Too little time, but only for a bit longer

I'm feeling so inspired today, so driven, so wanting to do something with my new blog, write, run, do yoga, clean, decorate, shop. But I cannot today. I have to go into work, the spa, for one of three last shifts. It's a terribly inconvenient shift too, 11-7. That takes up almost the entire day. And, so that I could fulfill my silly notion of not leaving them without a month's notice, I had to pick up an evening shift at the restaurant tomorrow so that I could work at the spa today. So silly. I long for April. March has been truly difficult.

However, the cogs in my mind are creaking and oiling themselves with the taste of freedom, days off, and less worry and stress about my income. I think my sudden inspiration is due to the proximity I am to be able to utilize it. It's twenty after ten now and I'm wondering if I should leave early to get a coffee or stay here a bit longer, in my chilly apartment and pick up a little so that when I come home I can focus on writing...?

I hope you all had a lovely weekend. Mine was relatively tame, uneventful and as usual, full of work. I hope to be able to define work as writing, and not waiting tables and answering phones. Oh the many somedays, may they reach me soon.

My Mother's Garden

I bought a basil plant from Target for a dollar. I have always wanted to have a thumb as green as my mother’s. She has, over the years, coordinated her backyard to change colors in perfect synchronization – pinks and yellows and whites of the daisies and tulips and daffodils in spring, changing to bright and vibrant purples and reds of poppies and lilacs, swooping softly to tangerines, and fiery oranges of Chinese lanterns and mums. Her garden has chapters, each day turns to a new page of color. She will claim that she had no input on the coordinating timing of colors – but she has and continues to.

I will probably kill my basil – if it sprouts at all. My mother bought me a beet starter kit last year. And I had the very best intentions for it, until I forgot about it. I left the tray out in the hot sun, parching the seeds and zapping the soil of its nutrients, only to then let it be drowned by a rainstorm, the clumps of dirt and sickly seedlings spilling over the side onto the concrete of my balcony.
Spring is coming upon me earlier this year because I now live in Texas. Hydrangea trees hanging heavy with their think purple bunches, bushes, that I thought were just that, are now sprouting bright white flowers with deep crimson centers. The sky is almost always blue, the grass is the green of the south and not the recovering tan and patchy brown of snow-soaked earth. Lying by the pool or going hiking are real possibilities for my day off tomorrow, in early March. People are not foolish to wear tank tops.
There will continue to be sun and warmth and flowers and green leaves to encourage my writing. My mind will not be stilted or numbed by the cold. Even if my basil plant doesn’t make it – I know I will.

Dreaming of Paris

Ok, I really need to stop reading Ernest Hemingway. All I want to do is wander down cobblestone streets, sip port and too-strong coffee, watch and record the world go by in a notebook. Then later, I can climb a rickety staircase up and around to the top floor and take my notes and my free writing and thoughts and turn them into stories and essays, plunked out on an old typewriter.

So here's to dreaming about it until I can make it a reality.

Au revoir!

Today

Today, like most days now, I got up early, about 7:32. I took the dog for a meandering walk in the misty rain of the morning, solidifying my decision that there were several things that I should be doing during my morning off instead of running away to hike (although, a good and occasional "running away" is something I firmly believe in). I ran errands, cleaned, organized, and settled back at home for a few hours before heading to work. I dedicated those hours to a "mood board", the homework I was assigned for the blog e-course I signed up for. I cut out pictures in magazines of colors and fonts and images and photograph styles that I was drawn to. More importantly though, I found myself cutting out statements, one-liners that caught my attention such as "You Got This," "Down But Not Out," and "Start Your Day Off Right" and my favorite, was "survive a quarter life crisis." This last phrase was the headliner for your typical solve-your-biggest-problem-in-a-thousand-words article in a women's health magazine, not usually where I find my advice on living or inspiration for my future and outlook.

However, it struck a chord. I moved here a little over two months ago, and I'm sure you've noticed in my past posts, how not-so-perfect it has been. I assumed that after graduating college, moving to a new city, buying a dog and putting my best efforts forth at utilizing my degree and capitalizing on my passions I would find happiness and fulfillment. But it hasn't happened yet. And I look around, and notice that the people I work/ed with in restaurants, have friendships with, and even popular television shows such as the characters on Lena Dunham's show Girls, are dealing with the disappointment of all that was promised to us educated and "new" women, isn't coming to fruition as soon or as easily as we thought it would. And it's so much harder when there are those select few that, (again, I will reference Lena Dunham and her wild success with her show), as well as those bloggers that I know I follow and looks towards for inspiration, make it look so easy.

So, what happens now? Now that I have self-diagnosed a quarter-life crises as an explanation of my anxiety, quiet drives home from work fighting the urge to get on the next plane back to the Midwest, and general lack of motivation to do anything - now what?

Well, now I'll write through and about this phase in my life. I think I've stumbled upon my new theme for my new blog that I am e-coursing my way into creating. I know I can't be the only one out there, (I definitely am not according to the current issue of Women's Health) and I hope that I can work my way through this time with insight into what is causing my feelings of being lost, misdirected and unfulfilled. Be it exercise, religion, diet, philosophy or the simple act of writing and expressing my own unique type of creativity, I will figure this out - or try until I reach my mid-life crisis....

A bit from before

We all have our little stories. And most of us consider them worth hearing. We rehearse them – a perfect script when asked what we do, where we come from, are we married, any kids. Mostly, we’re trying to impress others and validate ourselves. But what often happens is we forget the most interesting parts – the dirty parts, the troubled times, the struggles.

It is an interesting thing, migrating from the north to the south in the middle of winter. My body and mind feel deceived – as if I am in a waking dream. The warm sun on my face, the familiar heat causing my freckles to sprout and cheeks to pink feels unnatural. The sound of the breeze and leaves still hung on the trees is a music my ears are not ready for.
In the north, the air itself feels frozen. The snow and cold muffles the sound of traffic and wind and children. It is a weight that cannot be shaken and the sun itself cannot penetrate very far past offering a milky light on the crystalizing snow. People become fossilized in the north, their bodies scrunched up tight, shoulders grazing their earlobes trying to brace themselves against the wind and the piercing cold.
But here, in the south, tables are left out for people to sit at restaurants and cafes year round. It is the middle of January and I have sunburn. Whatever dream I am walking through right now, I hope not to wake. My shoulders are relaxed, I can hear and smell and taste things. My tongue and eye is not numb to the cold. My body will remain loose and agile. I will smile easier.



This was written weeks ago. Before I had a dog, before I had two jobs, before I was lonely. It's nice to go back and read something written when I was happy. It gives me the hope that the sun will shine again, I'll write again, that the bits from before that were beautiful were once ahead of me, and that there might be more, ready to be written about.

Refusing to do "Work"

I sit here, at the spa, as I usually do when my days are numbered and my mind yearns to be elsewhere, I blog, and dream about a life outside of this "serene" music and "relaxed" clients.

I have begun reading Hemingway again. I vowed that I wouldn't, hating his misogyny and self-absorption, but as embarrassing as it is to admit, after watching Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris, I thought I would give A Moveable Feast another go. And it has been lovely, even the first two chapters. One of the most striking ideas that has been burrowing in my mind like a field mouse is that when one is bogged down, or blocked or wondering if anything that you're writing is worth anything at all, simply write one, true sentence. And go from there. So my one, true sentence for today is this:

It is a terrible thing to be lonely.

There is no one to walk the dog when you need a few more minutes of sleep and you've been running a fever. There is always coffee left over in the press and no one to drink it before it gets cold. Going to the movies is something that is no longer done because, while going alone can sometimes be enjoyable - no one to have to share the popcorn with, no awkward moment deciding where to sit, freedom to giggle at parts without worrying if you'll be thought dumb for finding some parts funny - you don't go because, well, why? Who are you going to talk about it with after?

There is no one to tell you that a box of cookies is not a sensible dinner. There is no one to tell you that watching the same movie, every night, is a waste of time. There is no one to take the trash out. There's no one to give you a hug and tell you it's all going to be ok. There's no one.

Moving away, all alone, was something that I never really thought I would do. And if I did, I thought, perhaps, I would magically makes friends easily and seamlessly. I would fit into a new spot of warmth, encouragement,inspiration and success. I never thought that I would struggle. What a silly being I have been. What idealistic notions did I have. I don't want to move back. I don't want to return to the beginning. But I still feel stuck - as if I alone am not enough to push forward. Stupid insecurities, I know, but still feeling them right now, at this moment.

And that is my little truth. My moment of shriveled anxieties and hopeless wandering. Apologies for lack of light and uplifting notions, but I simply don't have it in me today. I refuse to do the work at my job, and at my life. Not today.

V

Early Transitions

I have been in Texas for nearly 2 months, and I am already transitioning from one job to another. I didn't really expect to be making these calls so soon, I suppose I became comfortable at home, in Indiana, always relying on the jobs I'd had for years or knowing about the places with the guarantee they would be good and good for me. I took the second job that was offered to me here, a mere three weeks into my residence. It sounded right, familiar position, respectable hourly, "paid vacations and benefits" (which I've yet to see any sign of) and eagerness to have me. So I took it. I was fearful of poverty and having to ask for help or being forced to get some sort of menial job that would kill my soul faster than my savings account. And eventually, as some things do, what seemed good at first, turned out to be less than good, bad even. I often worked mid-shifts, those detestable 12-8's and 11-7's which had me trying to get up early enough to take advantage of my hours in the morning and staying up too late, unwilling to accept that the day was already over and I should go to bed. And most importantly, I haven't been writing. I have been so worried about money and the time I didn't have, I shut off, shut down, and shut out the one thing that makes me so happy.

And here I sit, in Panera, having gotten up later than I wanted, not getting my new license or plates installed on my car but attempting to enjoy a bit of my morning before going in at 12. I wrote schedules for the transition to my absence until my eyes crossed last night, emailed the managers and owners of my plans and wait, eagerly, for their response. I just want it to be final. I don't mind putting my notice in, I don't mind the time I work while working my way out. I do mind not knowing what they have to say. I want to be able to write my own schedule, I want to write in my time to write. So I wait.

It was just an hour that I had here. Barely enough time to drink a cup of coffee, making it through my blog roll, find inspiration. But one must attend to their responsibilities while they are still theirs to handle.

Feeling Small

I long for my childhood like one longs for a friend who has died. I long for the simplicity of the time and the pure and unaffected way I grew up. In the South during the mid-nineties, in a lower-middle class family, I do not remember television shows, or movies. We read books. We played outside.

We lived in our imaginations.

I long for my childhood because it was warm and whole and we were tightly knit. I never worried about the things I worry about now - money, love, death, jobs, relationships, walking the dog and controlling my weight. I worried about the distance between our house and the woods and how long we could stay under the cover of the trees before being called home. I wished that the spring would quickly turn into summer so I could play softball again. I wanted it to be Christmas so I could strain to hear hoof-beats on the roof as Santa made his way down our chimney.

My childhood was idyllic.

I would hope and like to imagine that everyone's is - that we are all too innocent and ignorant (aren't they the same for children?) to be aware of the nasty emotion that is "worry." I want to return to that place, where the house I grew up in was a white mansion with dozens of rooms and wooden floors that gleamed for miles, shining beneath layers of Murphy's Wood Oil. I want to exist in a place where the only way of tracking time was the position of the sun behind the colossal pecan trees. The plains were vast, the sweet tea was endless and the sound of locusts whirred me to sleep as I imagined myself Princess Rose, nestled at home, safe in her bed.

I felt so small then.

I feel small now, but in a more insignificant way. As children, we feel small as ants feel small - in size but not of importance. Our games and twittering conversation and homework assignments were events and just as important as the conversations and errands of our parents. Now, the smallness that I feel is that of being lost. When I feel small, I am not standing out, or important, and feel as if at any point I could just be swept away - never to be seen again. My smallness is found in my single-status, in my unfulfilling job, in my inability to resist spending money frivolously and eating ice cream and wasting away the hours watching reruns of shows I have already seen. No one cares what I do and I answer to no one but my dog. And she doesn't really care.
Children do not have to concern themselves with bills or the pressure that hovers like a heavy cloud of whether or not they are a success, or will find a husband, or make their parents and friends proud. They do not have deadlines and weigh-ins. They are not aware of death.

I want to go back and start over again.

Terrible Thoughts

I feel like a terrible person. Have you ever had those weeks, or days, or mornings, or even five minutes here and there when you hate everything, everyone and every fiber of your own being that you would rather implode and disappear than carry on with even one more breath? Apologies for the weight of this post but writing this out might alleviate this pressure on my chest.

I took Roxy for a walk when I got home. She peed and it was a good walk. Then we came home and I ate a wedge salad and a couple avocado egg rolls. Nothing to write home about, I ate quicker than I usually do because I was famished, but then did some free writing and Sex and the City watching for an hour to let it settle. I wanted to go for a run before the sun set. So at 5:30, we set out. She was eager and tugged with huge strength almost immediately. As soon as we got to the trail about 5 minutes in, I knew I wasn't going to do very well. The food, what I thought was little, instantly felt like the bulk and weight of a bowling ball in my gut. But Roxy, having been at home alone for no more than 5 hours today, was full of energy and was not pleased to be made to walk instead of run every 3 minutes or so.

And every time we did speed up into a jog, she pulled even harder. Although I knew she wasn't at all thinking about it or meaning to, I felt like I was being punished - punished for leaving her, punished for not providing a yard for her, punished for not playing as much with her, punished for not setting up the pee-pad my mother bought for her. I resented her energy and youth and 0% body fat. I was hating my dog because I was hating myself and my terrible stamina.

And of course, once you allow your mind to be irrational and succumb to the waves of depression and depths of self-esteem, all things that have been kept at bay and stressing me out began to surface. I sunk lower as my demons climbed higher. I wanted a bottle of wine or a drug or a club over my head.

So, I'm trying to remember all the things that I have to be grateful for. I can do this. I can teach Roxy to run and walk better. I will be ok going to work. Roxy will be ok with me going to work. All my things and responsibilities and obligations will work themselves out. I will work them out.

Gold Dust

Here is a bit of fiction that I started several months ago and have now returned to today...in attempts to be more productive. Here goes.




The alarm rang earlier than she would have liked, shifting her relaxed body towards its screeching and then rolling back into the sunken crevice where her lithe form had spent most of the night. She stretched her sore arms above her head, opening her mouth wide in a yawn, inhaling deeply, hoping the fresh oxygen would clear her foggy mind. Get up. She made it out of her cloud-like bed that she loved to fall into and lose herself in a death-like sleep night after night, an eternity of down. She checked her blinking phone and read the text summoning her to work. She showered then carefully began her regimen, as precise and practiced as a painter. She smoothed on her foundation in small circles, moving upwards from her feline neck towards her strawberry blonde hairline. She stroked on concealers and illuminators like one would stroke on a wisp of a cloud or the cusp of a wave on a ocean’s landscape. She fanned out her tools made of brushes and pencils, sifting various hues of powder, highlighting her cheeks and her forehead in subtle bronze and sun-kissed warmth. The coral lips now softened parted slightly to reveal balanced creamy teeth. The eyes served as the grand crescendo to her masterpiece of wearable art. Smoky and smudged, she pulled the wand from the base to her lash’s tip, extending their nature, widening her doe eyes. More liner. She drew on another line of charcoal and left, already ten minutes late.
She pulled around back to enter before the others arrived. The day was warm and the air looked hazy rising from the black pavement of the parking lot. It made the trees and stones look like they were shivering, as if fighting their permanent places lined up in rows and waving like seaweed in the sand. As she opened the back door, her eyes squinted and shifted, adjusting to the dark, trying to seek out whatever light could be found. Good morning, thank you for coming at such short notice. She smiled, her painted lips closed so as to protect a potential smudge on her porcelain teeth. Here, she knows it’s a stretch, but let’s see what you can do. You are the best. She took the offered Polaroid, walking the thick carpet, her high heels hushed in respect and bent down to hold the picture under the light of lamp. Pictures were always better than a description of what her clients wanted. Jennifer Aniston. A short bob with a clean bang. Take away the gray and replace with shimmery blonds and caramels. This picture showed a beautiful young girl, riding a horse, her jet hair black and tossed over her shoulder and reaching towards the seat of the saddle. She was smiling, mischievous and fresh-faced, a peach hue at the apples of her cheeks.
Sure thing.
The soft cream door was opened before her leading into an entirely metal room. The smell and absence of smell hit her simultaneously. She noted chemicals and cleaners to remove the smell of the chemicals - a great charade. The temperature dropped as she approached her client. It felt good at first, her body still warm from the summer heat, but soon the skin on her arms pimpled like gooseflesh. Her heels clicked and echoed in this room. She balanced on the balls of her feet to avoid the interruption of silence and headed towards the center of the room. The client’s hair was nearly white now, cold, and slipped like Christmas tinsel through her hands as she checked its strength. She never forgot that was the most jarring part of this - the absence of warmth. The head was lifted on a foam block just beneath the base of her skull. The thin, grey lips were already shut, glued together, never to grin mischievously again. The tissue-paper skin fell with gravity towards the beveled table. Her small, gray body was delicately covered with a thin blue paper, crinkly and unprotecting.
The process of returning the hair to its raven color first involved turning the once-smiling woman around so her head was at the sink. She called for the director to take the shoulders as she took her feet. On the count of one, two, three, they slowly lifted. Stiff as a feather, light as a board. Her full lips frowned as she remembered silly pajama parties and girlfriends sitting in a circle. Their small warm bodies were nothing like this ebony pillar. It mirrored the table, cold and straight, unmoving and strong enough to support her tiny weight.
She watched the inky water swirl down the sink, urging it to warm her hands and the hair, wishing it would remain living long enough to finish. But no, the faux-black silk almost immediately returned to ice as soon as it was dry. She brushed it smooth, straight and thin, falling softly over her shoulders. Who were you smiling at? She painted the small face a delicate ivory, filling in the hollow cheeks with the same warm peach she had seen in the photo. She brushed a small amount of color on the lips, enough pink so as to differentiate them from the skin. The eyes were the only parts left. She stood back for a moment, looked again at the picture and saw their hazel-green depth through heavy black lashes. The sun that day dotted her face through her straw hat, causing her to look as if she was wearing a veil. Now what? She chose to fill in the sparse lashes with black and dust a light gold over the creases. Her deeply lined face crowned with the oil-black hair gave her an Egyptian look, an unwrapped Queen. Only at certain angles, in certain light could the gold be seen; it was a trick and illusion of sunlight. It was an illumination guiding her eyes through the dark. She hoped it would give those in the next room comfort. She hoped this is what the girl on the horse would have wanted. Her job was done.
She took her check and returned the photo. She had been there less than twenty five minutes, but the day felt as if it had gotten hotter as she left and walked towards her car. She clutched the wheel and noticed a shimmer of gold on her hand that she had used to test before applying. She stretched it out the window and watched it shimmer in the sun. She felt the air dance and ripple around her hand and looking in the rearview mirror, she smiled.

Heathcliff

What a terrible and tragic waste, the love lost between Heathcliff and Catherine. Even though they are fictional characters, each time I revisit their story, my heart is wrenched and aches for the terrible hand that was dealt to them. Perhaps unwisely because I was alone and tired and hormonal, I watched the 2009 Masterpiece Collection starring Tom Hardy. Now, let it be known if it isn't already to some of you, I love, love Tom Hardy and it did nothing for my infatuation to see him play one of my favorite anti-heroes of all time. Needless to say I sobbed at the end. There were certainly some things that I wished they had done differently but for the most part, it was a lovely film and Mr. Hardy did a wonderful job of conveying the depths that Heathcliff was forced to inhabit. It made me wonder, however, what kind of depths and heights I may reach during my time here on earth. I hope for great things, wonderful things, things that will make me feel alive and grateful to be so lucky. Alternatively, I wonder how truly I can live without some sort of great tragedy. Will I too, have a Heathcliff? Do not get me wrong, I do not hope for misfortune, seek it out, or in any way look forward to pain, but wonder how possible it is to appreciate the light without a bit of the dark. My sister has told me before how lucky I have always been - never really experiencing any kind of struggle or hardship. To each their own, and pain and suffering is relative but she may be right. How will I know what is real and what is important until it is jeopardized? Forgive me, dark musings after dwelling on the moors of Wuthering Heights for the evening. I will try to bring something lighter tomorrow or the next day. I do, however, hope even in the most masochistic of ways, for my own Heathcliff...what feeling girl wouldn't?

Roxy

I bought a dog yesterday. She's beautiful. She's energetic and incredibly strong.

Her name is Roxy. She loves to go for walks and and prance around my apartment. She can't get enough of looking out the window and if she had her way, she would spend the entire day on the porch sniffing through the chest-sized crack. I'm too scared to let her, fearing she'll see a cat or a squirrel and tumble down three flights. I have every intention of buying some lattice to nail up and set my fears to rest. I had a moment today, after taking her for a very long walk, when she tried to run out of the door and escape. It was an awful feeling. I had only owned her for about twenty four hours so I don't think it was anything personal but I felt abandoned and rejected and terrified. I caught her. And I was very nervous all of the sudden that I couldn't do this. I have only ever been responsible for myself and suddenly I was aware of a gripping fear and that tiny and minuscule, but nagging and present feeling of resentment. I can't just swing the door wide, leave the apartment early in the morning and not return until late at night, or sleep in much too late without worrying about my carpets. But I can watch her stretch out after a long nap on the couch. I can see how excited she gets when I walk out from my bedroom to greet her in the morning. And someday, she'll sit still as I swing the door wide. Or maybe I'll have a house with a yard and a fence that she can run out and play.

Making My Way

Hello dear friends, I sit here in a cafe - waiting for the ND v. AL game to start, cheering my old home state against more recent one. Most of my days since moving here and sending my loved ones home have consisted with a lot of reading, some writing, quite a bit of spending and general mosy-ing around. I have very little direction right now and while almost all of my time is my own - I haven't set down to a strict writing schedule. I wonder if it is because I don't have internet at home yet? Either way, I have enjoyed discovering new parts of town and haunting many cafes using their WIFI. I look forward to being home though - my home - my new one. I have a visitor coming Saturday and I feel as if after that I will be able to fully invest in this new life. I have committed to a full 7 days of yoga with the option of a full 7 days of running. I did Sunday and Monday so far and see no reason why I should stop. It is going to be a great life here. Hope you are all enjoying this beautiful new year!

And then there was one...

I have arrived. I sit here now, in a chair by the chilly window, deep in the heart of Texas. I have just sent my mother and sister off on a plane headed back north to the chilly winds and feet of white that will soon crunch beneath their tired feet, exhausted from pounding the Austin streets. It is such a strange feeling, leaving them at the airport knowing I am the one that is being left behind. I have been brought here by the best people I have ever known and probably ever will know. Yes, I am partial, but I've met a pretty good sampling and think I can say they are the best without a doubt. I am watching the sky brighten through this window, not so long ago it was a bleary grey, deceptive as to whether it was dusk or dawn. But now the blue has arrived and the clouds are tinged with slightest of pinks still holding on to a bit of the grey. It is supposed to rain tomorrow. They depart in 5 minutes. I haven't cried until just now, only able to text my Mom words of comfort for her fear of taking off in such a huge piece of metal inexplicably held up in the sky. I want to hold her hand and tell her everything will be alright, usually a little nervous myself but hiding it so she feels better. We will fly again together someday, I'm sure of it. But for now, her and my sister's hearts are being pulled away from me, rising higher as their plane begins to ascend any moment now. I sit here stationary, sniffling and grateful for this quiet corner. And now I wait to hear the chime of my phone alerting me they have landed at O'Hare. They seem so far away now but I know they will soon be close. And I will always carry their hearts, as they have and will carry mine. I'll just be a bit warmer now...