So, there was this one time I was running around middle of nowhere Poland, right? Minding my own...doing the tourist thing, as we all do in the middle of nowhere Poland, and this dude flies by on the dirt road on his motorcycle as I'm trying to take pics of a delightful poppy field. I hastily glance over in disgust for him ruining my photographic zen but then quickly turn back to my subject, the most gorgeous red poppy bloom I'd ever laid eyes on.
And then, a minute later, wouldn't you know it, that same fucking engine comes revving up the dirt road again!
At this point, my inspiration is completely fucking lost. I mean, who can take a proper photo of a poppy flower while motorcycles are racing about, am I right!?
"You there!" he shouts in a very polish accent.
I stare back and give a little bit of a nod. I mean, I need to acknowledge him but I'm still very pissed about this whole situation.
"May I show you something?"
As a lady, I'm always quite skeptical of such a thing. So I glance here and there...pretend to inspect the state of my manicure before I respond with a shrug.
"I swear, you'll want to see..."
So, I find myself on the back of this motorcycle but, let's be honest, it's a bit more like a loud-ass moped, flying down this dirt road (as much as mopeds can fly). I'm so freaked out, my arms reluctantly find themselves clinging on to Jakub or whatever he said his name was. It's a good 30 minutes where I've prayed to everyone I know and whatever ghost I've never believed in up in the bright blue sky to have mercy on this terrible decision I've made.
Until we start to slow down and I notice buildings up ahead... it's a small town!
Three minutes later we pull up outside this pub like place sharing the property of a very old, and VERY run down farm.
"Wait here!" he shouts excitedly at me in his accent as he runs into the front door of the pub.
Really? Where the fuck else will I go...
He comes back out two minutes later with a grin as wide as the eye can see and gestures to me, "This way!"
And, I mean, I already made it this far, right? Might as well follow wherever this dude wants me to go even if it means I'll wind up in the bottom of a dried up well...
We walk for about 8 minutes in this overgrown field leading up to a dilapidated barn and then he stops and turns to me.
"Are you ready?" he asks with eyes that are shooting out of him so large they seem as if they are breaching the 8 foot gap between us and stabbing into my forehead.
"Uh, yea.." I stammer. "I think so..." I shrug
And then he opens the door to barn, frantically wipes the path free of cobwebs as we make our entry (quite the gentleman, apparently.) I'm looking down at my feet as old hay and other debris is gathering itself atop my boots.
"See!" He shouts excitedly.
I sniff in mild disgust at the sight of my feet and wave some cobweb away that still managed to attach to my nose before I look up.
And there...
Before me...
Is an old WWII tank....
Jakub climbs up the ladder...waves me to follow.
We climb inside.
He starts it up and it purrs like its 1941.
And then we ride off into the sunset into the Polish farmland...
Until I eventually stop the thing, shove him out the hatch, and carry on the rest of my journey across middle of nowhere Poland.
Thursday, August 23, 2018
Thursday, March 22, 2018
Showing Up is Progress
So, for the last few months I've been seeing a personal trainer at the gym. Only certain people know this already. Partly because others don't converse with me about fitness and partly because I feel like it sounds fancy. Like, "Look at me, I'm paying someone to show me how to workout. Next I'll go buy all the Prada!" I for some reason associate personal training with people who have personal chefs, maids, and chauffeurs. (Also, is Prada even still cool? I don't even fuckin' know. Heather?)
Whatever. We all know this bitch ain't THAT fancy. Many have seen the dog and cat hair tumbleweeds rolling around on the regular at my house. My feet haven't even seen a professional pedicure in at least a year.
Anyway, so, there is that.
When I first started, I had already been in a headspace full of delicious self love. I had already given myself compassion and permission to be who I am including the physical being I inhabit. As a form of expressing this love to myself, I wanted to invest in giving me the best chance to be the best me. Someone to give me the swift kick in the pants as well as have the professional know-how to help me do things like hone my squats, bust out deadlifts, and to tell me that yes, you can do your pushups on your knees and have them still be totally effective. And, I found her. Her name is McKenna and she's at the East Y and is exactly who I needed (in case there are any ladies in Nashville looking for one!) She's tough, overlooks my potty mouth, and has found the best ways to motivate me. And we assist each other in mean-muggin' some of the annoying peeps at the gym.
It's been a very enlightening process. I discovered I love strength training. There is something about pushing your muscles, the ones I thought had completely atrophied to nothing, as hard as you can and seeing them rise up to the challenge and take shape. It's also the reason I can now go on hikes and not opt for the shortest trail and, hell, glide out of my office chair with ease (one thing I didn't even realize before was a slight struggle.)
Since the beginning, I cut over 2 mins off my mile run time, I can deadlift up to 40lbs on regular days (50 when I'm pushing and using small rep counts), and a slew of other things that there was no WAY I could do that morning in December on my first meeting. (Seriously, my squats were the scariest things that day and literally thought I died on the treadmill.)
So much of this work has changed the way I carry myself in life and turned regular, everyday tasks into being just that.
And yet, I nearly cancelled today's appointment with McKenna. Earlier this week I was thinking, "Ugh, I haven't been as regular lately with my personal workouts, she's gonna know I've been slacking, and she'll have just as much shame about it as I feel right now. WHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT THE FUCK???????
Grant it, I've been battling a cough stemming from allergy issues over the weekend. That would have been an easy excuse. But what's really going on is ... (and I thank my friend Amber Arthur for helping me talk through and realize this..) I had lost focus on my true Why.
In the beginning it was simply to get moving and showing my body love. Then I started seeing progress and suddenly my Why shifted to something not genuinely my own. The scale isn't moving... the inches aren't shrinking (or growing in muscle areas)... and all kinds of other bullshit that had somehow leached into my brain. It no longer mattered that I was still making positive steps. I lead myself into this superficial realm of vanity. We all know that leads one down a spiraling rabbit hole full of shit.
How do we manage to do this to ourselves? Somehow just showing up is no longer enough. We have to go harder... be better... wear smaller pants... all while staring at our cheeks in the mirror wishing they weren't still so puffy.
NONE OF THIS SHIT MATTERS.
I'm SO lucky to be surrounded by friends I can say without a doubt love me as much as I love them as well as other amazing things in my life. And, my husband has never once eluded to feeling anything about my body but love as long as I was feeling good. And, my cats knead kitty biscuits way more on momma's belly than daddy's because it's way more fun and squishy. I'd be really sad if they stopped doing that.
I'm babbling this all out and sharing it with you in case my vulnerable phase can help you in any way.
Remember your Why.
Not their Why...not his Why.... YOUR Why.
And that some days, simply showing the fuck up IS the progress. (paraphrased from Amber Arthur <3)
Whatever. We all know this bitch ain't THAT fancy. Many have seen the dog and cat hair tumbleweeds rolling around on the regular at my house. My feet haven't even seen a professional pedicure in at least a year.
Anyway, so, there is that.
When I first started, I had already been in a headspace full of delicious self love. I had already given myself compassion and permission to be who I am including the physical being I inhabit. As a form of expressing this love to myself, I wanted to invest in giving me the best chance to be the best me. Someone to give me the swift kick in the pants as well as have the professional know-how to help me do things like hone my squats, bust out deadlifts, and to tell me that yes, you can do your pushups on your knees and have them still be totally effective. And, I found her. Her name is McKenna and she's at the East Y and is exactly who I needed (in case there are any ladies in Nashville looking for one!) She's tough, overlooks my potty mouth, and has found the best ways to motivate me. And we assist each other in mean-muggin' some of the annoying peeps at the gym.
It's been a very enlightening process. I discovered I love strength training. There is something about pushing your muscles, the ones I thought had completely atrophied to nothing, as hard as you can and seeing them rise up to the challenge and take shape. It's also the reason I can now go on hikes and not opt for the shortest trail and, hell, glide out of my office chair with ease (one thing I didn't even realize before was a slight struggle.)
Since the beginning, I cut over 2 mins off my mile run time, I can deadlift up to 40lbs on regular days (50 when I'm pushing and using small rep counts), and a slew of other things that there was no WAY I could do that morning in December on my first meeting. (Seriously, my squats were the scariest things that day and literally thought I died on the treadmill.)
So much of this work has changed the way I carry myself in life and turned regular, everyday tasks into being just that.
And yet, I nearly cancelled today's appointment with McKenna. Earlier this week I was thinking, "Ugh, I haven't been as regular lately with my personal workouts, she's gonna know I've been slacking, and she'll have just as much shame about it as I feel right now. WHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT THE FUCK???????
Grant it, I've been battling a cough stemming from allergy issues over the weekend. That would have been an easy excuse. But what's really going on is ... (and I thank my friend Amber Arthur for helping me talk through and realize this..) I had lost focus on my true Why.
In the beginning it was simply to get moving and showing my body love. Then I started seeing progress and suddenly my Why shifted to something not genuinely my own. The scale isn't moving... the inches aren't shrinking (or growing in muscle areas)... and all kinds of other bullshit that had somehow leached into my brain. It no longer mattered that I was still making positive steps. I lead myself into this superficial realm of vanity. We all know that leads one down a spiraling rabbit hole full of shit.
How do we manage to do this to ourselves? Somehow just showing up is no longer enough. We have to go harder... be better... wear smaller pants... all while staring at our cheeks in the mirror wishing they weren't still so puffy.
NONE OF THIS SHIT MATTERS.
I'm SO lucky to be surrounded by friends I can say without a doubt love me as much as I love them as well as other amazing things in my life. And, my husband has never once eluded to feeling anything about my body but love as long as I was feeling good. And, my cats knead kitty biscuits way more on momma's belly than daddy's because it's way more fun and squishy. I'd be really sad if they stopped doing that.
I'm babbling this all out and sharing it with you in case my vulnerable phase can help you in any way.
Remember your Why.
Not their Why...not his Why.... YOUR Why.
And that some days, simply showing the fuck up IS the progress. (paraphrased from Amber Arthur <3)
Wednesday, February 21, 2018
Creepy Dreamscape - ROUGH draft
I remember it all like it was yesterday. I had just gotten back to my shared rental house after a horrific afternoon of lecture hall after lecture hall and my roommate was carrying on about a murder down the street.
“It was awful! I can’t believe they left it so open to the public eye for anyone like me to walk by and see such a heinous scene. Literally, man, blood. Everywhere.”
“That’s crazy,” I say half-heartedly because I was well immersed in making my pot of ramen to shove into my grumbling belly. And, well, Roger is a bit of an exaggerative sort.
“Oh, look! It’s already on the news!” He shouts from the living room.
I look at the water in the pot calculating how many moments left before the boil and decided I could go take a peak.
To say I wasn’t even remotely prepared for the scene is a stark understatement. There on the screen was an entire front yard of a house not two blocks away covered with maimed bodies scattered everywhere. Blood spray was all over the white picket fence with a body slumped over into the row of rose bushes. And, is that an arm hanging out of the pot of geraniums? Good lord.
“What the hell are you idiots gawking at...whoa...dude...what the fuck!? Can they even show this shit on tv? Hey, isn’t that the house with the hot blonde that always sunbathes out in the driveway?”
“Yep,” I managed to gulp out barely registering he’d come in the front door.
The three of us just stare. I’m not even hearing anything the reporter is saying because I can’t take my eyes off the gory mess.
“Dude, is something burning?” Roger says off-handedly, his own eyes still fixated on the screen.
“Shit!” I shout and run into the kitchen. All the water boiled away in the pot while I was caught in my stupor leaving the noodles to sizzle burning at the bottom of the pot. I yank it from the heat and turn off the stove leaving the mess behind to go back to the living room. I’m not even remotely hungry anymore anyway.
****
Several hours pass and our house has transitioned away from the television opting to sip some cold beers out on the front steps. The afternoon sun is about an hour from setting and the breeze keeps kicking up a calming, spring warmth. We can still hear the commotion of the television crews and cops down over on the other block.
Roger had moved on to yammering about how shitty his calculous professor is when we hear footsteps coming up our walk. My eyes lazily glance over with my bottle raised to my lips and I’m startled by who it is.
“It’s the hot blonde,” Pete whispers under his breath. The three of us don’t even move a muscle as she continues approaching the porch.
“Hell of a fuckin’ day, boys. You got another one of those somewhere?” She calls brushing her loose hair from her eyes. We still stare for a moment before Pete jumps up.
“Uh, yea. Sure thing!” The porch door creaks and slams as he runs in.
“Here, have a seat,” Roger says standing up to slide over the rusty old chair we have sitting next to the stoop.
“Oh, thank you!” She sighs and plops down into it without a thought.
The silence that followed seemed to last a decade before the front porch door screeches back open and Pete shouts, “Here you go, little lady!” handing her an ice cold High Life.
She rips the bottle from his hand and slams half of it in three seconds. “Woo…” she says wiping her lips with the back of her hand. “This is EXACTLY what I needed.”
The rest of the afternoon and evening go obscenely normal despite what we all know has happened at her house. None of us has the nerve to bring it up and she doesn’t either as we blather on about classes, shitty food in the student union, and the asshole down the street who tears around in his massive loud-ass truck. We eventually order pizza and spread out in the living room to watch some mundane shows on the television and continue on about normal college banter.
*****
I startle awake at 2:13am after hearing...what was that… a shout? I pause for a moment longer staring at the clock. Deciding it was just my imagination, I turn over in my bed.
A few minutes later, I hear my bedroom door opening and my eyes fly open.
“Heyyyyy….”
It’s the blonde. I’m now realizing at this point I don’t even know her name. In all that conversation, not once did we all stop to exchange basic introductions.
I sit up and turn my bedside light on squinting over to the doorway.
“Hey,” my voice rasps back. “What’s up?” As I ask this, I start to take in the sight of her. Her long blonde hair is a fucking mess and her eyes are intensely focused and eerily dark. She begins to approach and I leap out of bed to head towards the doorway. I’m not sure what the fuck is happening but I need to get out of this tiny-ass space right now.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Her arm whips out to wrap around my ribs. Jesus, where the hell did that strength come from!? She’s starting to squeeze even harder on me and I’m starting to lose air.
“What the hell?” I shout hoping it would snap her out of whatever the fuck this is as well as alert a roommate.
“Just giving you a hug….can’t I hug you?” She attempts for it to come out as a sexy purr but it’s drenched with venom. I somehow muster the ability to slam my elbow into her own ribs which loosens a little of her grip. I then swing my fist up hard connecting square into her jaw. She jumps back long enough for me to sprint out of my room and down the hallway.
I slam to a hault when I see Roger on the couch. He looks almost as if he’s sleeping except his eyes are open to slight slits, his arm hangs uncomfortably down to the floor, and a trail of blood is dripping down his chin flowing all the way to the carpet.
“Jesus christ,” I gasp before realizing she’s right behind me. I quickly look around the room for some kind of weapon and spot Pete’s stratocaster on the stand in the corner. I leap for it and swing it wildly just in time to connect with her head bludgeoning her left side.
“Oh shit….I’m sorry…” I stammer as she doubles over. But then she swings back up again with those maniacal eyes and I’m left with no other option but to take another swing.
And,another.
And, another.
Until she’s dead.
I stare down at her body draped on the floor with her sexy legs flailed out wearing Pete’s Pink Floyd shirt and panties while trying to catch my breath. I can’t believe what the fuck just happened. I fling my head over to Roger and then back to her and find myself sprinting out the front door into the cool night air.
I hunch over with my hands on my knees and begin to hork into our overgrown holly bushes in the front garden. I heave four more times before my breath finally calms down and then I stand up straight. My eyes are darting around looking for anyone who could have remotely witnessed what just happened. Barefoot and only wearing my boxers and an old marathon tee, I make my way back inside.
I look down at the floor and she’s still there in a mass with blood from her head slowing seeping into the carpet. Roger is still clearly dead on the couch. Where is Pete in all of this?
Fearing what I will find, I slowly make my way down the hall to Pete’s room, push open the door and flick on the light. Just as I thought, Pete is there in his bed. Only he’s naked. His eyes are still wide open. Bruises have formed in his skin around his ribs and belly area where she must have given him the death grip. But, the most god fucking awful thing about it is his dick has been ripped off and tossed to the floor.
I run to the bathroom to heave again.
****
The sun is rising and I’m back out on the front porch smoking Roger’s cigarettes and drinking cup after cup of coffee trying to assess last night, life, and whether or not I’ll ever sleep again. The front door to the house is wide open because I can’t bring myself to close it thinking about all that’s festering in there right now.
I take a deep inhale, cough a little since I never fucking smoke, and hastily blow it out. There is a soft little mew from the bushes I just horked in and I turn to see the stray cat that is always wandering around.
The orange fur is matted and filthy as it comes to rub up against my shins.
“Hey there… I’m not sure you want to be here right now, friend…” as I reach down to stroke it’s head. The mangey thing starts to purr so I keep petting because I have no idea what the fuck else to do in life right now.
A car drives by and I quickly look up assuming for some reason it’s a cop coming to haul me in but it’s just a random Suburban and they keep on going.
I glance back down at the cat at my fingertips and its now looking up at me with pitch black globus things where its eyes once were. The ears are ever so slightly back. Is it? Holy shit… it’s giving me that same fucking look the hot blonde had.
And, then the thing lunges for my neck wrapping its body around it squeezing my windpipe shut. The cigarette falls from my hand and the mug of coffee is punted off the porch causing me to faintly register scolding hot liquid on my bare foot as I work my hands at the cat trying to rip off me.
I pry and pry but it’s not budging and I’m not breathing. My eyes peg a solar light sticking out of the ground at the bottom step of the porch. Lunging myself with all my might to the ground, I rip it out of the dirt and stab the pointed end into the body of the cat. It was just enough to cause it to go slack a bit allowing me to pull it off and throw it to the ground. The body is still wriggling and its nasty eyes find me and begins to prep itself for another leap up. So, I take the light and stab it right in the head causing one of the black eyes to pop out onto the ground.
Realizing the little beast is dead, I flop down into the grass once again trying to catch my breath. The sky is stretching to a beautiful pink now.
When my heart rate slows, I pull myself up out of the grass and start walking down the street. As I walk, I notice brilliant colors everywhere. Wow...when did the neighbor’s blue truck get soooo bluuuue. Am I high? Is this what murder does to people?
As I continue my stroll, I spot an old man collecting his paper from the end of the driveway. He sees me and, noticing my state, hesitantly gives me a wave. I wave back and feel myself beaming a smile while walking towards him.
The world grows more and more magnified as every blade of grass stands out waving hello at me. The old man’s chest begins to glow a brilliant red where his heart is. As the red deepens to a vibrant crimson, the path of his veins color in as well. I make my way to the old man, reach out, and squeeze.
And, squeeze.
Every.
Last.
Breath.
“It was awful! I can’t believe they left it so open to the public eye for anyone like me to walk by and see such a heinous scene. Literally, man, blood. Everywhere.”
“That’s crazy,” I say half-heartedly because I was well immersed in making my pot of ramen to shove into my grumbling belly. And, well, Roger is a bit of an exaggerative sort.
“Oh, look! It’s already on the news!” He shouts from the living room.
I look at the water in the pot calculating how many moments left before the boil and decided I could go take a peak.
To say I wasn’t even remotely prepared for the scene is a stark understatement. There on the screen was an entire front yard of a house not two blocks away covered with maimed bodies scattered everywhere. Blood spray was all over the white picket fence with a body slumped over into the row of rose bushes. And, is that an arm hanging out of the pot of geraniums? Good lord.
“What the hell are you idiots gawking at...whoa...dude...what the fuck!? Can they even show this shit on tv? Hey, isn’t that the house with the hot blonde that always sunbathes out in the driveway?”
“Yep,” I managed to gulp out barely registering he’d come in the front door.
The three of us just stare. I’m not even hearing anything the reporter is saying because I can’t take my eyes off the gory mess.
“Dude, is something burning?” Roger says off-handedly, his own eyes still fixated on the screen.
“Shit!” I shout and run into the kitchen. All the water boiled away in the pot while I was caught in my stupor leaving the noodles to sizzle burning at the bottom of the pot. I yank it from the heat and turn off the stove leaving the mess behind to go back to the living room. I’m not even remotely hungry anymore anyway.
****
Several hours pass and our house has transitioned away from the television opting to sip some cold beers out on the front steps. The afternoon sun is about an hour from setting and the breeze keeps kicking up a calming, spring warmth. We can still hear the commotion of the television crews and cops down over on the other block.
Roger had moved on to yammering about how shitty his calculous professor is when we hear footsteps coming up our walk. My eyes lazily glance over with my bottle raised to my lips and I’m startled by who it is.
“It’s the hot blonde,” Pete whispers under his breath. The three of us don’t even move a muscle as she continues approaching the porch.
“Hell of a fuckin’ day, boys. You got another one of those somewhere?” She calls brushing her loose hair from her eyes. We still stare for a moment before Pete jumps up.
“Uh, yea. Sure thing!” The porch door creaks and slams as he runs in.
“Here, have a seat,” Roger says standing up to slide over the rusty old chair we have sitting next to the stoop.
“Oh, thank you!” She sighs and plops down into it without a thought.
The silence that followed seemed to last a decade before the front porch door screeches back open and Pete shouts, “Here you go, little lady!” handing her an ice cold High Life.
She rips the bottle from his hand and slams half of it in three seconds. “Woo…” she says wiping her lips with the back of her hand. “This is EXACTLY what I needed.”
The rest of the afternoon and evening go obscenely normal despite what we all know has happened at her house. None of us has the nerve to bring it up and she doesn’t either as we blather on about classes, shitty food in the student union, and the asshole down the street who tears around in his massive loud-ass truck. We eventually order pizza and spread out in the living room to watch some mundane shows on the television and continue on about normal college banter.
*****
I startle awake at 2:13am after hearing...what was that… a shout? I pause for a moment longer staring at the clock. Deciding it was just my imagination, I turn over in my bed.
A few minutes later, I hear my bedroom door opening and my eyes fly open.
“Heyyyyy….”
It’s the blonde. I’m now realizing at this point I don’t even know her name. In all that conversation, not once did we all stop to exchange basic introductions.
I sit up and turn my bedside light on squinting over to the doorway.
“Hey,” my voice rasps back. “What’s up?” As I ask this, I start to take in the sight of her. Her long blonde hair is a fucking mess and her eyes are intensely focused and eerily dark. She begins to approach and I leap out of bed to head towards the doorway. I’m not sure what the fuck is happening but I need to get out of this tiny-ass space right now.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Her arm whips out to wrap around my ribs. Jesus, where the hell did that strength come from!? She’s starting to squeeze even harder on me and I’m starting to lose air.
“What the hell?” I shout hoping it would snap her out of whatever the fuck this is as well as alert a roommate.
“Just giving you a hug….can’t I hug you?” She attempts for it to come out as a sexy purr but it’s drenched with venom. I somehow muster the ability to slam my elbow into her own ribs which loosens a little of her grip. I then swing my fist up hard connecting square into her jaw. She jumps back long enough for me to sprint out of my room and down the hallway.
I slam to a hault when I see Roger on the couch. He looks almost as if he’s sleeping except his eyes are open to slight slits, his arm hangs uncomfortably down to the floor, and a trail of blood is dripping down his chin flowing all the way to the carpet.
“Jesus christ,” I gasp before realizing she’s right behind me. I quickly look around the room for some kind of weapon and spot Pete’s stratocaster on the stand in the corner. I leap for it and swing it wildly just in time to connect with her head bludgeoning her left side.
“Oh shit….I’m sorry…” I stammer as she doubles over. But then she swings back up again with those maniacal eyes and I’m left with no other option but to take another swing.
And,another.
And, another.
Until she’s dead.
I stare down at her body draped on the floor with her sexy legs flailed out wearing Pete’s Pink Floyd shirt and panties while trying to catch my breath. I can’t believe what the fuck just happened. I fling my head over to Roger and then back to her and find myself sprinting out the front door into the cool night air.
I hunch over with my hands on my knees and begin to hork into our overgrown holly bushes in the front garden. I heave four more times before my breath finally calms down and then I stand up straight. My eyes are darting around looking for anyone who could have remotely witnessed what just happened. Barefoot and only wearing my boxers and an old marathon tee, I make my way back inside.
I look down at the floor and she’s still there in a mass with blood from her head slowing seeping into the carpet. Roger is still clearly dead on the couch. Where is Pete in all of this?
Fearing what I will find, I slowly make my way down the hall to Pete’s room, push open the door and flick on the light. Just as I thought, Pete is there in his bed. Only he’s naked. His eyes are still wide open. Bruises have formed in his skin around his ribs and belly area where she must have given him the death grip. But, the most god fucking awful thing about it is his dick has been ripped off and tossed to the floor.
I run to the bathroom to heave again.
****
The sun is rising and I’m back out on the front porch smoking Roger’s cigarettes and drinking cup after cup of coffee trying to assess last night, life, and whether or not I’ll ever sleep again. The front door to the house is wide open because I can’t bring myself to close it thinking about all that’s festering in there right now.
I take a deep inhale, cough a little since I never fucking smoke, and hastily blow it out. There is a soft little mew from the bushes I just horked in and I turn to see the stray cat that is always wandering around.
The orange fur is matted and filthy as it comes to rub up against my shins.
“Hey there… I’m not sure you want to be here right now, friend…” as I reach down to stroke it’s head. The mangey thing starts to purr so I keep petting because I have no idea what the fuck else to do in life right now.
A car drives by and I quickly look up assuming for some reason it’s a cop coming to haul me in but it’s just a random Suburban and they keep on going.
I glance back down at the cat at my fingertips and its now looking up at me with pitch black globus things where its eyes once were. The ears are ever so slightly back. Is it? Holy shit… it’s giving me that same fucking look the hot blonde had.
And, then the thing lunges for my neck wrapping its body around it squeezing my windpipe shut. The cigarette falls from my hand and the mug of coffee is punted off the porch causing me to faintly register scolding hot liquid on my bare foot as I work my hands at the cat trying to rip off me.
I pry and pry but it’s not budging and I’m not breathing. My eyes peg a solar light sticking out of the ground at the bottom step of the porch. Lunging myself with all my might to the ground, I rip it out of the dirt and stab the pointed end into the body of the cat. It was just enough to cause it to go slack a bit allowing me to pull it off and throw it to the ground. The body is still wriggling and its nasty eyes find me and begins to prep itself for another leap up. So, I take the light and stab it right in the head causing one of the black eyes to pop out onto the ground.
Realizing the little beast is dead, I flop down into the grass once again trying to catch my breath. The sky is stretching to a beautiful pink now.
When my heart rate slows, I pull myself up out of the grass and start walking down the street. As I walk, I notice brilliant colors everywhere. Wow...when did the neighbor’s blue truck get soooo bluuuue. Am I high? Is this what murder does to people?
As I continue my stroll, I spot an old man collecting his paper from the end of the driveway. He sees me and, noticing my state, hesitantly gives me a wave. I wave back and feel myself beaming a smile while walking towards him.
The world grows more and more magnified as every blade of grass stands out waving hello at me. The old man’s chest begins to glow a brilliant red where his heart is. As the red deepens to a vibrant crimson, the path of his veins color in as well. I make my way to the old man, reach out, and squeeze.
And, squeeze.
Every.
Last.
Breath.
Saturday, July 23, 2016
Excavating.
We've been Konmari'ing the hell out of the house.
For those who don't know what Konmari is, here is my version of it: I take the item and hold it up. Does this thing make me smile or feel good in any damn way at all? No? Get the fuck out of my house.
We've emptied an entire dresser. Hundreds of cds have been either filed away or boxed up for selling to a shop. I've purged so many books that if I really stop and think about it, my heart will tear a little more. And, let's not even talk about all those clothes that I no longer fit into because there is just a bit more of me to love right now. But, I found the delight of feeling like all the things have a place far outweighs hanging on to that one paperback beach read that will probably never be opened again or that dress I wore to that one party that really isn't THAT cute anyway.
To be honest, most of the house was a cinch. I found myself almost high off this practice and addicted to tidying all the spaces. However, I hit a massive, anger-filled wall when it came to the last room (you can ask Wes, there was a hideously grumpy display on my part the night we started tackling it.) It's the ol' guest bedroom meets office meets art studio meets library meets "401k statement and other paperwork for expensive shit" filing station. This is where most of purging of books took place. And, art supplies. Vacation memorabilia! (Because, you know, we needed to save all the coasters swiped from pubs across England featuring different beers consumed. Come to think of it, we did save those.) And, WHAT DO I DO WITH ALL THESE PHOTOGRAPHS!? No wonder no one prints the damn things anymore. The good news is I don't have to buy gift wrapping supplies for at least the next two years.
It was also in this room that I unearthed the numerous paintings I've done over the years. For anyone that knows me well, they know these things are only cranked out in two scenarios: 1) When I'm coerced into doing one of those "Let's get shitfaced on wine and paint the same painting!!!!!!" parties (to be fair, it doesn't take much coercing cuz that shit is kind of fun), or 2) when I'm fighting a soul-purging phase of depression. I'd always been hesitant to hang these things up around the house out of fear because people wouldn't get the frantic strokes of mostly dark colors (or, because my friends are clearly better drunk painters than me and you will see the same fucking scene detailing a higher level of depiction at their house.)
Today is the day I said, "Fuck it." There is now a massive piece hanging above the guest bed. The strokes are hasty and rough. It's one of those you'd see in the art museum and probably not get it. But, I look at it and I see a moment in my life where nothing else made sense but to make this piece. Because it's so big, I painted it from above while it was on the floor. There are literally my own tears mixed in with the paint because I was sobbing as I anxiously swiped away everything I was feeling. I didn't even sign it that evening because I thought for sure I'd need to come back to it. And, I never did nor have I painted anything since.
I've become friends with my depression after that. It teaches me so much when I'm really in the thick of it. I recently admitted this to a therapist and he tried to chuck drugs at me as he was of the opinion that you shouldn't get "sad" (since we all know that's really all depression is, right?) Fuck that and fuck that guy. Depression will squeeze a soul until it either fades away to nothing or explodes. I explode. It leads me to life exploration. It leads me to creation. It forces me to claw around through the mud, excavate all the gems, climb out of the hole, and wash those beauties off with a hose to put on a shelf.
So, today I honor this slightly dodgy painting as a symbol of honoring that side of me. And, I leave you with one of my favorite poems that I've posted a billion times on various social media.
Love and light, with a healthy dose of dark every now and then, to all of you!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Some People" - Charles Bukowski
some people never go crazy.
me, sometimes I'll lie down behind the couch
for 3 or 4 days.
they'll find me there.
it's Cherub, they'll say, and
they pour wine down my throat
rub my chest
sprinkle me with oils.
then, I'll rise with a roar,
rant, rage -
curse them and the universe
as I send them scattering over the
lawn.
I'll feel much better,
sit down to toast and eggs,
hum a little tune,
suddenly become as lovable as a
pink
overfed whale.
some people never go crazy.
what truly horrible lives
they must lead.
For those who don't know what Konmari is, here is my version of it: I take the item and hold it up. Does this thing make me smile or feel good in any damn way at all? No? Get the fuck out of my house.
We've emptied an entire dresser. Hundreds of cds have been either filed away or boxed up for selling to a shop. I've purged so many books that if I really stop and think about it, my heart will tear a little more. And, let's not even talk about all those clothes that I no longer fit into because there is just a bit more of me to love right now. But, I found the delight of feeling like all the things have a place far outweighs hanging on to that one paperback beach read that will probably never be opened again or that dress I wore to that one party that really isn't THAT cute anyway.
To be honest, most of the house was a cinch. I found myself almost high off this practice and addicted to tidying all the spaces. However, I hit a massive, anger-filled wall when it came to the last room (you can ask Wes, there was a hideously grumpy display on my part the night we started tackling it.) It's the ol' guest bedroom meets office meets art studio meets library meets "401k statement and other paperwork for expensive shit" filing station. This is where most of purging of books took place. And, art supplies. Vacation memorabilia! (Because, you know, we needed to save all the coasters swiped from pubs across England featuring different beers consumed. Come to think of it, we did save those.) And, WHAT DO I DO WITH ALL THESE PHOTOGRAPHS!? No wonder no one prints the damn things anymore. The good news is I don't have to buy gift wrapping supplies for at least the next two years.
It was also in this room that I unearthed the numerous paintings I've done over the years. For anyone that knows me well, they know these things are only cranked out in two scenarios: 1) When I'm coerced into doing one of those "Let's get shitfaced on wine and paint the same painting!!!!!!" parties (to be fair, it doesn't take much coercing cuz that shit is kind of fun), or 2) when I'm fighting a soul-purging phase of depression. I'd always been hesitant to hang these things up around the house out of fear because people wouldn't get the frantic strokes of mostly dark colors (or, because my friends are clearly better drunk painters than me and you will see the same fucking scene detailing a higher level of depiction at their house.)
Today is the day I said, "Fuck it." There is now a massive piece hanging above the guest bed. The strokes are hasty and rough. It's one of those you'd see in the art museum and probably not get it. But, I look at it and I see a moment in my life where nothing else made sense but to make this piece. Because it's so big, I painted it from above while it was on the floor. There are literally my own tears mixed in with the paint because I was sobbing as I anxiously swiped away everything I was feeling. I didn't even sign it that evening because I thought for sure I'd need to come back to it. And, I never did nor have I painted anything since.
I've become friends with my depression after that. It teaches me so much when I'm really in the thick of it. I recently admitted this to a therapist and he tried to chuck drugs at me as he was of the opinion that you shouldn't get "sad" (since we all know that's really all depression is, right?) Fuck that and fuck that guy. Depression will squeeze a soul until it either fades away to nothing or explodes. I explode. It leads me to life exploration. It leads me to creation. It forces me to claw around through the mud, excavate all the gems, climb out of the hole, and wash those beauties off with a hose to put on a shelf.
So, today I honor this slightly dodgy painting as a symbol of honoring that side of me. And, I leave you with one of my favorite poems that I've posted a billion times on various social media.
Love and light, with a healthy dose of dark every now and then, to all of you!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Some People" - Charles Bukowski
some people never go crazy.
me, sometimes I'll lie down behind the couch
for 3 or 4 days.
they'll find me there.
it's Cherub, they'll say, and
they pour wine down my throat
rub my chest
sprinkle me with oils.
then, I'll rise with a roar,
rant, rage -
curse them and the universe
as I send them scattering over the
lawn.
I'll feel much better,
sit down to toast and eggs,
hum a little tune,
suddenly become as lovable as a
pink
overfed whale.
some people never go crazy.
what truly horrible lives
they must lead.
Tuesday, May 3, 2016
Untitled 5-3-16
And sometimes we are just floating
Like a feather in the wind
Swirling amongst the flowers
Past the willow trees
Through the beams of sunlight
Until settling softly on a cluster of grass blades
These blades
They hold us up
Strangers though we may be
Until the next strong wind sails us
Beyond the reach of certainty.
Monday, April 11, 2016
Rusty
And so a day will come
When I will be braver than what you see.
Washed away are yesterdays
And the times of a weaker me.
But do not see this as regret
Or a cry for your concern.
It takes these trials, these tribulations
For my stubborn self to learn.
I will look back through my years
And all the stories I've known
I will be proud to say that this one...
This one is my very own.
When I will be braver than what you see.
Washed away are yesterdays
And the times of a weaker me.
But do not see this as regret
Or a cry for your concern.
It takes these trials, these tribulations
For my stubborn self to learn.
I will look back through my years
And all the stories I've known
I will be proud to say that this one...
This one is my very own.
Monday, November 2, 2015
The Rescue
It was a hot, August afternoon in 2003. I was driving in my 1990 Acura Integra with broken A/C. I remember sweating profusely on my journey to the animal control to meet a photo-less listing on Petfinder.com. As I walked in the door, I noticed there was a large cage in the front room with the most beautiful, blue-eyed boy. We locked eyes as I bent down and he instantly sidled up eagerly trying to cram his nose through the square hole to touch my fingertips. I giggled as his feet sloshed about in his water bowl from his haste to try to get at me.
"This has to be him," I thought to myself.
The staff pulled him out and led us both to a private room with a floor littered in cloth mice and feathered toys that will quickly be ignored. He jumped into my lap immediately purring and frantically burying his face into my side as if to say, "You finally found me..."
$25 later, warranting the nickname I'd later give him of my "Bargain Kitty", he was coming home with me.
And, that was it. From then on, I had my best friend. I had only lived in Nashville for three months and was desperate for a sense of home. And, here he was needing the same thing.
Over the years, his hugs went from five seconds of simple obliging to him meowing at me in protest when I had to put him down after a few minutes. We would lay together eye-to-eye staring at each other for moments that seemed like eternity. Countless times his fur would wind up soaked with my tears on exceptionally bad days as he listened to my worries. That fur... I will miss the smell of his fur. A combination of stuffed animal and warmth and home. There is really no other way to describe it...
I will miss him racing from another room to try and climb in the fridge to nibble on six-pack rings on the bottom shelf...
I will miss finding him sitting in the window staring at birds...
I will miss him growling at the garbage trucks as if defending me while I napped...
I will miss him reprimanding Sparky for me with hisses and swats when he was a bad dog...
I will miss him waking me up every night sitting on my chest purring and nudging my face for some love...
I will miss him stretched out on my legs as the only male to watch romantic comedies time and time again without a single complaint...
I will miss him army crawling up my stomach to my chest to weasel his head under the bottom of my book and nudge it out of the way...
All this to say... I will miss every little thing about my fur boy.
Some people may think he was just a cat but I'm lucky to say he was one of my soulmates.
Until we meet again my sweet boy, I love you Oscar Fox.
"This has to be him," I thought to myself.
The staff pulled him out and led us both to a private room with a floor littered in cloth mice and feathered toys that will quickly be ignored. He jumped into my lap immediately purring and frantically burying his face into my side as if to say, "You finally found me..."
$25 later, warranting the nickname I'd later give him of my "Bargain Kitty", he was coming home with me.
And, that was it. From then on, I had my best friend. I had only lived in Nashville for three months and was desperate for a sense of home. And, here he was needing the same thing.
Over the years, his hugs went from five seconds of simple obliging to him meowing at me in protest when I had to put him down after a few minutes. We would lay together eye-to-eye staring at each other for moments that seemed like eternity. Countless times his fur would wind up soaked with my tears on exceptionally bad days as he listened to my worries. That fur... I will miss the smell of his fur. A combination of stuffed animal and warmth and home. There is really no other way to describe it...
I will miss him racing from another room to try and climb in the fridge to nibble on six-pack rings on the bottom shelf...
I will miss finding him sitting in the window staring at birds...
I will miss him growling at the garbage trucks as if defending me while I napped...
I will miss him reprimanding Sparky for me with hisses and swats when he was a bad dog...
I will miss him waking me up every night sitting on my chest purring and nudging my face for some love...
I will miss him stretched out on my legs as the only male to watch romantic comedies time and time again without a single complaint...
I will miss him army crawling up my stomach to my chest to weasel his head under the bottom of my book and nudge it out of the way...
All this to say... I will miss every little thing about my fur boy.
Some people may think he was just a cat but I'm lucky to say he was one of my soulmates.
Until we meet again my sweet boy, I love you Oscar Fox.
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