From Georgia 1

So the plane didn't crash and nobody died (unless they kept it a secret). I managed my first ever flight by myself. Woohoo! Delta has this video about the safety procedures instead of a live demonstration, which I found less helpful. I was paying more attention to the woman with botox lips than I was to what she was saying.

The seats were terribly uncomfortable, and it took me forever to figure out how to recline the seat (I always seem to have this problem), but since I hadn't slept at ALL the night before I still managed to sleep. Fitfully, but I did sleep. My arm fell asleep three times, my butt and tail bone complained constantly, and my neck probably didn't like being contorted while my head tried to find a decent place to rest. The only reason I really know that I slept at all is because I listened to my mp3 (well, Mom's, but still), which plays songs in alphabetical order. I went from listening to A songs, to D, to around L.

Things got a little turbulent after a while, but I don't really mind it; I find it helps me sleep. Maybe reminiscent of my childhood, being rocked to sleep?



After I woke up, we were about 30 minutes away from Atlanta. The clouds were amazing; I'd forgotten what it's like to view the clouds from such a close distance. Like if you reached out to touch them, they really would be solid, or at least thick, maybe like running your hand through pudding without getting your fingers full of clumpy chocolate goo. They were like big, white clumps of clay that were waiting to be formed, but clay that is so light and porous that you barely have to squeeze for it to conform to the shape of your fist.



Following the landing, one of the stewardesses was giving the whole “Thank you for choosing this airline” shpeel, and managed to say “We hope you enjoy your stay in San Francisco.”

Wait.

Didn't we just LEAVE San Francisco?

Why did we just make a circle?!

(I was the only one giggling at the mistake.)

Atlanta airport is rad for one single reason: the tram. Because the damn thing is so long, they have a tram that whizzes around to the different areas. If Kitty hadn't warned me how fast it takes off, I probably would have ended up on my ass. I stared in bemused wonder at the guy who was just chillin' in the center of the tram, not holding onto anything, just reading a newspaper. He must be used to it. I could have ridden the tram for days though; they should rename it rocket blasters and charge a dollar for admission, hehe.

Kitty had already told me that she would be wearing a hot pink shirt and holding many colorful items to greet me with. Therefore it wasn't a terrible chore to attempt to find her. Remember all those movies where two characters are reunited and there's the cheesy music combined with slow motion running? It was like that, except there was an addition of an Elmo mylar balloon, a bouquet of paper flowers, and a very colorful, patterned, elephant. She and I spotted each other, broke out in huge grins and started half-running (it's dreadfully hard to run in the middle of a crowded airport) towards each other. We each fell on the other person in a squeal-y hug, probably jumping a little in excitement. The people around us were adorable; one woman was grinning and waving her camera: “You need a camera to take a picture!”


Me 'n Elmo!


Elephant!

After the whole luggage-obtaining, making-it-out-of-the-airport thing, Kitty, her boyfriend's mom, and I stopped in Atlanta for lunch. Found a Thai restaurant with pretty good fried spicy tofu and reeeally tasty green beans. Then, a few minutes of sight-seeing (for me) and getting lost (for them), we managed to escape the clutches of the city (which, by the way, looks like a hybrid of Sacramento and San Francisco). I fell asleep somewhere along the way (big surprise).




City Hall (I think)





This morning I'm still very tired, but I'm doing okay with the time change. It just feels like it IS really 11am, and whenever I remember that it's 8am at home, it just seems silly! I'm not entirely sure what's planned for today besides grocery shopping. I do know tomorrow may end up with us making a tour through downtown Athens and general silliness.

Well, most of the two weeks will be general silliness, but that's an entirely different story.

Sitting in the airport....

It's been a while since I've been this excited/nervous. I'm sure the fact that I haven't slept since 7am yesterday morning isn't helping; I'm rather wired on top of being tired and hungry. I'm positive I put those fruit snacks and pistachios in my bag... but after 6 attempts at subtle searching I haven't managed to located it-

Oh. Right. I forgot about that other zipper pocket. Silly me. At least I know I'm not crazy now. No, I've just confirmed, again, that I am hopelessly absentminded.

Memo: When in doubt, just squeeze the damn bad and see if you can hear what you're looking for.
The highlight of my drive to the airport, besides the novelty of leaving for San Fran at 2 in the morning (I'm usually going to BED at 12:30, not getting up), was the motel sign.

Imagine this: you are driving a freeway at night, or early morning. All is pitch black, save the lights inside your car (you eye the speedometer as it fluctuates between 65 and 75), and the twinkling lights on the streets and businesses flying by. There may even be a car or two joining you on the lonely road to nowhere. (San Fran isn't exactly NOwhere, but for drama's sake, we'll go with that.)

All of a sudden, you see it. This sign is brighter than all the others you've passed those last ten miles. Bright white-yellow, it glows like some fucking beacon of hope in your sleepy world. It says: Otel.
Granted, I don't know if it was a Motel or a Hotel, but if the first letter is missing, who cares? Otels they shall remain for the rest of my days. At least, for as long as I can remember.

There's a cafe across from my terminal. Serving breakfast. Right before I was distracted by the sign saying “free wi-fi!” the smell of hot cocoa (or coffee) wafted towards me.

Keep in mind, I haven't partaken in coffee or hot chocolate in months. It's scintillating, like a word you know you used to know how to spell but can't quite remember how it felt to write it out without checking it on an online dictionary first...

And then I notice that the guy sitting across from me seems to be wearing the same pants I am. Same color, similar thread color, almost the same style... and for once I'm afraid a guy looks better in my pants than I do.

I'll enjoy a little giggle out of that for a second. But that coffee is now coupled with maple syrup, and my attention must be swayed. I've had strawberry lemonade, edamame, and a banana since I left home at 2:15. French toast suddenly sounds better than sex. Or maybe that's the “in my pants” joke still talking.

I haven't scoped out my company much yet. There are fewer business people than I expected, given the time of day. One or two, maybe, so far. For the most part there are just lots of scruffy, tired looking people. Like me, except I've showered.

The guy with my pants sneezed, I said bless you, we had that momentary connection. Then we went on as two tired individuals lost in our own worlds.

And all I can think about is my stomach, and who I'll sit next to on my flight. To be continued!

This late night post thing seems to be a habit now

I was never comfortable openly declaring that I was special. Well, maybe I was when I was two, but I think most of us had rather few inhibitions at that age, and as far as we were concerned, the world WAS all about us.
Damn right you should pay attention to me, momma. If you don't I'll just keep on screaming and crying.
Regardless.

I don't think I'm alone in this. Which is why I'm finally writing it down and exposing it on the most public forum possible: the internet. Some people won't get it, some people won't get it but will humor me, and some will know exactly what I'm talking about, and how I feel.

I allow for the fact that each person has their own unique perspective. On themselves. On others. On the world. On what else is out there, why we're here, and what it means to interact. What's moral. What's disgusting.

But I can't help feeling that I see things differently from others.

At this point I start to cringe at myself. I don't want to be “one of those people” who thinks they're so totally special and better than everyone else. And I'm not. I hardly could call myself truly egotistical, even if I take pride in things I've done and accomplished, and am happy with who I've become. Which is why this is uncomfortable for me to write.

I think it comes from the creative aspect of myself. It's as if I touch reality in a different place, sometimes one that is far removed from others. Certainly, I can function just fine in the everyday world, despite some minor absentmindedness. But the lens I see through seems... well, queer.

I'm sensitive to things that don't bother others so much. Sometimes I'm more emotional than your “average female.” It's not just that I cry at movies, or melt at the sight of a kitten. I feel emotion so intensely that it's overwhelming. I think most of us have experienced heartbreak, or known some tragedy that has shaken us to the core. Typically those are quite traumatic, extreme situations that don't generally happen on a regular basis (if they do, we get desensitized). It's like experiencing those powerfully emotional impacts, but not triggered by heartbreak, or death. It reminds me of the film American Beauty. If you've seen it, you know that a couple of the characters describe how the amount of beauty in the world is so powerful that they almost can't handle it.

That's how it is for me. And the only way I can channel that, to let it go, is through creative means. Art, music, poetry, and now yoga.

I'm also sensitive to loud, jarring noises. When I was a kid, I hated fireworks, vacuums, and balloons (when they popped). I can tolerate vacuums now (mostly because they're more quiet), but I still have trouble with fireworks, and I've developed a phobia of being around balloons that are being inflated or popped. Loud applause or harsh clapping is also a slight problem, I've noticed.

I forget day-to-day details. I'll forget something I'm supposed to get at the grocery store, or forget that I was supposed to call a friend of mine. But I remember things that were said, or images, because of my awareness of the whole scene. I don't have perfect awareness or memory that's tuned to every single detail (I couldn't tell you what color the booths at the restaurant were, as well as what shirt you were wearing, and what the waitress's face looked like), but I'll remember odd things that happened months or years ago. I couldn't tell you what was lectured about in my music history class, but could describe the way my professor cocked his head and looked off to the side when he wanted us to listen for a certain tone.
My world view, outlook, philosophy, however you'd like to phrase it, seems unusual as well. I have difficulty describing some things to people who don't “speak the same language” or experience things similarly. I can try, but sometimes I fail miserably. In all likelihood, I expect this is why I rely on art, music, and poetry to communicate myself. There is something about what I see that is closely tied to emotion and images, which can only be conveyed in media that is emotionally and symbolically charged.

At this point I'm exhausted, and cannot keep my eyes open a second longer. I will try to continue this thread.

Week in So-Cal: Disneyland

I'm afraid if I don't write a blog now about my day, I never will. Even though I'd like to tear out my eyeballs, lay them on the bedside table, lower my eyelids over the empty sockets and not worry about any light disrupting my sleep, I will nevertheless complete this first. Maybe by the end I'll just be content with turning out the light instead of inflicting harm upon my eyeballs.

The problem with Disneyland is that there are so many details, so many people, that I notice all of this interesting stuff, make note of it, and then promptly forget about it as soon as I meander out of the park. I feel like I should write down something when it occurs to me, because I would have fantastic writing material for afterwards. And I have a damn notebook in my purse, but did I pull it out? Of course not. There's too much to look at, damnit.

The thing that has struck me the last two times I've gone to DL is the bad parenting I witness. I understand that kids can be hard to handle (and often are), and that being a perfect parent is impossible. But Jesus Christ, people. I'm nowhere near a point in my life where I want to have kids, raise them, and keep them from killing themselves on accident; I'm fully aware that I lack the qualities to be a proper parent (even if I wanted to be one). Therefore, I should not feel like I'd do a better job at being a goddamn parent than you.

Let's see. First we have the totally empty threats or shame-comments. If a kid doesn't want their picture taken at Disneyland, they're probably too busy having fun to pay attention. So how about snapping a candid shot of them having a golly-good-time instead of forcing them to stop and pose with Daddy and little sister? Especially when your response is “I guess she just doesn't want to be on the castle” as if it's this huge deal. Really? It's the Happiest Place on Earth and you're getting your panties in a bunch about that?

Or how about the dozens of times one hears “If you don't go on this ride, I guess you're not going to get to go on this ride.” Or worse “If you don't stop crying, we're not coming back.” What the hell? Those kind of threats rarely work on adults. Why the fuck are they going to work on your emotionally distraught five-year-old?

I wasn't there to witness this, but the winning prize has to go to the family that ignored their terrified child for the sake of getting camera footage of a band/parade, even when he puked on the ground over a couple of peoples' shoes and legs.
Right...

The day was fantastic. Perfect weather, nice atmosphere. It was the first time in a long time that Mom went on some adventuresome rides with me, and enjoyed them. It was almost like being there with someone who had never been, so all of the old things are ten times as fun, and all the new things you notice are that much more interesting.

One of the things I randomly started thinking about was a section on Pirates of the Caribbean. There's a cavern that houses a skeleton-pirate who has (presumably) died in his bedchamber while using a magnifying glass to inspect his treasure. He's lying in bed, and while looking at the pose, being delirious as I was, I suddenly thought, “You know, the angle of the magnifying glass is held in such a way... Haha, it looks like he's looking at how small his penis is.” Of course, the poor bastard must have had an even worse time of things after he died and his flesh and tissue eventually decayed. Then there really would be nothing to look at.

There are so many incredible details. It's almost as much fun to wander around and wonder who decided to add that little hidden component, or who makes sure this gets done, or how they planned this so this and this would occur, etc, as it is to just enjoy the damn thing.

I just realized that I have little welts on my feet from where my shoes laced up. No wonder they 're itching like crazy.

Anyway, the adventure of getting stuck on Splash Mountain was fun. Luckily Mom, Kira and I managed to make it passed the 50 foot drop and pose like ridiculous people (is there any other way when you're as silly as we are?). Right before we drifted to the unloading point, there was a “log-jam.” (What actually went wrong, I have no idea.) We just sat there for a while, drifting side to side and gently bumping against the rubber and metal guard-rail-thingies. Kira and I took the time to try and remember all the songs we'd sung the last time we were in choir together. We failed miserably, for the most part. Even our amazing genetic-blending abilities at harmonizing failed. Maybe it was all the echoes. Regardless, it was still amusing. Eventually the lights came on and one of the cast members started to help people out of the log-boats at various places along the ride.

(This is a view of the light at the end of the tunnel, as it were, as we were sitting stuck.)
I still think it would be awesome to get stuck right in the middle of the ride and have to exit via one of the cast members' secret passageways. It was an adventure nonetheless. We were fearless explorers disembarking on a nearly completed mission, but rejoicing in the fact that we made it as far as we did.

What annoyed me the most were all the folks complaining loudly to cast members that they had been waiting in line for an hour and a half and demanding compensation for it. Really? These things happen. It's kind of the risk you take in theme parks. There are a few rides that break down all the time, like Big Thunder Mountain, and the bobsleds (both of which broke down while we were there). I know it sucks to have to wait in line that long and then not get to ride the ride, but it's not the cast member's fault!



So the last time I had my portrait drawn at DL, I was four, and it was my first time there. (At least I think so; in any case, it was a really long damn time ago and I was really small. And my hair was still long and a normal color; which is long enough ago as it is.) I wanted to have it done again in February, but never got around to it (plus the lack of funds). However this time around was a different story. By luck, I happened to get stuck with an artist who worked in a style that I liked a lot, and I think she pulled off my caricature fantastically, nose ring, gecko ear-cuff, and all. I really enjoyed chatting with her, and the other artist while I was sitting there; I have the utmost respect for people who do that kind of work in theme parks. I can't imagine the kind of crap they get from people who don't like the likeness (or lack-there-of) of their portrait, or who complain about it taking to long, etc. Plus, just hearing why they're working there, what they want to do in the future, is always interesting; especially since I'm an art-focused person myself.




I have no more energy. If I think of anything else it'll have to be added at a later date. I'm just too goddamn beat to formulate logical sentences that one can follow. Good night.

a letter to a friend, concerning moments in time.

A letter:

Dear friend,
I looked up your profile today, at 1:30 in the morning. You know those things that you think about doing, and are so tempting, but avoid doing because the thought of it makes your stomach curl? Because you're afraid of what you'll find. I've toyed with the thought of looking at your profile at various points in this little happenstance, but have resisted. Not just because I was afraid of what I would find, but also because I didn't want to be one of those exes who spied on the people “who done me wrong.” I have more respect for myself, and for you, than that.

But I did it tonight. Why, you may ask. Well, I gauge how healed I am by how I feel about you, how I feel about you maybe being in another relationship, how I feel about maybe getting back in touch with you. I know myself well enough to know that with time, wounds heal and in some cases, I can be friends again. That was the “plan,” wasn't it? Break off communication for a few months and I'd contact you when I was ready. Yeah.

I had butterflies. Worse butterflies than that time I performed my first kata in front of the karate dojo filled with spectators. Worse than when I played my first open mic. Worse than when I got up the nerve to tell each person I cared about how I felt. Was I ready for this? I thought. But then something happened. I was writing a response letter to a friend of mine. You know, one of the ones I care about. I had told them how I felt, had read their well-articulated reply, processed it, and was in the midst of writing back when I realized I had to deal with the shit that went down with you.

The hardest things to do are the most worthwhile, and letting go is one of the hardest things of all in my opinion. But something about this year has been different. Let me clarify; something about post-you-and-me has been different. In all of that, leading up to this moment, my mind has suddenly settled.

Your profile is private. All I see is your picture. And yet that picture captures your essence, how I knew you, so perfectly. I wonder a little if anything has changed for you, because just judging from that one picture, it doesn't appear that much has. I will allow for the fact that I may be entirely wrong, and will not give into temptation to go on a “see how I've grown from this, but you haven't” rant.

Simply put, I don't know if I will want to contact you again. Not because I resent you still, or hate you, or wish things were different. I used to. Wish things were different, I mean. But I can say with total sincerity that I am so grateful to you. Not for loving me, though I am thankful for that, but for letting me go. It may have been one of the single greatest thing anyone has done for me. I always admired you for your kind heart and giving nature; I think you may have given more than you realize. Nice and kind stand at two ends with miles of difference between them, and this situation illustrates such a separation beautifully. How funny that one of the cruelest things one can do is also the kindest?

I recognize that I wield little to no control in the scheme of things. And it is a large comfort to think that whatever pain I go through, and whatever destruction I witness is massively dwarfed by the whole of the universes extending out and beyond from my tiny consciousness. We like to think of ourselves as the center of attention and the most important of all... but at times, it is such a lovely thing to be insignificant, if not simply for a moment. And to not have control... what a marvelous relief! I may do my part, but whatever happens will happen. You are a wonderful human being, and I wish you the best. Whatever happens will happen.

Time will compose a clearer poem of how my letting go will manifest. If I never speak to you again, or if we begin from fresh and raw foundations to attempt a new friendship; I know not yet.

I loved you, that I am certain. In some other reality, I am sure I continue to love you, and in others still, we may have never met. In spiraling down to this moment, I am immensely grateful that I have had the luck to live out this particular sequence of events.

Love,
a friend

Week in So-Cal: 4th of July

I think this was the first family lunch/gathering I attended where I was the only one not eating meat. It isn't a big deal, really, but it's just one of those things that suddenly struck me as funny. Kira, our cousin Michael, and a couple of Grandma's friends arrived for an Independence Day lunch; the main courses were ribs, roast beef, and chicken. You know how there are certain things that remind you of the time you spent at relatives houses, like grandparents? Well for my family (or at least me), what made Grandma's house signature was the BBQ ribs Grandpa used to make. That was the highlight of any summer visit; one night during the week we stayed there, someone was probably going to suggest ribs for the dinner menu. Even though Grandpa has been gone for a while, those memories are still prominent. This time was no different. Except my plate looked quite a bit different from the rest.

Those of us who are vegetarian or vegan probably know that saying the “V” word in public sometimes has the same effect as saying “I'm gay.” People stop and blink at you. And you watch as look of incomprehension crosses over their faces. Have you ever seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding? He's a vegetarian? That's okay, we have lamb. Are you sure you're vegetarian? Do you just avoid it most of the time, or can you have some? What's vegan? Then that look of uncertainty flashes over their features and you can practically hear them think, “Are they crazy?” Oh, and don't even mention tofu, unless you want to make your biggest meat-lover family member gag. (If you want a spectacular gigglefest, talk enthusiastically about a tofu-scramble recipe that you can't wait to try, and watch your friend slowly turn green.)

They just don't know what to do!

Now, Grandma's friend was pretty awesome, I have to say. Someone must have mentioned that I didn't eat meat, and she made sure to exclude ham or chicken from her pasta salad, and ensure the baked beans were vegetarian. So on top of the salad I concocted, I definitely didn't go starving. We all ate outside on the back patio, on cheesy blue vinyl table cloths that wrinkled if you so much as brushed against them. I hadn't seen Michael in years; he's one of the most vivacious and friendly people in the family (which is saying a lot). It must be his passion for theater and teaching.

He also took time after lunch to give a little presentation with pictures and video from his trip to Italy. I wish I'd managed to capture video of his “performance,” hehe. It made me want to book a flight straight to Italy; it was absolutely amazing. All the pictures of the ocean were either this amazing deep, rich blue or brilliant turquoise. I've only ever seen that color of water in movies; beaches I've been to in California are no where near that beautiful.

As for the rest of the week, Tuesday we will gallivant out to the Sawdust Art festival, Wednesday night is the Pageant of the Masters, and Thursday is looking like a Disneyland day. Also booked my flight for Georgia, which was a wee nerve wracking. What? You mean I'm committed? Crap! And all that. Partly, we waited long enough so our choices weren't that great, and the prices were a little higher than we would have liked. BUT, nevertheless, I have my ticket, and I'll get to see my bestie this summer. Yay!

Musings on Music

Music is more than just a hobby, or something I do for entertainment. I don't listen to it purely for enjoyment, nor do I write it because it's just something to do.

It's the very essence of who I am.

I can trace the changes in me through time simply by what I listened to. I can remember the inner conflicts, and that I was excited about. When I listen to a song from a particularly emotionally charged moment in my life (even if the song is not overly emotional), I get this... sense of what came before. It's not quite a taste, or a smell, or a simple memory. It's like I experience the flavor and the spirit of what that time felt like.

I write music as a way to communicate myself to the world. I think in symbol, perceive in metaphor, see in description, sense music so strongly that my body quakes and I come close to crying. I'm not as socially awkward as some, yet I find stronger expressions in poetry and music and in my art.

It's as if the space around me becomes so emotionally charged that my brain switches off into a completely different plane where I relate to things so much more easily. I ponder and brood so much, forget the little details in the day to day life (If you ask me on Sunday what I did on Friday, I probably won't remember right away), but when I write or listen to music, the complications fall away and I'm left with a single train of thought, or two.

It's when I listen to Carrie Newcomer's song Geodes on repeat. The message never lessens, I am no less impacted by it. Each time something different pops to the forefront, a different phrase or word hits me so hard I almost stop breathing.

Simplicity is found in moments. In this moment there is only me, the computer screen, and the music echoing through the gaps between my bedroom furniture. Music is more than just something to do; it's breath. It's energy. Sometimes I close my eyes when I pick the strings on my guitar and let each word flow from my vocal chords as it will. It's similar to when I read poetry aloud. Each word trips off my tongue, tumbling outwards to touch the invisible particles in the air; I speak them slowly and clearly. Have you ever articulated as such? The poem, or song, suddenly suspended as it floats so slowly. What it “means” escapes the moment as the essence of my voice and instinct triggers an emotional and mental response rather like that of meditation.

New meaning is found in these moments.

There are times when I stop and feel the weight of a split second and am nearly crushed by its tremendous impact. It's like standing in the ocean and closing your eyes just as a large wave suddenly comes crashing over you, but you know that you are completely safe.

I find small pieces of “truth” in such times. Not to be confused with absolute truth. It's funny, what hits us when we least expect it. More comforting than any parent, more earth-shattering than the worst disaster we've experienced, and yet the contradiction itself contains a certain harmony that we would miss otherwise.