Thaw
There are oceans that flow
above
and below
the whole
of my soul --
and then there is snow
as you hold me.
A blizzard within
then
thaws throughout,
trenching my tunnels;
a breath --
Then I'm hot
and I'm heat
and nothing is neat,
but messy,
shouting,
like cardinal red,
in and out
and around,
abounding,
astounding,
exploding.
My stars burst open
and see.
Shred
I think I may
snap
in half --
is that
so bad?
I've clapped
and I've lapped,
but I feel fucking trapped.
And what is hap-
piness
but laughter
and rapture
and far greener pastures?
I love you
I love you
I'm apt
to adapt.
Window Bird
Through poreless glass panes
phosphorescent lanterns
hum and stealth into
my silent
lavendar night.
Suddenly
ghosts scatter on walls,
trees shadow and quiver,
crystalline visions
delicate hauntings
dance before my white-knuckled eyes.
The blueness of my being blazes
in dozing fits.
Light trinkles then
as
another day creeps upon.
Crows dance outside.
It is dawn.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Monday, December 27, 2010
Roaring Twenties
God, the holidays are exhausting! Mentally I think I need a little vacation, and since my mind has been on traveling ever since my last blog, I suppose I'll revisit my overseas exploits in my twenties, particularly when I worked at the Cannes Film Festival. Let me preface this by saying I graduated college early, at 21 (I have no earthly idea why), and immediately went to work in public relations at a company in Los Angeles called Rogers and Cowan. Somehow I ended up in the International Film Department, working for the only two straight men in the entire firm. Actually this was probably because I wore a short skirt and thigh-high socks to my interview. Interestingly enough, at the time I thought that ensemble was totally appropriate, professional even (!). Of course, I must also mention that I had gotten the job on the following prerequisites: 1) I had a passport, and 2) I spoke fluent Italian (this slight exaggeration only further clarifies how truly unprofessional I actually was. I did know a few phrases, namely "Ciao," "Buon Giorno," and "Vai via!" ("Go away!"), the last of which was particularly useful when I studied in Florence and needed some space from the lewd yet charming Italian men who probably still lived at home with their mothers).
After a couple of fairly uneventful years of working for Michael and Lance at R&C, they suddenly asked me to work for the company at the Cannes Film Festival, as Lance had a conflict and couldn't go. It was 5 PM when they asked, could I be ready to leave in the morning? I, of course, immediately started shitting myself and internally screaming, "What?! Oh my God, what am I POSSIBLY going to wear?!" Need I say more? I was in.
I ended up attending three Cannes Film Festivals, and they were and are unlike anything I have ever experienced. First of all, the city itself is BREATHTAKING! There are hundreds of palm trees, pebbly beaches with striped umbrellas, and majestic, sprawling hotels. During the 10 days of the festival, there are celebrities everywhere, throngs of paparazzi, and hords upon hords of tourists. My job was to book and get interviews for our clients. Sounds simple enough, but it wasn't. It was fucking insane. I would have a line of 50 journalists long standing at my desk waiting to schedule an interview, as they impatiently tapped their feet and berated me in strange foreign languages. Then, of course, our clients would be whining over their lack of recognition (they were usually pretty minor in terms of celebrity status) and/or demanding more press. I would literally sleep four hours a night every night for 3 weeks. I almost always got incredibly sick, and even got food poisoning so badly one night that I probably should have gone to the ER.
But here's what made it all worth it: the intense, surreal, amazing parties.
There is so much adrenaline during the festival that even though you aren't sleeping and are working like a steroid-fueled racehorse, at the end of every workday, around 11 PM, you go out. The parties are tented on the beach, or on a yacht, or even in a castle. This one party I remember distinctly (and that's saying a lot, considering how much champagne I was drinking at the time) was The Moving Pictures party. (By the way, Moving Pictures is an international trade publication, and they would always host elaborate fests.) So this party I am talking about was at an enormous citadel on a hill in the old part of Cannes. I remember getting out of the car in, like, slow motion, walking in, and seeing this gigantic courtyard all lit up in pink, with literally 1000 people all swaying in time to music. There were Grecian statues everywhere, and hidden nooks where couples were making out, and so much liquor (and other stuff) it just completely blew me away. It was like all these beautiful and sophisticated people had morphed into one joyous and frenzied mass, and the energy was absolutly amazing. It was probably one of the most magical nights of my life, and I stayed there until 6 AM, when I went straight to the office with a pounding headache and a mysterious necktie around my neck.
At the parties in Cannes there is always a VIP section for the celebrities, which I was able to sneak into about 50% of the time. At one of the VIP parties I met David Schwimmer and he asked me to back to his room at the Carlton with him, but I turned him down, as I had my eye particularly set on Remy, the chauffeur driver (don't even ask). Anyway, David started pouting and whining, saying, "I can't believe you're telling me no. That's sooo uncool!" I think I half-expected him to tell me he was going to go and tell his Mommy.
At another VIP room, I met Vince Vaughn and Jon Favreau, who were in Cannes promoting Swingers (does this date me or what?!). They were hilarious and adorable, and when we all got back to L.A., a girlfriend and I even went on a double date with Vince and another friend of his. Here's the really embarassing part: Vince completely ignored me all night long. He and his friend had taken us to the Dresden room and led us to the best booth right next to Marty and Elaine (the club's famously kitschy singers), but Vince immediately turned his back to me and started talking to EVERY other girl in the room. Talk about humiliating! Anyway, it was an experience at the least, and one I'll never forget -- especially since my dear friend, Amy, reminds me DAILY how I totally blew it by letting Vince snub me.
Cannes, and the escapades I had there, inspired me to continue traveling by myself, and I subsequently went to Prague, Budapest, Milan, and Paris, each trip completely by myself. Trekking as a woman on my own, I have never been so open to meeting new people and to saying yes to surprising opportunities as they arose. In Prague, with some new-found bohemian friends, I drank two bottles of this half-fermented wine one night and got the WORST hangover of my entire life that lasted three horrific days. I also had a cab driver steal $500 dollars from me there. Budapest was especially terrifying as I ended up staying on the wrong side of the river with the heroin junkies that were on every corner. Additionally I didn't speak the languages or could even read the alphabets in either of those cities, so just getting around was a complete nightmare. Paris and Milan were amazing, as one would expect, and all four of those cities were and are so beautiful that they are almost fragile in their exquisiteness. As if their beauty is a transitory state, and could slip away at a moment's notice -- like most beautiful things, I suppose.
The travel experiences in my twenties created a fervent independence in me, and subsequently I knew I could handle anything that this unpredictable life could throw my way. Even a journey into the wild wonderfulness of my very own family. And, really, that's the craziest and most gratifying adventure of them all.
 |
| Cannes, France, during the festival |
God, the holidays are exhausting! Mentally I think I need a little vacation, and since my mind has been on traveling ever since my last blog, I suppose I'll revisit my overseas exploits in my twenties, particularly when I worked at the Cannes Film Festival. Let me preface this by saying I graduated college early, at 21 (I have no earthly idea why), and immediately went to work in public relations at a company in Los Angeles called Rogers and Cowan. Somehow I ended up in the International Film Department, working for the only two straight men in the entire firm. Actually this was probably because I wore a short skirt and thigh-high socks to my interview. Interestingly enough, at the time I thought that ensemble was totally appropriate, professional even (!). Of course, I must also mention that I had gotten the job on the following prerequisites: 1) I had a passport, and 2) I spoke fluent Italian (this slight exaggeration only further clarifies how truly unprofessional I actually was. I did know a few phrases, namely "Ciao," "Buon Giorno," and "Vai via!" ("Go away!"), the last of which was particularly useful when I studied in Florence and needed some space from the lewd yet charming Italian men who probably still lived at home with their mothers).
After a couple of fairly uneventful years of working for Michael and Lance at R&C, they suddenly asked me to work for the company at the Cannes Film Festival, as Lance had a conflict and couldn't go. It was 5 PM when they asked, could I be ready to leave in the morning? I, of course, immediately started shitting myself and internally screaming, "What?! Oh my God, what am I POSSIBLY going to wear?!" Need I say more? I was in.
I ended up attending three Cannes Film Festivals, and they were and are unlike anything I have ever experienced. First of all, the city itself is BREATHTAKING! There are hundreds of palm trees, pebbly beaches with striped umbrellas, and majestic, sprawling hotels. During the 10 days of the festival, there are celebrities everywhere, throngs of paparazzi, and hords upon hords of tourists. My job was to book and get interviews for our clients. Sounds simple enough, but it wasn't. It was fucking insane. I would have a line of 50 journalists long standing at my desk waiting to schedule an interview, as they impatiently tapped their feet and berated me in strange foreign languages. Then, of course, our clients would be whining over their lack of recognition (they were usually pretty minor in terms of celebrity status) and/or demanding more press. I would literally sleep four hours a night every night for 3 weeks. I almost always got incredibly sick, and even got food poisoning so badly one night that I probably should have gone to the ER.
But here's what made it all worth it: the intense, surreal, amazing parties.
There is so much adrenaline during the festival that even though you aren't sleeping and are working like a steroid-fueled racehorse, at the end of every workday, around 11 PM, you go out. The parties are tented on the beach, or on a yacht, or even in a castle. This one party I remember distinctly (and that's saying a lot, considering how much champagne I was drinking at the time) was The Moving Pictures party. (By the way, Moving Pictures is an international trade publication, and they would always host elaborate fests.) So this party I am talking about was at an enormous citadel on a hill in the old part of Cannes. I remember getting out of the car in, like, slow motion, walking in, and seeing this gigantic courtyard all lit up in pink, with literally 1000 people all swaying in time to music. There were Grecian statues everywhere, and hidden nooks where couples were making out, and so much liquor (and other stuff) it just completely blew me away. It was like all these beautiful and sophisticated people had morphed into one joyous and frenzied mass, and the energy was absolutly amazing. It was probably one of the most magical nights of my life, and I stayed there until 6 AM, when I went straight to the office with a pounding headache and a mysterious necktie around my neck.
At the parties in Cannes there is always a VIP section for the celebrities, which I was able to sneak into about 50% of the time. At one of the VIP parties I met David Schwimmer and he asked me to back to his room at the Carlton with him, but I turned him down, as I had my eye particularly set on Remy, the chauffeur driver (don't even ask). Anyway, David started pouting and whining, saying, "I can't believe you're telling me no. That's sooo uncool!" I think I half-expected him to tell me he was going to go and tell his Mommy.
At another VIP room, I met Vince Vaughn and Jon Favreau, who were in Cannes promoting Swingers (does this date me or what?!). They were hilarious and adorable, and when we all got back to L.A., a girlfriend and I even went on a double date with Vince and another friend of his. Here's the really embarassing part: Vince completely ignored me all night long. He and his friend had taken us to the Dresden room and led us to the best booth right next to Marty and Elaine (the club's famously kitschy singers), but Vince immediately turned his back to me and started talking to EVERY other girl in the room. Talk about humiliating! Anyway, it was an experience at the least, and one I'll never forget -- especially since my dear friend, Amy, reminds me DAILY how I totally blew it by letting Vince snub me.
Cannes, and the escapades I had there, inspired me to continue traveling by myself, and I subsequently went to Prague, Budapest, Milan, and Paris, each trip completely by myself. Trekking as a woman on my own, I have never been so open to meeting new people and to saying yes to surprising opportunities as they arose. In Prague, with some new-found bohemian friends, I drank two bottles of this half-fermented wine one night and got the WORST hangover of my entire life that lasted three horrific days. I also had a cab driver steal $500 dollars from me there. Budapest was especially terrifying as I ended up staying on the wrong side of the river with the heroin junkies that were on every corner. Additionally I didn't speak the languages or could even read the alphabets in either of those cities, so just getting around was a complete nightmare. Paris and Milan were amazing, as one would expect, and all four of those cities were and are so beautiful that they are almost fragile in their exquisiteness. As if their beauty is a transitory state, and could slip away at a moment's notice -- like most beautiful things, I suppose.
The travel experiences in my twenties created a fervent independence in me, and subsequently I knew I could handle anything that this unpredictable life could throw my way. Even a journey into the wild wonderfulness of my very own family. And, really, that's the craziest and most gratifying adventure of them all.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Family Tripping
There are two kinds of parents: parents who travel with their kids, and parents who don't. Fortunately my parents were the kind that took us on every vacation they ever planned, and they planned a lot of them. This meant I was lucky enough to go places that many, many people never get to experience, from Europe to Russia to Scandinavia to more. Some trips were better than others, of course. I would consider crossing the turbulent North Atlantic while being trapped on a dingy for 7 days not one of my personal faves. On the other hand, visiting the bright and bustling city of Istanbul was one of the highlights of my life.
In lieu of all the drama surrounding my last blog entry (and I really can't take much more drama right now - seriously, taking away Teddy's pacifiers was enough for a while!) I thought I would write about some of the Kirk family's most endearing and preposterous moments together while traveling.
The first thing that comes to mind is this cruise we took as a family when I was about 16. My grandfather always was taking us on cruises around this time, as he was getting older and it was kind of self-contained sightseeing. You could go to the filthiest place on earth, step in dogshit, get food poisoning and then get threatened by a homeless vagrant, but at the end of the day you could go back to your clean little perfect stateroom, dress for the early dinner seating, and see a corny magic show at the end of the night. It was truly absurd. Anyway, on this one cruise, in which we were traipsing around the Greek islands, my brother (who was 11 at the time) won the snowball jackpot in bingo. Let me explain what this means: bingo on cruises takes on a whole new level, like, truly cult status. There are three magic components to this: 1) most people on cruises are old, and bingo is a legitimately worthwhile activity, 2) there is really nothing better to do aboard a giant floating hotel, and 3) gambling is perfectly legal when you are at sea. So here comes this irritating 11-year-old punk among all the serious hard-core bingo fanatics (who have been playing bingo aboard the ship religiously every day) and he wins the final snowball jackpot, worth $1600 (probably about the equivalent of $5000 today). People were outraged! There were wails like, "It's not fair!" and "Children shouldn't be allowed to play bingo!" I mean, come on! It was like someone had just told them that their Dr. Scholls were actually aliens eating away at the soles of their feet.
Meanwhile, on this particular day I had opted out of bingo, and instead decided to go to the cruise toga party (um, this is getting really embarassing). I'm wearing, like, this white sheet tied at my shoulder and have lots of kohl eye makeup on and am feeling pretty good about myself. After the bingo extravaganza and the toga thing are through, Andy and I reconvene in our stateroom, he with a wad of cash in his pocket and me in my ridiculous sheet and eye makeup. All of a sudden, for some God-forsaken reason we start fighting over the cash: he thinks I took some, I insist I didn't. At this point our adrenaline, which has been raring to go all day with our extreme cruise ship adventures (I'm thinking that could be a TV show), takes over and we start fistfighting each other, and I mean hard. I knock Andy down, he hits his head on the corner of the table, and begins massively hyperventilating! I totally panic -- I had never seen anyone hyperventilate before -- run out to the hallway in nothing but my toga and kohl, and start screaming, "I need a doctor, a doctor! Help, Help!" The steward immediately sets off the emergency alarm (for our entire floor!)), and, of course, like, five men come running all at once. We all tumble and scramble into our stateroom, only to see Andy, standing up and breathing fine, totally blase, saying "I'm fine now, thanks." Oh...My...God...I seriously wanted to kill the little turd. I then send everyone away, ask the steward to shut off the alarm, and turn to Andy. I look at his face and anxiously await for him to thank me for trying to save his life, even at the risk of my own personal and humiliating Greek tragedy. He earnestly grabs both of my hands in his, looks deeply into my eyes, and says, "You still owe me my money, sis."
One year later, at a stuffy hotel in London, Andy locked me out of our room in nothing but my underwear. That was fun. My parents still laugh about this story each time it is told, as if it is the ultimate laugh riot. Meanwhile, I am haunted by the memories of the uptight bellhops walking past me, trying not to make eye contact as I'm trying to play it cool by crossing my arms and acting nonchalant, while simultaneously growling, "Andy! Open up the door, NOW!" Good times.
There are also amazing, slightly less embarassing memories: bottle-feeding baby sheep in the English countryside, fly-fishing in Scotland, touching a glacier in Alaska, learning to Russian folk dance, and quite simply experiencing cultures outside of my own.
The truth is, I really came of age during these trips. I got drunk for the first time on on a cruise ship (my mom still insists the waiter slipped something in my drink), I was proposed to by a piano player named Cezar, my father was offered 5000 camels for me in Morocco, I went snorkeling and saw castles and ate crazy delicacies. And I feel so blessed for all of it. Now, with the world the way it is, I worry that I won't be able to take my children to the kinds of places I was exposed to, but I dearly hope this isn't the case. And I suppose I feel as if I always have a little deck of cards in my back pocket -- each card representing one of the amazing memories I have from my childhood family vacations, and I simply have to pull out a card to revisit it again. And again.
 |
| Cruise ship fire drill -- I love how Andy's life preserver is swallowing him whole |
There are two kinds of parents: parents who travel with their kids, and parents who don't. Fortunately my parents were the kind that took us on every vacation they ever planned, and they planned a lot of them. This meant I was lucky enough to go places that many, many people never get to experience, from Europe to Russia to Scandinavia to more. Some trips were better than others, of course. I would consider crossing the turbulent North Atlantic while being trapped on a dingy for 7 days not one of my personal faves. On the other hand, visiting the bright and bustling city of Istanbul was one of the highlights of my life.
In lieu of all the drama surrounding my last blog entry (and I really can't take much more drama right now - seriously, taking away Teddy's pacifiers was enough for a while!) I thought I would write about some of the Kirk family's most endearing and preposterous moments together while traveling.
The first thing that comes to mind is this cruise we took as a family when I was about 16. My grandfather always was taking us on cruises around this time, as he was getting older and it was kind of self-contained sightseeing. You could go to the filthiest place on earth, step in dogshit, get food poisoning and then get threatened by a homeless vagrant, but at the end of the day you could go back to your clean little perfect stateroom, dress for the early dinner seating, and see a corny magic show at the end of the night. It was truly absurd. Anyway, on this one cruise, in which we were traipsing around the Greek islands, my brother (who was 11 at the time) won the snowball jackpot in bingo. Let me explain what this means: bingo on cruises takes on a whole new level, like, truly cult status. There are three magic components to this: 1) most people on cruises are old, and bingo is a legitimately worthwhile activity, 2) there is really nothing better to do aboard a giant floating hotel, and 3) gambling is perfectly legal when you are at sea. So here comes this irritating 11-year-old punk among all the serious hard-core bingo fanatics (who have been playing bingo aboard the ship religiously every day) and he wins the final snowball jackpot, worth $1600 (probably about the equivalent of $5000 today). People were outraged! There were wails like, "It's not fair!" and "Children shouldn't be allowed to play bingo!" I mean, come on! It was like someone had just told them that their Dr. Scholls were actually aliens eating away at the soles of their feet.
Meanwhile, on this particular day I had opted out of bingo, and instead decided to go to the cruise toga party (um, this is getting really embarassing). I'm wearing, like, this white sheet tied at my shoulder and have lots of kohl eye makeup on and am feeling pretty good about myself. After the bingo extravaganza and the toga thing are through, Andy and I reconvene in our stateroom, he with a wad of cash in his pocket and me in my ridiculous sheet and eye makeup. All of a sudden, for some God-forsaken reason we start fighting over the cash: he thinks I took some, I insist I didn't. At this point our adrenaline, which has been raring to go all day with our extreme cruise ship adventures (I'm thinking that could be a TV show), takes over and we start fistfighting each other, and I mean hard. I knock Andy down, he hits his head on the corner of the table, and begins massively hyperventilating! I totally panic -- I had never seen anyone hyperventilate before -- run out to the hallway in nothing but my toga and kohl, and start screaming, "I need a doctor, a doctor! Help, Help!" The steward immediately sets off the emergency alarm (for our entire floor!)), and, of course, like, five men come running all at once. We all tumble and scramble into our stateroom, only to see Andy, standing up and breathing fine, totally blase, saying "I'm fine now, thanks." Oh...My...God...I seriously wanted to kill the little turd. I then send everyone away, ask the steward to shut off the alarm, and turn to Andy. I look at his face and anxiously await for him to thank me for trying to save his life, even at the risk of my own personal and humiliating Greek tragedy. He earnestly grabs both of my hands in his, looks deeply into my eyes, and says, "You still owe me my money, sis."
One year later, at a stuffy hotel in London, Andy locked me out of our room in nothing but my underwear. That was fun. My parents still laugh about this story each time it is told, as if it is the ultimate laugh riot. Meanwhile, I am haunted by the memories of the uptight bellhops walking past me, trying not to make eye contact as I'm trying to play it cool by crossing my arms and acting nonchalant, while simultaneously growling, "Andy! Open up the door, NOW!" Good times.
There are also amazing, slightly less embarassing memories: bottle-feeding baby sheep in the English countryside, fly-fishing in Scotland, touching a glacier in Alaska, learning to Russian folk dance, and quite simply experiencing cultures outside of my own.
The truth is, I really came of age during these trips. I got drunk for the first time on on a cruise ship (my mom still insists the waiter slipped something in my drink), I was proposed to by a piano player named Cezar, my father was offered 5000 camels for me in Morocco, I went snorkeling and saw castles and ate crazy delicacies. And I feel so blessed for all of it. Now, with the world the way it is, I worry that I won't be able to take my children to the kinds of places I was exposed to, but I dearly hope this isn't the case. And I suppose I feel as if I always have a little deck of cards in my back pocket -- each card representing one of the amazing memories I have from my childhood family vacations, and I simply have to pull out a card to revisit it again. And again.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Drug Bust
Drugs are really weird. Personally, I would say I've had a moderate experience with them, nothing crazy, nothing too tame.
My first drug experience, outside of alcohol (which, yes, I know, is a drug), was actually a nitrous balloon at one of the many house parties I used to go to in high school on Saturday nights. Everything turned completely green and giddy, and of course that awesome feeling lasted all of 30 seconds (although it really could have been 30 light years, for all I know). From there it was pot, which, honestly, is it even necessary to write about? Almost every single person in the entire world has done it, and if they haven't, well, that's just weird. Sorry, but it is. After that there was Ecstasy, which -- dare I say it? -- was ecstatic, and which was plentiful in California during the 1980s. Unfortunately, I did that a few too many times, and probably destroyed more brain cells and spinal nerve fluid than I'd like to think about. I never really got into hallucinogenics, because, of course, I'm way too paranoid to enjoy letting my mind run away with me.
Then it got kind of weird. I went to college and still did all those things I listed above, but I also kind of got into prescription pills. I developed terrible insomnia and anxiety when I went away to school, and the school shrink (seriously, WHY was there a school shrink?!) prescibed me Xanax. Looking back, I think I was completely hooked on it, although I didn't realize that at the time. I even took too many one time and got into a car accident, but my muscles were so loose and lethargic, that I came out unscathed. God, I was a disaster.
Things subsided for a while after that, although my twenties were really one giant cocktail party (now THAT was fun!). At 29 I became pregnant with my first child, and, of course, my frivolous ways came to a screeching standstill. As I described in my first blog entry, after Bella was born I kind of became a little OCD. I would obsess about the weirdest shit, like what time to the minute the garbage men would arrive and how to keep my daughter's hair free from grease for as long as possible (I wouldn't even let my husband touch it!). Total psycho, I know. So my doctor put me on an anti-depressant which was fine for a while, and then I would go off of it every time I got pregnant. But after Teddy (my third and final), I went on the drug for a little while, and then eventually came to the realization, "Why the fuck am I numbing myself?" We're humans, we're MEANT to feel things, you know? And I'm not saying people don't need it, because they do. There are chemical imbalances and deep depression and all sorts of conditions that those drugs (and others) are a godsend for. I'm just saying that, for me personally, I like to feel and to feel deeply - joy, sorrow, anger, whatever. And fortunately I'm not terribly OCD anymore (probably a little of the opposite, ironically enough), but I DO have emotions and pain and all the crazy stuff that goes along with, just, you know, life.
Here's the downside: all those feelings are draining! I'm emotionally exhausted, like, 99.9% of the time (although that could just be from my three adorably maniacal children). But I now feel challenged and motivated like never before, and that in itself is kind of exhilarating. Not that I don't like to go out and get a little crazy occasionally...ummmm, ok, often. But then when I'm on, I'm really on.
And on that note, I need a drink.
 |
| Sarah and Andy, teenage siblings |
Drugs are really weird. Personally, I would say I've had a moderate experience with them, nothing crazy, nothing too tame.
My first drug experience, outside of alcohol (which, yes, I know, is a drug), was actually a nitrous balloon at one of the many house parties I used to go to in high school on Saturday nights. Everything turned completely green and giddy, and of course that awesome feeling lasted all of 30 seconds (although it really could have been 30 light years, for all I know). From there it was pot, which, honestly, is it even necessary to write about? Almost every single person in the entire world has done it, and if they haven't, well, that's just weird. Sorry, but it is. After that there was Ecstasy, which -- dare I say it? -- was ecstatic, and which was plentiful in California during the 1980s. Unfortunately, I did that a few too many times, and probably destroyed more brain cells and spinal nerve fluid than I'd like to think about. I never really got into hallucinogenics, because, of course, I'm way too paranoid to enjoy letting my mind run away with me.
Then it got kind of weird. I went to college and still did all those things I listed above, but I also kind of got into prescription pills. I developed terrible insomnia and anxiety when I went away to school, and the school shrink (seriously, WHY was there a school shrink?!) prescibed me Xanax. Looking back, I think I was completely hooked on it, although I didn't realize that at the time. I even took too many one time and got into a car accident, but my muscles were so loose and lethargic, that I came out unscathed. God, I was a disaster.
Things subsided for a while after that, although my twenties were really one giant cocktail party (now THAT was fun!). At 29 I became pregnant with my first child, and, of course, my frivolous ways came to a screeching standstill. As I described in my first blog entry, after Bella was born I kind of became a little OCD. I would obsess about the weirdest shit, like what time to the minute the garbage men would arrive and how to keep my daughter's hair free from grease for as long as possible (I wouldn't even let my husband touch it!). Total psycho, I know. So my doctor put me on an anti-depressant which was fine for a while, and then I would go off of it every time I got pregnant. But after Teddy (my third and final), I went on the drug for a little while, and then eventually came to the realization, "Why the fuck am I numbing myself?" We're humans, we're MEANT to feel things, you know? And I'm not saying people don't need it, because they do. There are chemical imbalances and deep depression and all sorts of conditions that those drugs (and others) are a godsend for. I'm just saying that, for me personally, I like to feel and to feel deeply - joy, sorrow, anger, whatever. And fortunately I'm not terribly OCD anymore (probably a little of the opposite, ironically enough), but I DO have emotions and pain and all the crazy stuff that goes along with, just, you know, life.
Here's the downside: all those feelings are draining! I'm emotionally exhausted, like, 99.9% of the time (although that could just be from my three adorably maniacal children). But I now feel challenged and motivated like never before, and that in itself is kind of exhilarating. Not that I don't like to go out and get a little crazy occasionally...ummmm, ok, often. But then when I'm on, I'm really on.
And on that note, I need a drink.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Poems
These are some poems I wrote recently, but, be forewarned, they are VERY different than the stories I write!!!
Apex
In sorrow I curve inward, like a spoon,
clanging against the side
of the empty coffee cups within me.
In laughter,
however,
I become the open space of my soul --
sky blue,
passionate,
reckless.
Storm Warning
My department store desert
was dry
and pleading
with want --
and
I asked for some rain
and then life came down like a torrential rainstorm,
but where are my goddamn arm floaties
because now I'm fucking drowning in all this
life?
I hold my breath (...)
and sink
And then I am weightless --
and free.
Untitled
I'll wait.
I'll want
Your weight
whenever.
(but) Where's
my wildness,
wonderful,
Once?
Apex
In sorrow I curve inward, like a spoon,
clanging against the side
of the empty coffee cups within me.
In laughter,
however,
I become the open space of my soul --
sky blue,
passionate,
reckless.
Storm Warning
My department store desert
was dry
and pleading
with want --
and
I asked for some rain
and then life came down like a torrential rainstorm,
but where are my goddamn arm floaties
because now I'm fucking drowning in all this
life?
I hold my breath (...)
and sink
And then I am weightless --
and free.
Untitled
I'll wait.
I'll want
Your weight
whenever.
(but) Where's
my wildness,
wonderful,
Once?
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Ted's Excellent Adventure
 |
| Teddy at his finest |
Another stellar example: I was talking to the kids about what they wanted to be when they grew up. Our daughter, Bella, also known as Little Miss Perfect, said, "A teacher." Charlie, our temperamental artist, said, "A rock star." And then Teddy furrowed his brow, regarded the question, and answered in total seriousness, "A donut." (By the way, we're still not sure how bright he is, especially considering that when Bella told him he COULDN'T be a donut when he grew up, he feverishly changed his answer to, "A lobster.")
But aside from his disarming sense of humor, what I love, love, love about the kid is his total lack of self-consciousness and his spectacular desire to enjoy life. "T-bone" (his charming nickname) could care LESS about what people or teachers or peers think about him or his behavior, and he just wants to delight in each minute of each day as much as humanly possible. He steps in every muddy puddle just for the pure thrill and joy of the splash. If I give him a bowl of chocolate pudding he immediately sticks his fingers in it and, once that sensory adventure gets old, he begins fingerpainting and drizzling the remains, a la Jackson Pollock. (As you may have guessed by now, I am a little lax in the discipline department. I also have completely given up trying to keep the house in any semblance of order.) Not only is Teddy a pleasure glutton, but he is is also completely fearless, and already has developed a serious penchant for free-falling roller coasters and abnormally large reptiles.
I could go on and on, but I guess what I need to say is that I feel like I have learned so much from Teddy, and that I will probably continue to learn from him. He is the ultimate free spirit, and that is what I, and what I think so many people, would wish to be if they could. He doesn't worry about the rules, about peoples' reactions, about how he looks or smells...he doesn't care. He is totally comfortable in his own skin, and you can take him or leave him, but he is going to express himself however he damn well pleases.
So maybe he's pretty smart, after all.
P.S. I was literally JUST about to publish this when Teddy came running upstairs to me screaming, "Mom! I ate all the bugs in the yard because I was trying to kill them and they were DISGUSTING!!!" In relation to that last line above, all I can say is how outrageously ironic.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Dog Daze
 |
| Me and Junior, one of our multitude of pups |
I'm going to come right out and say it: I'm kind of not a dog person.
I know, I know, everyone's going to be, like, "WHAT?! How can you say that?! Dogs are awesome!" I KNOW they are awesome, I just can't help it. I'm just not that into dogs.
To boot, we we even have a dog, Buddy, but he's really more like my husband's. Poor Buddy. I barely give him the time of day. That coupled with the fact that our 3-year-old Teddy tries to saddle him and ride him like a horse, Buddy's a little tortured.
OK, but here's WHY I'm not a dog person: I grew up with parents who are total dog fanatics with a capital F, and I think over the course of my life I just got a little doggied out. First of all, for some reason at least one of the dogs always wanted to sleep with me in MY twin bed (Maybe they liked the challenge, knowing I wasn't that interested in them?). This led to the frustrating fact that I was never able to fully stretch out my legs while I slept until I went to college. Not only was this incredibly uncomfortable, but fairly noisy too with all that licking of their private parts (Why do they DO that???). That sound still reverberates in my head from time to time and it haunts me.
To help you fully grasp my twisted relationship with dogs, here's a rainbow list of canines that slowly but surely took over my childhood and teenage years:
Rufus -- A giant scraggly English sheepdog that, after one day in our household, attacked me and tried to eat me alive. I was two.
Henry -- A brown, very solid looking dachsund with a superiority complex (I must interject here. My mother is OBSESSED with dachsunds. We had one in our house at all times, we even tried to breed one. Have you ever experienced that? It's absolutely disgusting!). When I was about five I peered under the coffee table at Henry and he snapped at me in a manner that said, "Mind your own beeswax, kid!" Regardless, my mom and Henry were totally attached at the hip. It would have been Freudian if Henry had been her son and not a dog.
Junior -- Perhaps the sweetest, yet most neurotic dog we ever owned. Junior was a grayish-whitish mutt with that really soft long hair that always had about 17 burrs tangled in it. Trying to get the burrs out was just a giant exercise in frustration. We would disentangle one from his fluff and four more would crop up. Poor Junior. He was so insecure that you moment you went to pet him he would instantly roll over and expose his Carotid artery in submission.
David -- This is a really weird story. We got David because he was tied to a tree outside my elementary school, and in the middle of carpool line, my mother bolted out of her car (carpool, schmarpool!) and went over to pet this lonely looking brown and white German Shorthaired Pointer. The principal, whose name was also David (no last names here), ran out of his office and begged my mother to take the abandoned dog home. Turns out David (the dog, not the principal) was friendly and kind, and could leap over 5-foot high fences like nodoggy's business. But here's the weird part: one year later Principal David, who we had named the dog for as you may have figured out by now, was arrested not once, but TWICE for exposing himself to unsuspecting pedestrians in public restrooms. The first time he got off (no pun intended!) by saying he had a war injury that forced him to expose his penis to air before peeing. (!) The second time....well, that was that. Principal no longer. Needless to say, we all tried to move beyond the fact that our dog had been named for a reprobate, and none of us ever spoke of it again.
Reggie/Riley -- These were actually two dachsunds that have melded into one gelatinous memory in my mind. Not only did Reggie and Riley look the same (brown, short-haired), but they had the same exact personality, which was snappy, annoying and standoffish. Reggie ran away to a neighbors house and Riley was run over by a car. Neither of these incidents seemed to upset any of us very much.
Eloise -- ANOTHER dachsund, but this one was mostly black with just a tiny bit of brown at her paws. Unlike Reggie and Riley, Eloise was graceful and elegant. She was truly my mother's dog. and the two of them even looked like sisters in a weird way. Aside from one incident where she gnawed at one of our pet bunny's feet like chew-eez, Eloise was a gentle soul and she lived a long and happy life.
Lulu -- Probably the strangest looking dog we ever had, Lulu was small and white with triangular ears, two different color eyes and no tail. Incidentally, her tail was run over by the pickup truck she fell off of. My mother had been driving behind the pickup truck when this happened, scooped up Lulu and saved her life. Gotta hand it to my mom, she is an absolute SAINT in this way! No doggy left behind! Anyway, Lulu was sweet, affectionate, and forever grateful to my parents for rescuing her.
Brando -- This big guy was another rescue mutt, although Brando was saved from my parents' ranch where he was suffering from total neglect. A German Shepherd mix, he was completely starved for food, water, and attention. Of course my parents whipped right in, took Brando home and never looked back. Unlike the dachsunds, Brando was really my father's dog. He followed my dad EVERYwhere and the two were like Brian Piccolo and Gale Sayers: they took long car rides together, shared meals together, drank lattes together...you get the picture. Brando lived a long and beautiful life, and to this day, the only time I have ever seen my father cry was the day Brando was put to sleep. Talk about gut wrenching.
Kola -- last, but not least, in my family history of dogs was our pure-bred pit bull, Kola. My brother, Andy, had actually bought Kola during one of his manic moments, and subsequently bequeathed the beast to my parents. Yes, Kola was huge and strong, but also very gentle and shockingly smart. Sometimes I would talk to Kola as if she was human, and I swear she would understand every word I was saying. It was like having a giant four-legged therapist, only better than a therapist because she didn't charge. Kola was really both of my parents' dog and she lived so long she even was alive when my children were born. Teddy, a natural dog lover, even spooned with her a couple of times, although I had to nip this in the bud when thay started sharing pacifiers.
So I suppose with this exercise of running through my childhood canines, I have learned that, although I may not be an inherent dog lover, each and every one of our dogs played an important role in my growing up. There were some golden pups, some ne'er-do-wells, some neurotics, and, of course, some bitches (which was actually quite a nightmare when my hormones kicked in during my teenage years -- between me, my, mother, and the female dogs, the bitch energy in our household was terrifying!).
But the real heros in all this are my parents, who saved countless dogs, raised them like they were their own blood, and loved them with their heart and soul. They are unbelievably giving of themselves in this way, and I yearn to give back to something as fervently. And truthfully, you know, I suppose I should probably learn from their example and go downstairs and pet Buddy RIGHT NOW.
Or then again, maybe later.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)