Moving forward while still looking back...

So I just spent the past hour reading over some of my old posts, all the way back to 2008, pre and post-Portland. I can't help but ask myself: "Who was that person?" Am I better off today, knowing what I know now? I'm not so sure. Because that girl, the girl who wrote about her hopes, dreams, and disappointments with such freedom and vivacity, well, I can't help but wish that she would come back to me. I miss her.

Goethe said: "Life belongs to the living, and he who lives must be prepared for changes."

My childhood self would have broken down in a sobbing heap thinking about such a thing, but I know that change is good, healthy even. Movement is a necessary foundation of life. The scenery out the window, no matter how beautiful it may seem, cannot always stay the same; even the most beautiful sunset can become stagnant without some sense of comparison. I understand all of this.

Still, I can't help but feel sad sometimes when I think back on all that energy, all that love that used to pour out of me in such a torrent on the page. All that love and he took it. He took it and ran and never looked back. It has been over two and half years and still I feel sad, thinking about such things.

That being said, I'm tired of playing the victim. And I'm tired of looking back and blaming my current predicaments on what used to be. Because honestly, I am proud of who I am. I am proud of my accomplishments and the decisions that I have made. Do I feel older? Wiser? Without a doubt. Do I still yearn for adventure and epic love? Sure. Now if only I could find that balance between the roots of wisdom and the passion of youth. Perhaps then I wouldn't feel so sad when I see her face in old pictures, grinning with girly ambition. Perhaps I would feel love and gratitude instead. After all, I wouldn't be here without her blind leaps and tragic falls.

And thank goodness for that.

The Doe's Lament

Like an ancient pillar,
she stands alone,
eyes darting,
ears twitching,
waiting for his signal.

Field grass surrounds her,
tickling her nose
with the wild strawberry's
sanguine temptation.
Still she waits.

The shot rings out
and her heart swells.
The metal knows its destination,
drawn by the magnetic remnants
of her once steel cold heart.

She dares to hope.

As two lovers under the moon's
approving gaze,
so too they meet.
Pressing...
Molding...

Exploding.

And so he leaves,
swift as he came.
Her blood clings to him,
begging him to stay.
He ignores its call.

And so she stands,
steady as she can,
head held high,
as if by God's naked hand.
She feels the open wound.

But even God has to let go
eventually. And
as He does,
down she falls,
buckling into the
wild strawberry's
open hand.

Like a crumbling ruin,
she lies unknown.
The owl's insignia,
breaking through the
invisible wall of blackness,
bids a distant, echoing
farewell.

Some may stay.
Some may go.
But so it went
that the Bullet
broke the heart
of the Doe.

The Regret Fairy

When one asks about regret, the politically correct and morally strong answer seems to be: "Oh, I have no regrets in life." or "Everything happens for a reason." or "Mistakes are made so that we may learn from them..."

Ummm... excuse me for being crass but, Bull shit! I officially call bull shit on that one.

Don't ask me why, but I've been thinking about regret lately and come to a rather different conclusion. Regret is real and tangible and equally as crucial as the aforementioned higher ground. It seems to me that a life worth lived is a life of stumbling blocks, hiccups, and stupidity. Thus in steps the Regret Fairy (think Tooth Fairy with a big ugly syringe or principal yielding paddle), filling our hearts with such darkness and pain that we instinctively never, EVER, want to make that same mistake again. Is learning from one's mistakes important? Absolutely. I just think that for some of us--namely, the stubborn, pig-headed, or just plain naive-- we need a big whack across the head before our mistakes really start to sink in. And just in case we conveniently forget later down the road, Regret is there to remind us, because--let's face it--like a paddle yielding elephant with wings, the Regret Fairy never forgets. And thank God for that.

Thoughts from a struggling writer

WOW. I Haven't written anything on here in nearly four months. I'd like to say that I have just been soooo busy with my wonderfully enigmatic and fun-filled life that I simply haven't found the time, but that would not be entirely accurate. Is my life here in Charlotte wonderful and enigmatic and fun-filled? For the most part, I would say yes, surprisingly so! Am I too busy to jot down some thoughts from time to time, to delve into my little pocket of creativity and spit out a few words of inspiration or friendly banter? No.

To be honest, I haven't written much of anything lately, and it's not for lack of time.

The source of this drought is somewhat unclear, but I think it stems from the fact that I feel a bit disillusioned with my own writing. Do I enjoy writing? Yes, of course. I'm just not sure I'm that great at it, at least no better than the thousands upon thousands of other word sprites out there. Beyond my insecurities, I'm just not so sure I know around which format my words should be molded. I'm afraid I have lost my voice.

I mean, let's be serious. My life really isn't THAT interesting and I can't help but feel a bit self-obsessed writing about it. I tried the more "creative writing" route, but that just takes a great deal more time and effort, something not necessarily appealing for someone with a lack of motivation (i.e. ME). Thus, the question emerges: How do I make my writing interesting to people OTHER THAN my mother? Or is this a question I should even be asking myself? Writing is, after all, a form of self-expression and thus anti-thetical to the idea of writing for a particular audience. On the other hand, I can't help but appreciate the viewpoint of an old friend of mine, himself a phenomenal writer, performer, and artist. His argument is thus: Art is a gift. It is not about the artist, but central to the recipient. A great actor does not act for himself but to entertain, to give the gift of theater. This same principle applies to the craft of writing. A writer does not write to show off his or her talents, or accumulate accolades and pats on the back. She writes to share a part of herself, whether it is to entertain, inform, or inspire. In the end, there is no artist, just the product itself, a small piece of a person, a time, an idea. And in that regard, art--specifically the written word-- is the ultimate act of selflessness.

Then why is it I feel like the most narcissistic person on this planet just writing this post...

Some Observations on a cold December morning

My eyes are burning at work today, as they were yesterday too. Too much time on the computer, perhaps?

The sun was out this morning, but now it is hidden behind fields of gray.

Flowers. Over-rated (i.e. valentine's day) and yet, equally under appreciated. As Eckhart Tolle says, flowers are God incarnate, beauty for beauty's sake. Yes, they are essentially for pollination, and yes, their bright colors and fragrant scents only enhance this crucial goal, but in regards to humans, they are completely functionless. Yet we love them anyway. Flowers bring us light, beauty, and love. That is their ultimate purpose.

I simultaneously crave frigid snow and cozy warmth. You know, the classic scene: curled up infront of a fire with a cup of tea and some music while the snow blankets the trees outside. Foggy windows, crisp bursts of wind, hats, scarves, cold hands and cold noses, all waiting to be warmed by the touch of another. Kisses help too, of course! :)

It's Showtime!

Imagine this: next fall, NBC's Thursday night line-up will showcase your standard Hollywood balloo, including but not limited to a whole-hearted family citcom (young, thin wife marries old balding fat guy) followed by your typical one-hour teen soap (boy meets girl, girl is oblivious to boy's flirtations, boy gets over girl, girl falls for boy...), and--the #1 New Show of the Year-- "TV on TV," a stimulating program in which the viewer watches other viewers watch TV. It's original! All-new! Never been done before!

And oh so realistic.

The thing is, you never see characters on TV actually watching TV in the show. Why?? Because it's boring, uneventful, and straight up a waste of time. Simply put, most Americans would not consider "go to work, come home, heat up dinner in the microwave, watch two hours of crap TV before going to bed" a plot-driven, interesting, event-filled life. So instead, we go through these motions ourselves and look to other, make-believe characters to live out the lives we so secretly desire.

Meanwhile, our asses are getting fatter, our brains our getting dumber, and family? friends? fun? Sorry, we just don't have the energy for all of that...

I say all of this only because I see it happening to myself. I work all day at a job that I love, but by the time I get home, it's 7, 8, 9 o'clock in the evening and I am completely wiped out. So I do what so many of us do in similar circumstances: I scramble up some eggs, grab a blanket, and make myself comfortable. Maybe, if I just lay still long enough, I'll have the energy to write, or return those phone calls, or go to that yoga class. Until then, there's always "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" or "Law and Order: Criminal Intent" to look forward to...

Now if I can only find that damn remote...

A Sandbox Pep Talk

Question: When did life become so hard? It's one of those things they don't tell you when you're a kid, how hard life is going to be. They--and I'm using the collective "they" here-- just want you to color pretty pictures of trees and flowers and smiling triangle people. No one ever sits you down and says:

Hey, things may be great right now, but it isn't always going to be. Sometimes, life is going to bitch-slap you across the face and knock you flat on your ass. Yeah, you can get back up again, but life is a begrudging bastard and will probably knock you back down. And each time this happens and you stand back up--which, of course, you have to do-- you rise as a slightly different person. Not necessarily better or worse, but different. So you gotta be ready. You gotta stand strong, no matter what happens. And you gotta work for what you want. Cuz you see, Life--that begrudging bastard we were talking about earlier-- isn't always going to give you what you want just because you want it. Like I said, you've gotta fight for it. Ok, that's all for now. You go on and play in the sandbox and build your castles in the sky. But when the time comes to stand strong and fight, you better be ready. Be ready to face Life head on. No fear, ok? Now go on... have fun with your new friends. Make something pretty before the mean kid comes over and knocks it all down.
I love you. *Hug*