The atmosphere here feels, and pulls at me, much stronger than it has before.I’ve been saying it for years, that I knew I was going to move back here…you know, “someday”—“someday” (what is it about that word that we love so much?) but I keep forgetting to document how physically painful it is…to be in the mountains, to feel the rain on my face. To see the sincerity in the faces. Hear friendly voices.

I’ve occasionally likened living in the Bay Area to being in a really big, loud, brass train station. People from all over the world, coming and going, a hustlin’ and a bustling from train to door, baggage in some hands, waving a handkerchief tearfully in others’ hands. Some just sitting and staring around. Some just arrived and shell shocked, hear our language for the first time. The lovely strength in that is the sense of possibility and adventure. The darker, less obvious side is the impermanence, the lack of deeper connection. It’s like two elevators trying to be friends-always nearby, but always passing by. Even when you are going the same direction, its only for a few minutes, at most.

Something used to happen in Portland that doesn’t really happen anymore. It started not long after I moved away, and was persistent for several years. It was two things, actually. One, was the ghosts. Everywhere I went, I could see previous heartbreaks and triumphs on street corners, grocery stores, bars, old apartments. I saw the past-me in all her tumultuous emotions, being helplessly mourned by the present-me. It was terrible. It hurt, and I didn’t know how to embrace Portland in the present. The second was all the new buildings, facelifts, and subtle demographics shifting around like tectonic plates. I do not kid when I say that Portland of then is sort of gone. A lot can happen in 13 years, obviously I have changed too.

But the thing about where I am now, in the Bay Area, is that it doesn’t change. Not really, anyway. If you were to stop and ask a downtowner, or a college professor, or a city employee, they would shrug and say, sure, a few changes, nothing too dramatic.

And since I’ve been working through Figuring Out My Life Path, it suited me to have that.

There is a shift coming in my life, and I get the feeling that three things will be descending at once. At the very least, two.

My research about adoption is leading me quickly into some scary waters that I thought I knew might be coming. I will admit at this point I am not adjusting well. I am still pursuing my questions for answers, but more questions seem to be popping up faster than I can answer them. Doing this alone, continues to be a terrifying point. I won’t lie. I might be too chicken.

Looking further into buying a home is also scary. I have no savings. I have no other collateral. I have no family/husband/rich aunt to assist me with this. And the Bay area is one of the most expensive places in the COUNTRY to try and buy real estate in.

What if I become a terminal renter? I do NOT WANT.

And lastly, but certainly not least, we have the business. Who knows how and where that will come together. Good lord, or even if it comes together. Trying to start it in the Bay area seems more feasible, but I really want to live NORTH. In Portland. GRRRRRRR!!!ARRGHH!

And I worry about my relationship with Best Friend. We’ve lived with distance for so long. We’ve built many of our techniques and communication around it. Will it be harder, if I’m closer? What about if I have kids, and our parenting styles clash? I know its crazy to even think it out loud, but what if we destroy our friendship due to overexposure? She and I haven’t had the pleasures, nor the struggles, of a close proximity friendship with each other, since our more toxic days. I mostly believe we would work through it, but sometimes I have doubt. Of course, I am doubting nearly everything these days, so that may not count for much.

I need to go to bed.

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So, on those nights, I try a series of different tricks to help ease the jitter-bugs, soothe the savage beast within. Here’s my list of favorites.

Peter Murphy-If you haven’t heard me wax exuberantly here about Peter Murphy, then you don’t know me as well as you think. I adore his music, and listening to him can distract me long enough to realize my problems are just as meaningful as anyone else’s. And that he is human, really, just like me. and that, is a balm all by itself.

Hafiz-As shown in my post recently, poetry is excellent for the soul. I recommend it specifically right after dinner, and just before a long walk. Daniel Ladinsky’s translation has brought Hafiz back with faddish intensity, but it honestly is some great stuff. My other personal favorite is called Wow.

Hot baths-Now THIS is the nucleus, the center, the core of my relaxation techniques. I’m not always in the mood for one (hot summer nights on the 3rd floor is no time for a bath!) but 95% of the time, I am. No matter where I’ve lived, who I’ve lived with, how weak my body has been, or especially, how much money I’ve had, this luxurious me-time has a 100% sure proof guarantee.Sure, I would prefer a hot springs. Hell yes, I would love a massage. Yes, I want to get dressed up and go out with friends. But all of those things take $$, and if I don’t have it, a hot bath can still give me a sense of dignity, grace, fluidity, and open possibilities. Without Fail.

The Red Violin-We all have favorite movies. I’m famous for clocking tons of screen time when I need to battle some demons, deal with insomnia, or work through some issue. My favorites are TV shows on DVD. I can stop at any episode, and only eat up 40 minutes at a time, approximately. But this movie, is well worth the extra time. It lifts and bends the story like a bumping country road. there’s no huge crescendo at the end, no heroine to be saved.It’s the story of an origin and life of an object, a rare and caringly crafted red violin, that lived, truly lived, for more than 400 years. And the lives it touched along the way.

Counting change- This is a more obscure comfort, not well known among my friends.I don’t use it to relax as much as briefly cool my anger so I can focus it through to the resolution. It sharpens my mind, brings clarity. I tend to clean out my change purse every couple of nights, and throw the nickels, dimes and pennies in jar near the computer. My friend CTP graciously gave me a ton of those flat paper rolls for holding the change a while back, so besides counting it out, I package it as well. I’ve heard recently that the banks won’t take them like that anymore, but I don’t care. It’s currency, and plenty of places are happy to take a full roll, as long as it’s neatly put together.

These are all just means to an end. Sometimes, whatever I’m dealing with is bigger than all of these methods. Job stress, relationship stress, death, grief, friendship strain, worry, health, a hundred myriad things that just won’t take a backseat and let me unwind. But trying even one of these methods usually works, on some level.

What do you do?

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It was then, and remains now, the oldest, most worn out, rattiest, cover duct-taped, edges gone book I own. But at least its signed by the author.

What was it about his stories that shaped me over the years? The redhead worship? The strong female lead throughout all of his books? The rich philosophy, the pedantic ramblings, the mossy, kelp-like undergrowth, rich with brainy minerals?

Throughout some dark times Mr. Robbins kept me sane. He kept me insane as well. Laughing at the tragedy, crying at the ecstasy. He kissed me, and he slapped me. Each time a book was released, I would sigh with relief, that there was a chance, a fat/juicy/hotdog w/ketchup&mustard/hold/onions &pickles of a chance, that I was going to find kinship and symmetry in this crazy mixed up world, and it would allow me to be here, on this earth just to try, for a little bit longer.To keep existing.

Sure, not all his works made me bow down at the altar of Literature. And no, I’m not the sort of fan who’s tried to learn everything about the Author. Yes, I went to a reading/new book release once. Yes, I looked briefly into his personal life.(he has kids,has been married, etc.) But the most interesting probing I’ve done was look into the authors/stories that inspire HIM. Whoa, did that give me a view into the Brain Most Revered.

and this little, carved out part of the universe, that pays homage to my own thoughts, that gives me voice and soaring freedom of expression. This Little Pail, is named in tribute of him. It’s been 15 years, and when I crack open those books now, I see myself. I see the shaped parts of my caverns and valleys around a few tenets, inside those wacky books of his, that I hold quite dear. Pacifism. Laughter and Pleasure. Dance. Magic. Mayonnaise. Stilts. Sex.Privacy.Aging. Children. The Pacific Northwest. and last but certainly not least, my origins, as a redhead.

My proudest moment in regards to the Man himself?

When I did go to his book release, it was for Villa Incognito. The book explores the question of the Mysterious, and the many answers we have not, cannot, or won’t yet, explore.

I raised my voice with difficulty. “Is there a secret of yours, of the mysterious, that you are not very proud of, and would you share it,with us?”

My reluctant mentor, stared at me in respect, the room went quieter still, and he said nothing.

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your beauty still causes me madness
keeps the neighbours complaining
when I start shouting in the middle of the night
because I cant bear all this joy

I will be giving birth to suns
I will be holding forests upside down
gently shaking soft animals from trees and burrows
into my lap

what you conceive as imagination
does not exist for me

whatever you can do in a dream
or on your minds-canvas

my hands can pull-alive-from my coat pocket

but lets not talk about my divine world

for what I most want to know tonight is

all about
You.

-Hafiz

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am still breathless of Hafiz, even after many trips around the sun.Powerful words are like keys in doors; the right combination can open to anywhere.

Promise

(Thanks to Xero Sama for use of fractal)

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I haven’t been back, really back in the saddle of writing since early December. I probably shouldn’t tell you that, as you may not have noticed the HUUUGGEE gap (gulp) but since I missed my own damn anniversary, I thought I should get down on bended knees and freeakin APOLOGIZE.

BABY, I’m sorry! I know I missed our one year anniversary, but you mean EVERYTHANG to me, baby, please open the door! I’m SORRRYY~!! How many times I gotta say it?

*pause*

*sound of door unlatching*

okay! So now that the groveling is over. What can I say? December was a blur of a Cute Boy, Old Friend who Came back Into Promises’ world. Then there was Other Cute Boy I met at Christmas Time, even though I had a Cold. Then came a quiet and solemn New Years Eve, and Day. Then came all kinds of ping-ponging with Cute Boy #1, which led to yanking around of Cute Boy #2 (sigh, poor thing) and now Cute Boy #1 is gone, and Cute Boy #2 remains. Oh, and I had bronchitis for 2 weeks.

So you see, there was really nothing going on.

But I’m happy to say that BEFORE all that, there was a boy named Jocko, who we all NOW know…dum dum duuummmmm! Is actually a fraud and a con man, yes! See my other post, here.

I have been at my new job (technically a transfer) for the last 3 months, and even though I work harder, for less pay, and took a demotion, I am so stupidly happy to be rid of the mental anguish and constant humiliation, its all I can do every day to not kiss my boss, and dance a jaunty irish reel, right in the middle of her dangerously overloaded round table. Still, it’s amazing the feeling of being out from under someone’s deadly triangle shaped fingernail.

I’m back to researching adoption, and insofar as Love goes,decided to Let Go of the Idea of A Man for Promise. For now. It’s too hard. Period.

The cat is good, the house is good. Family has endured some rough trials, see here.but I’m working on the acceptance there. My sister is leaving for France very soon, and I’m SOOPER excited for her. Never had a vacation. I know, I know, what’s THAT about! Go Sisterness to the mountains, to the cheese, to the seductive language, and the warm hearts~! Watch out for dog poo!

I’m a bit tight on money these days, so spending time reading indoors until Spring peeps out of its bear cave. Headed to Portland in late March, very excited to see Best Friend and Baby. Perhaps visit a family who’s adopted that I’ve already interviewed.

Thanks for bearing with me! and *raises glass*, here’s to the first year of MLP, and hopefully, many more!

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2 dates later, I was utterly charmed and faith-restored back in Men In General, but specifically, “Jocko Abramovitch”. He was easy to talk to, respectful, funny, dorky, and had a rich past. You know, he was like me. He suddenly moved to LA for a job, and I was disappointed and sad, but we had agreed to keep dating. “This is far from over, you and me, just a small challenge.”, he said. Of course, I got two distant emails, weeks apart, very non-commital, and after some embarrassing crush-like obsession for a few weeks, I let it go.Insofar as, I let go of the idea.And I let go of contacting him. The problem was, J.A had restored my faith very fragile it was, back in Men. and his total lack of…well, everything, sort of sent me into a romantic depression for several weeks. It colored my perspective; professionally, spiritually, emotionally, friendship, all over the place.

Now, I’m no 20-something upstart who doesn’t know her way around a cornfield. I’ve been in the battlefield of dating for going on 15 years now. Go ahead, tell me it’s not a battlefield. I have to tell you, it honestly is.

I’ve seen my share of LTR, NRE, crushes, obsessions, public maneuvers, how to’s, do not’s, follow-your-heart messages, and the friends who will throw themselves in front of a truck to stop me from calling a boy. I’ve seen marriages, divorces, polyamorous triads and then some, domestic partnerships, children, adopted and otherwise. Dating starts an interview process that essentially never ends. It gives our lives spice and variety.

So when I say I got a bit down about it, I mean I am still trying to recover. Is this Jocko’s fault? Yes and No. He’s really the end of a long line of bad choice boyfriends and dates that’s been going on since I dated a fantastic, awesome, one-in-a-million Arabian who is now happily engaged. (not to me I’m working on the me-part of this equation of How Did I Get Here.

So IMAGINE MY SURPRISE when I find out said “Jocko” has been incarcerated for Fraud? Identity Theft? as of January 7, 2010, which I found out about right here.(Special Thanks to Merry Gentlemen for the information!)and here.You can basically track what happened the moment “Jocko” went to LA, and started charming many, many other girls, stealing, lying, bouncing around and generally putting his considerably saavy brain to use, using other people.

I laughed out loud for so long when I found out. Partly due to the irony. Partly due to relief that nothing of mine was taken. Partly due to the happiness that he’s been caught. Partly because i intend to get in touch with SFPD about the brand new 2010 mustang he was driving and the pretty fancy condo I was in for our second date, suspiciously devoid of any personal effects, but loaded with furniture and nice decor. (I had teased him at the time.)

And for all those who may have been affected by the sham, do not feel badly. Many of us bright women were taken in. Know his name, now forget his face.

As if dating weren’t hard enough…:D

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There’s not enough time to fix it–to mend over the broken, ripped stitches.Or to make new, luminescent ones.

There’s not enough words–I have to shout just so you will hear me, and even then, I’m abbreviating it so you will get the gist.

There’s not enough ways to talk–talking brings on coughing, which brings on the racking, ripping, burning horror in your lungs bursting up, and the image of you bent over, throwing all your weight into a handkerchief, like your lungs were a companion-docile animal who turns and bites you without reason.Then keeps on biting you.

There’s not enough privacy–when you can move at all, it’s from bed to the bathroom, to the living room chair, in front of a 6 ft screen, surrounded by hutches filled with glassware for guests that never come, plastic moveable tables holding daily pills, various oxygen machines, cough drops, and the remote for the TV.

There’s not enough touching–I can’t get to you to hold your hand. I can’t sit near you to wrap my arm around your shoulder. To do so causes uproars and exclamations, moving of furniture, clucking, fussing, what a production, a chorus of  “Are you sure?” ’s. Like touching him could blow him into the breeze like a wil-o-wisp. The danger of intimacy.

There’s not enough time, you tell me. To sort through the 10,000’s of video footage shot over the years, to mark,label, and date the vacations. I need to do that, you say. If I can get out from in front of the darn TV. That’s you, to a T. You say darn, instead of damn. To go through old photographs, send them to the right family member who featured in them. To sort through the cumulation of a life, and preserve it in such a way, that it might be seen through, beyond the veil and illusion that this person marked time, was in history, that this person lived and breathed, loved and lost, witnessed, and was seen by others who love him.

There’s not enough movement-getting you to the kitchen table was a major breakthrough in the house. How on earth can it feel, to have your breath, your chi, the very essence of human life, slowly fight you, getting stronger over you day after day? I can’t even sit on the porch with you and watch the stars.

And what would I say, if I didn’t have to scream it, if I could touch your hand, if your lungs weren’t the enemy, if we had privacy from the well-meaning worrying fuss? How can I tell a man, who’s never raised his voice to me once, how sorry I am, that we are just plain out of time? That the vast canyon of his Beliefs and my Beliefs, that How he was Pushed Away while I was Young, and How I was Raised, all these factors now stare me in the face–as I look helplessly, silently, and lovingly at the man who I called Daddy.

——————————————————————————————–

I worshipped my dad from my earliest memories. I thought he was the sweetest, kindest man I’d ever met. I can still say that, actually. It’s amazing, but true. I was caught on Christmas Eve, gorging on weakly-concealed chocolates stolen from kichen cupboards. I’m talking A LOT of chocolate. His idea of punishment? “Go sit on your bed for an hour.” Seriously?! Where are my books are? And my soft blanket? and the CAT? THAT’S PUNISHMENT?? I was ecstatic. Best hour of my entire.childhood.life.

Mom and I moved out of state shortly after their divorce, and I was devastated. I missed him terribly. He became the beacon in my heart for all good things, a person and a refuge for all my conflicted, angry, impotent feelings that children have when they want control over the crazy events going on around them. I was fighting with the New Stepdad all the time, especially after my sister left home.

I used to go to school, pissed off and fuming, and walk to the payphone, and dial Daddy’s number. I know it by heart, I’ve known it every single day of my life. It’s 805-835-8508. I liked dialing the numbers. I liked knowing that if I needed to, I could reach him. Some days I needed to dial more than once. Or twice. However long it took me to calm down. I never did call him. First of all, I didn’t have change. Secondly, explaining to my mom that I’d called my dad would be a betrayal, and I couldn’t afford to do that in an already divided home. Third, I didn’t trust I could tell my dad without him doing something about it,and he definitely would have done something about it, which would cause more troubles..see Item 2. Fourthly, and this was only admitted on rare occasions to myself, he was too busy, and didn’t want to hear from me.

Eventually, around freshman year of high school, I stopped calling, even on those ghost calls from payphones. I went through some intense experiences in high school (don’t we all), and finally decided that getting impersonal checks on my birthday and christmas was making me acutely uncomfortable. I wrote a long letter when I was 17, explaining that I wanted him in my life, but not in a halfway, distant manner. Either get in or get out. I asked him if he knew I liked antiques? Long dresses? that my favorite color is red?

He responded two months later, and said Yes, he did want to be in my life. Shortly after, he sent me an antique candy dish. I’ve prized this possession above all others in my house for years. It sits in my front living room. Even after its perilous journey, stolen from me by a vindictive former friend, recovered and circulated back through a mutual friend who didn’t know it’s origins..it remains a symbol of beginnings..of love.. and reaching across the distance.

——————————————————————————————–

A few short years later, I found out that Daddy is not my Daddy. He’s not my biological father, and illegedly, he didn’t know this either. I felt lost, and terrified. How did this happen? How can you tell a man, the child you’ve helped raise, sent money to, loved, lost,grieved, and fought back to gain, isn’t actually Yours?

That’s a different story. What happened is that I told him. Gently. He laughed at me “Honey, is this what you’ve been so stressed about when we talk? I had my suspicions you weren’t mine when you were little. But I decided you needed a father, and I could be that for you. You are my little girl, and you always will be. Now, can I please come and visit and we can have a nice time?” I could hear the smile in his voice. The acceptance. The love, and protection. I said, Yes, I will see you tomorrow.

We’ve had the most honest, quiet, sweet relationship since. His family always embraces me, even when our views on lifestyles and choices runs black to white. They include me on email updates, and invite me down constantly. When I called on Father’s Day last year, he teased me about whether or not he was ever going to walk me down the aisle. It was such a fatherly thing to say, I teared up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Loving him has never meant sacrificing my own happiness, or having to follow his expectations. Being his daughter has brought me support, love, honesty, grace, and patience. When he has responded in anger, he was pushed into a corner and had to do so to maintain his integrity. His reasoning is solid. We do not see eye to eye on everything, and I haven’t had even remotely the time I wanted to bond further, but I cherish, CHERISH the memories I do have, that wash over me again and again, as he fades from his human experience.

I love you, Daddy. May the silver shine in you, be reflected in me, forever.

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Quan Yin statue

I step up to the altar-greet her dragon; gaze at her face. I light one candle, then another, and mentally rest for a moment, though I am standing. It feels like a perch, spiritually. A place at the end of a quick-light footed staircase, leading to a panorama. I perch there, and muse on my path, and the various threads that intersect with it.

I touch the water around the base of her statue, lift my finger to touch her head lightly, then touch the pearl she holds hand outstretched. To keep her fluid. To keep us flexible.

I feel a kinship with Quan Yin. She embraces and protects me. I trust in her authority. I feel her presence in my actions. I BELIEVE, and am surprised to find that what I just wrote is true. I’m not a lost-soul. I’m not coming off the tail end of some trauma, some earth shattering, soul crippling heartbreak. I simply live as sweetly as I can, and feel the strength of her compassion behind me, and under me, gently encouraging me along, and lifting me up above stark atheism.

I stand there, in the dark, before the sun comes out to blind us all, with two candles, and a thoughtful look, and experience unabashedly, simple <Love>.

Photo credits to-

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/0/0f/Liao_Dynasty_-_Guan_Yin_statue.jpg/260px-Liao_Dynasty_-_Guan_Yin_statue.jpg

http://www.lightomega.org/Earth/ANC/images/bsp_two_candles_1088679.jpg

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How are we to explain the power these daughters of ancient Henna have over us bemused sons of Eros?

Red hair is a woman’s game.

The harsh truth is, most red-haired men look like blonds who’ve spoiled from lack of refrigeration. They look like brown-haired men who’ve been composted. Yet that same pigmentation that on a man can resemble leaf mold or junk yard rust, a woman wears like a tiara of rubies.

Not only are female redheads frequently lovely but theirs is a loveliness that suggests both lust and danger, pleasure and violence, and is, therefore, to the male of the species virtually irresistible. Red O red were the tresses of the original femme fatale.
Of course, much of the “fatale” associated with redheads is illusory, a stereotypical projection on the part of sexually neurotic men. Plenty of redheads are as demure as rosebuds and as sweet as strawberry pie. However, the mere fact that they are perceived to be stormy, if not malicious, grants them a certain license and a certain power. It’s as if bitchiness is their birthright. By virtue of their coloration, they possess an innate permit to be terrible and lascivious, which, even if never exercised, sets them apart from the remainder of womankind, who have traditionally been expected to be mild and pure.

Now that women are demolishing those old misogynistic expectations, will redheads lose their special magic, will Pippi Longstocking come to be regarded as just one of the girls? Hardly. To believe that blondes and brunettes are simply redheads in repressive drag is to believe that UFOs are kiddie balloons. All redheads, you see, are mutants.

Whether they spring from genes disarranged by earthly forces or are “planted” here by overlords from outer space is a matter for scholarly debate. It’s enough for us to recognize that redheads are abnormal beings, bioelectrically connected to realms of strange power, rage, risk and ecstasy.

What is your mission among us, you daughters of ancient Henna, you agents of the harvest moon? Are those star maps that your freckles replicate? How do you explain the fact that you live longer than the average human? Where did you get such sensitive skin? And why are your curls the same shade as heartbreak?

Alas, inquiry is futile: Either they don’t know or they won’t say — and who has the nerve to pressure a redhead? We may never learn their origin or meaning, but it probably doesn’t matter. We will go on leaping out of our frying pans into their fire, grateful for the opportunity to be titillated by their vengeful fury, real or imagined, and to occasionally test our erotic mettle in the legendary inferno of their passion.

Redheaded women! Those blood oranges! Those cherry bombs! Those celestial shrews and queens of copper! May they never cease to stain our white-bread lives with super-natural catsup.

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I am having the roughest time lately with UNDERSTANDING my own heart. What she wants. Where she goes. I feel a general fog around my path, that obscures even the simplest decisions. I used to SEE with a blaze of fire and insight. I could dance circles around the indecisive, the wishy-washy, the unambitious. Now I find myself slowing at any old physical or emotional speed bump in the road slowing down to 2 mph, when I could be going 15.

Constantly QUESTIONING.I feel insecure. Fragile.

Something like this happened two years ago, around the same time. I’m wondering all the time, is it a weather thing? Is it a battered heart thing? Have I over-extended my trust? Can Promise kindly step up to the mic? Is Promise here? Has anyone seen her lately?

*pause*

*sounds of people shuffling*

I mean what else can I do but wait? ride it out? Sure I could apply the band aid of retail-therapy to this sucker, but how do I get the neosporin-for-the-soul in there if I wrap it up tight in repressive gauze?

Fragile Future

Bear with me. I’m trying.

Photo credits-

http://technabob.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2008/10/fragile_future_2_lamp_2.jpg

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