of it is keeping my head in the blogging game, and seriously bringing it here. But I need your help—and no, this isn't a casting for compliments or post ideas:
What is it that makes you come back here? What types of posts resonate with you? Are you still there? What types of things do you wish I wrote more about? Less about? What could I do better? What moves you to comment or create discussion (on any blog, not necessarily mine.)?
Don't leave me with crickets!
Monday, September 14, 2009
Lungfuls of Air
Every Tuesday night, I get comfortable on my mat, and I breathe. It starts out with with those fits that I must think pass for breathing during the day. I realize, in those few moments, how few deep breaths I take, how rarely I attempt to flood my body with feel-good oxygen, how I don't breathe through stressful moments or to clear my aches, both psychological and physical.
In fact, I usually deprive my body by holding my breath—I take so little stock of this body of mine (except to berate how it's not fitting into my clothes) these days. I don't let my lungs do their job.
Two weeks ago, my parents were holding their breath. Two weeks ago, doctors spied a rogue spot on my dad's lung, through the magick of the x-ray machine. I didn't know. I could feel something was off, but now I know what it was.
It was the feeling of holding your breath. Wanting to break to the swirling water's surface before you drown, and suck in clean air to the soles of your feet. Waiting, swept up in the current. Waiting to surface. To wait. Wait. Wait.
A week is interminable when you think there's a spot.
My dad was called back for a CT scan to get a better look.
When I hear talk of CT scans, of spots, of counts, of surgeries, I hold my breath. My heart starts to pound, and instantly I feel hollowed out, my stomach somewhere south of here. A split second later, I tell myself—and the universe, in case someone is listening, that, whoops, sorry, I refuse to think those thoughts. Better to send out positive cell generation thoughts in the air than to think the worst. It's like my own knocking on wood. I have no idea if it's working, but so far it's working. Know what I mean? Like the Superman balloon from the Kilipino that still resides in my parents' front-hall closet, a moment of levity in a dark time, the meaning of it loud and clear. I'll take the small talismans, the hopes let go into the universe like balloons.
One year ago, I wrote this.
Today, I am writing this:
Whatever rogue spot dared show its face on the x-ray did not appear on the CT scan.
Why didn't you tell me earlier?
We wanted to make sure there was nothing.
You sure now?
Yes.
Positive?
Yes.
No spots. No nothing?
Yes.
Good news?
Yes.
I am holding my breath again.
Exhale.
Exhale.
Yes. Yes may be the most beautiful word in the universe, how have I never appreciated it? I force myself to breathe. It's shuddering and staggered, my hand to my mouth, my eyes filling.
My eyes are spilling over I am gulping and laughing and crying my chest hurts thinking relief is not even the word for this and we are all a little incredulous but certain, because of COURSE he's kicking cancer's ass for the third year running and cautiously happy but also riotously happy and crying even though the bad part is gone that specter is it ever gone? but yes it's gone because it's not an option anymore, and it's all running together it's good news, remember, and we have another year under our belts, all of us, we can breathe a little easier we are all breathing, breathing, breathing, and my mind is racing and I'm giddy and sad that we have to even do this but I am grateful and my god, it's been nearly four years, and when I hug him I think of the scar underneath and all I can say through choked breath is—
"Hey Daddy: A+."
In fact, I usually deprive my body by holding my breath—I take so little stock of this body of mine (except to berate how it's not fitting into my clothes) these days. I don't let my lungs do their job.
Two weeks ago, my parents were holding their breath. Two weeks ago, doctors spied a rogue spot on my dad's lung, through the magick of the x-ray machine. I didn't know. I could feel something was off, but now I know what it was.
It was the feeling of holding your breath. Wanting to break to the swirling water's surface before you drown, and suck in clean air to the soles of your feet. Waiting, swept up in the current. Waiting to surface. To wait. Wait. Wait.
A week is interminable when you think there's a spot.
My dad was called back for a CT scan to get a better look.
When I hear talk of CT scans, of spots, of counts, of surgeries, I hold my breath. My heart starts to pound, and instantly I feel hollowed out, my stomach somewhere south of here. A split second later, I tell myself—and the universe, in case someone is listening, that, whoops, sorry, I refuse to think those thoughts. Better to send out positive cell generation thoughts in the air than to think the worst. It's like my own knocking on wood. I have no idea if it's working, but so far it's working. Know what I mean? Like the Superman balloon from the Kilipino that still resides in my parents' front-hall closet, a moment of levity in a dark time, the meaning of it loud and clear. I'll take the small talismans, the hopes let go into the universe like balloons.
One year ago, I wrote this.
Today, I am writing this:
Whatever rogue spot dared show its face on the x-ray did not appear on the CT scan.
Why didn't you tell me earlier?
We wanted to make sure there was nothing.
You sure now?
Yes.
Positive?
Yes.
No spots. No nothing?
Yes.
Good news?
Yes.
I am holding my breath again.
Exhale.
Exhale.
Yes. Yes may be the most beautiful word in the universe, how have I never appreciated it? I force myself to breathe. It's shuddering and staggered, my hand to my mouth, my eyes filling.
My eyes are spilling over I am gulping and laughing and crying my chest hurts thinking relief is not even the word for this and we are all a little incredulous but certain, because of COURSE he's kicking cancer's ass for the third year running and cautiously happy but also riotously happy and crying even though the bad part is gone that specter is it ever gone? but yes it's gone because it's not an option anymore, and it's all running together it's good news, remember, and we have another year under our belts, all of us, we can breathe a little easier we are all breathing, breathing, breathing, and my mind is racing and I'm giddy and sad that we have to even do this but I am grateful and my god, it's been nearly four years, and when I hug him I think of the scar underneath and all I can say through choked breath is—
"Hey Daddy: A+."
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Mercury in Retrograde
I'll admit it: I kind of have a thing about astrology.
(Also: I tend to watch Armageddon-prediction shows on the History Channel, on the edge of my seat. 2012! The Mayan calendar STOPS. Think about that one.)
So, here's the deal.
Mercury is in retrograde right now.
As it turns out, Mercury does not actually spin backwards (no planet ever does). But we have an illusion here on Earth that it stops, then spins backward. It's just because our traipse around the sun goes at a different rate than that of Mercury. (28 days for Mercury.)
But. Still. Here's what I get out of it.
Things are going to be kinda chaotic for all of September--the retrograde lasts from now (it's already started) until the 27th.
In this time, I'm supposed to enter a phase of pretty intense introspection (has Mercury been in retrograde all of 2009? Srsly.) Despite all this introspection, I'm to avoid big business decisions, which includes everything from signing contracts to making any decisions to starting businesses. I'm also supposed to be extra careful with money.
Retrograde can cause all kinds of chaos everywhere, especially for people who work as writers. Luckily, Sagittarians are able to diminish some of Mercury's power. I'm not exactly sure how that works.
Communication is supposed to also completely haywire. Misunderstandings abound. Items related to communication, like e-mail, computers, etc. are known to break down. People misconstrue what you say, travel can become rife with problems.
The good things, my online astrologers tell me (no, I don't have a direct line to LaToya Jackson, or any personal one, I just ask Google) are that introspection and reflection can often bring a longstanding frustrating stumbling block to light. I could gain new insight on a wide variety of things. And, i'm under no pressure to make a decision until Mercury "goes direct" once again. Heightened inner awareness makes for prime situations for journaling or otherwise reviewing the past.
There have definitely been periods in my life where I've felt the pull of an outside force. I don't believe everything about astrology, but I also think that many of its claims can't be dismissed as pure luck. I've always felt I match pretty closely the profile of a Sagittarius--and William that of a Scorpio. I know that we tend to read things that are labeled "This is You" with our minds primed to agree, I still feel that it's so close.
This is just one of those times in the astrological calendar where the events are really aligning with my thoughts and feelings. Where it really resonates. Really really. Expect updates...I've been (for a long time) holding on to a couple personality tests and astrology reports for future blog posts. I'm also going to try to focus my writing around some of these topics as the retrograde wears on. Perhaps some retrospectives and reflection on the last year will be on point.
What do you think? Do you get into astrology? I'm curious what you all think.
(Also: I tend to watch Armageddon-prediction shows on the History Channel, on the edge of my seat. 2012! The Mayan calendar STOPS. Think about that one.)
So, here's the deal.
Mercury is in retrograde right now.
As it turns out, Mercury does not actually spin backwards (no planet ever does). But we have an illusion here on Earth that it stops, then spins backward. It's just because our traipse around the sun goes at a different rate than that of Mercury. (28 days for Mercury.)
But. Still. Here's what I get out of it.
Things are going to be kinda chaotic for all of September--the retrograde lasts from now (it's already started) until the 27th.
In this time, I'm supposed to enter a phase of pretty intense introspection (has Mercury been in retrograde all of 2009? Srsly.) Despite all this introspection, I'm to avoid big business decisions, which includes everything from signing contracts to making any decisions to starting businesses. I'm also supposed to be extra careful with money.
Retrograde can cause all kinds of chaos everywhere, especially for people who work as writers. Luckily, Sagittarians are able to diminish some of Mercury's power. I'm not exactly sure how that works.
Communication is supposed to also completely haywire. Misunderstandings abound. Items related to communication, like e-mail, computers, etc. are known to break down. People misconstrue what you say, travel can become rife with problems.
The good things, my online astrologers tell me (no, I don't have a direct line to LaToya Jackson, or any personal one, I just ask Google) are that introspection and reflection can often bring a longstanding frustrating stumbling block to light. I could gain new insight on a wide variety of things. And, i'm under no pressure to make a decision until Mercury "goes direct" once again. Heightened inner awareness makes for prime situations for journaling or otherwise reviewing the past.
There have definitely been periods in my life where I've felt the pull of an outside force. I don't believe everything about astrology, but I also think that many of its claims can't be dismissed as pure luck. I've always felt I match pretty closely the profile of a Sagittarius--and William that of a Scorpio. I know that we tend to read things that are labeled "This is You" with our minds primed to agree, I still feel that it's so close.
This is just one of those times in the astrological calendar where the events are really aligning with my thoughts and feelings. Where it really resonates. Really really. Expect updates...I've been (for a long time) holding on to a couple personality tests and astrology reports for future blog posts. I'm also going to try to focus my writing around some of these topics as the retrograde wears on. Perhaps some retrospectives and reflection on the last year will be on point.
What do you think? Do you get into astrology? I'm curious what you all think.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
The Storyteller
"You can search far and wide for the great stories, but in the end, the best ones come to you."
Stories: I am a bundle of raw nerves. Tensed. Ready. I'm waiting.
--The Hakawati, Rabih Alameddine, page 99
Stories: I am a bundle of raw nerves. Tensed. Ready. I'm waiting.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Spinning Tires
Sometimes I feel stuck in neutral gear. I'm trying to get over it.
EDITED TO ADD: The previous statement is still true, but I just got a huge compliment from one of the people whose opinion I care most about--even if it IS biased because we're related.
It's from my uncle, who is a journalism professor, and I gave him some of my stories to read. This is what he wrote back:
"...compliment you on the articles on Adar, your marriage of styles, and the wedding on Maui. Outstanding writing and reporting. Loved every word. I'm so proud of you. Way to go."
So. YAY! That helps.
EDITED TO ADD: The previous statement is still true, but I just got a huge compliment from one of the people whose opinion I care most about--even if it IS biased because we're related.
It's from my uncle, who is a journalism professor, and I gave him some of my stories to read. This is what he wrote back:
"...compliment you on the articles on Adar, your marriage of styles, and the wedding on Maui. Outstanding writing and reporting. Loved every word. I'm so proud of you. Way to go."
So. YAY! That helps.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Plotting and Planning
Despite my rather Type-A Personality, I am dreadfully unorganized. I've just got to accept it.
My memory is not what it used to be—I must make lists, check them off, double check everything before I leave the house (in order of importance: coffee, phone, keys. I'm not kidding).
I don't know if it's just a matter of being an adult and dealing with itinerant distractions; if it's because I have less time because of holding an actual-real-life job; or if I'm truly getting more forgetful as I get older. But in any case, it bugs me. Because I'm a perfectionist in so many other ways.
My mom laughs at me when she asks me to check my calendar—it's a rather large planner, with lots of stuff stuck in the back—old receipts, tickets to concerts, gift certificates, coupons, directions to people's houses...whatever I might need in an emergency at Target, in the car, or if I magically have some free time and want to do some shopping. It's like my first-aid kit. Well, some people might view it more as triage.
And no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to get organized electronically. It's like I need actual hard-copy versions of things where I can scribble out, tear away, and write down. It's harder for me to remember things I type than things I physically write. Sometimes my lists are ridiculously detailed, and sometimes they're so vague I don't remember why I bothered to jot a note.
I would love to be one of those neat, organized, ahead-of-time, controlled people. It happens occasionally and I'm always so grateful I thought ahead. But for now, I'm just that frazzled girl with the huge bag—required to carry my messy, scrappy planner—running out the door at the last second.
(If you have any ideas for me, let me know.)
My memory is not what it used to be—I must make lists, check them off, double check everything before I leave the house (in order of importance: coffee, phone, keys. I'm not kidding).
I don't know if it's just a matter of being an adult and dealing with itinerant distractions; if it's because I have less time because of holding an actual-real-life job; or if I'm truly getting more forgetful as I get older. But in any case, it bugs me. Because I'm a perfectionist in so many other ways.
My mom laughs at me when she asks me to check my calendar—it's a rather large planner, with lots of stuff stuck in the back—old receipts, tickets to concerts, gift certificates, coupons, directions to people's houses...whatever I might need in an emergency at Target, in the car, or if I magically have some free time and want to do some shopping. It's like my first-aid kit. Well, some people might view it more as triage.
And no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to get organized electronically. It's like I need actual hard-copy versions of things where I can scribble out, tear away, and write down. It's harder for me to remember things I type than things I physically write. Sometimes my lists are ridiculously detailed, and sometimes they're so vague I don't remember why I bothered to jot a note.
I would love to be one of those neat, organized, ahead-of-time, controlled people. It happens occasionally and I'm always so grateful I thought ahead. But for now, I'm just that frazzled girl with the huge bag—required to carry my messy, scrappy planner—running out the door at the last second.
(If you have any ideas for me, let me know.)
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