Nine

Breathe breathing thick hot air.
Rancid and trapped within the tube of an enclosed waterslide.
Muffled sounds echo within my ears.

Breathe.
I am breathing gasping forcing air uncontrollably controlled and out of sync to a wholly new rhythm. Perpetual motion impeded by molasses imbedded around my feet each step drag dragging me down as I struggle with Newton and his Law.

Breathe.
Am I breathing?
Swallowing the air of stillborn words that prefer a mute existence and bind themselves in my throat.

Breathing breathy breaths I know I am breathing as I watch the rise and fall of my chest inflate and collapse.
Collapsing.
Collapsed.

The aloof coolness of concrete blankets my warm hot damp high cheekbones offering its indifference to my breathing.

Breathe.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Each crescendo reminds me that I am breathing still.
Still.
The still uncirculated air oscillating in orbit around my body.

Yes.
I breathe.
Breathing breaths of unwanted heaves, but breathing nonetheless.

The List

Feast or Famine. That's what I consider this industry that I am desperately trying to make my career to be. I am either turning down jobs, because I am fully booked, or I hear crickets (not cricuts, though worked on that cute commercial). So I am again unemployed, and have ample time on my hands. Woe is the girl with ample time on her hands. While I was working 12-17 hour days, since like November, I longed for a decent day off. Make that a week. To sleep. To rejuvenate. To re-coop, so that I could fulfill the litany of things I had acquiesced on my To Do List. Number One on that list was/is to MAKE ART! It has been so long now that I feel like the dilettante I had so railed against in grad school, that I am deep in hypocrite territory. So what now? I recently switched HRT from the impregnated horse urine Prempro I was taking to a more liver friendly Combi Patch. Mostly because the quantity of alcohol I am capable of consuming is surreal. Of course, this is more my guilt ridden conscience berating me than actual reality (RE: I'm still a hairs breathalyzer test away from full on AA). But more than that, I've been able to ignore the Nicotine Monster that haunts my dreams. Yes I have FAILED. Big time. And that sux. A lot. Like Major suckarino. Boo. And I'm not sure where to start. This patch has my hormones all in a flux. I was the breakout queen up until a few weeks ago. My relatively pristine complexion had a severe mishap for approximately a month. I have NEVER broken out so badly in the oddest places that I truly felt like I was a pre-pubescent again (OK, I never had breakouts as a teen, but I totally felt like I could be a candidate for Proactiv). NOT FUN. But it seems that the body has finally adjusted (RE: no more erratic breakouts) and recently I had my period. This is significant in that I had not had menses in over 3 months. My doctor informed me that I should not have had menses as soon as I started HRT. But the thing is, I have had regular periods for almost 6 months after starting HRT. She assured me that I should have stopped and if I had menses, I was a strange, irregular, potentially misdiagnosed individual. So with that, I switch HRT medicines and sure enough, begin menses again. What really sucked was that I had gotten rid of all of my period accouchements thinking I would not need them anymore. I was so wrong. So now I have Aunt Flo laughing at me while still in the very real status of being a "young" woman in early menopause. Le sigh. I still believe that I am in early ovarian failure, regardless of what my remaining eggs and ovaries may release. I say that because I am living the very real and significant difference being on HRT has had on my life. But there are definitely other factors going on biologically with my body and that journey has not been so pleasant. Starting with my lack of motivation and drive to actively consider my mental and physical health and wellbeing. I have come to the conclusion that my current apartment is a tomb. Once encased within the living quarters of my dwelling, I have little resistance to escape these four walls and proactively live life. I find myself getting ready for the day, only to discover it has been 4 days since I have left my abode and seen the sun. I fucking live in LA. It's gorgeous outside. Sunny. The PERFECT weather. Almost all the time. And yet, I lollygag. I procrastinate. I curl up in a ball in my bed and stay there. And I HATE it. I am so tired of not living life when left to my own accord. Without a work schedule, I am at a sheer and utter loss. I know, intellectually all of the goals I have planned for me, but it is the implementation that I am weak at. And I am so fucking weak. Goddamnit I am weak. This is not something I am accustomed to. I am the strong one. And suddenly I have to acknowledge that I need help. But from where??

I begin with a list. I like lists, because I get to see, visually, my accomplishments. I get to cross off things. Big things. Little things. All of the in between things. Everything. Sometimes it's as trivial as "take a shower." Sometimes it is "pay such and such bill" or "get oil change." Tomorrow it is proactive. It's business-like. It is get-your-shit-together like. I will attempt to face tomorrow like a job. But rather than monetary reward, I get life credits. I will try to live. A regular, proactive life. And it seems as though all of my posts are about me trying, but that's all I've got at this point. I have to continue to try. And to live. And to experience. Life. All and every aspect of it. To the best of my abilities. They are not as honed as I would like them to be at this moment, but I am still chipping away at the encasement of this dank, dark tomb. Perhaps I should look at the rental ads... but for now, I'll just walk down the steps and go outside.

Looking Back

The last day of the year, so I suppose it's appropriate that I put up one last post for 2011. For the most part, it has been a supremely shitty year. Filled with loneliness, doubt, fear, disappointment, and sadness. I have been encapsulated by a melancholy state that I cannot shake. Perhaps I should face the obvious and admit that I cannot sort all of the things going on in my life and in my head and in my heart alone. 2011 has been a solo journey, and I'm just not as good of a navigator as I thought I would be. So, what's next? Help me if I know.

I dislike the idea of New Year resolutions. It is just another avenue waiting for me to let myself down once again. So, I have not made any resolutions for quite some time. But I know that I desperately need to make some life changes that will assist in my mental, emotional, and physical wellbeing. Being placed on hormone replacement therapy earlier in the year has helped me a great deal, but part of me feels that it has only allowed me to see with greater clarity the fuckedupedness of my life, rather than experience it in the fog that I was in for the past several years. Yet despite all of this, I still hold on to hope. Hope that I will be able to commit to the betterment of myself. Hope that all of the energies I have invested in unrequited emotions will yield better results if I invest them in myself. It is so easy to put this into words, and yet so much more difficult to put them into actions. But such is the journey of life. I am exactly where I am suppose to be because all of the choices and decisions I have made in my life has led me here. Which is also to say, that the choices and decisions I make from this moment on will lead me to some other unknown place in the future. And as frightening as that may be, it is also very exciting. Because as much as there is a chance that things will continue to suck, there is an equal chance that they won't.

Good riddance 2011.

And 2012, let's get to know each other and start this relationship off slow.

Happy New Year to you all.

Canned Soup

I live alone right now. And just finished washing out a can that held the soup I intend on consuming momentarily. It always freaks me out a bit, because once you've lost a bit of your finger to a tin can, it's hard to open one without the reminder to be ginger with your actions. And it's canned soup. Cheap, low in calories and a definitive reminder that a lonely girl is alone. That on top of it's a big ole city that I live in. I can manage a decent life, but there are times when a girl needs to get her drink on. I'm not gonna say that I don't have friends nearby to grab a drink with (ok, that was a bit gratuitous, I have A friend), but on a Saturday night, after listening to the sounds of the city living life outside my window, a girl wants a drink. She want's to participate in life. But, there is no one there. I've been alone all week. Working on putting together a 3 hour lecture for a presentation on Monday at Azuza Pacific University. That in itself has been a trying task, and part of me is thankful that I've not been called up for work. My bank account is not so happy. But tonight, I finally completed the written portion. 15 pages. I like to write out my script, so that there is no faltering in my presentation. I'm anal like that. But I also wanted to celebrate. Yet I am alone. I've ventured to the corner store and purchased a wee bit of Jameson to cheer me on, but have found that it's just not living up to what I had hoped it would be in my mind. So, in a semi-drunken state, I privately replied to the one commenter on my "water wears away stone" post. I'm a bit of a hypocrite in that It may take me weeks to post a blog, yet I expect immediate response to my posting. It's pretty unrealistic, but that's what I expect, nonetheless. The odd thing is that the one person who has replied so far is a stranger. I worked a job with this individual for a couple days and know him only from a professional work experience. And he has been the only person to call me out and challenge me in the one thing I dared put myself out for. So, tonight, in my semi-drunken stupor, I accepted his challenge, and I'm pretty freaked the fuck out about it. I soooo wanna quit smoking, but I soooo don't wanna quit smoking. I love it as much as I hate it. But it's on. It is the fuck on. So, sometime, eventually, tonight, before I fall asleep or pass out, I will have my last cigarette. I will rue this post and rue the post before it and curse my ever having put out in the world this thing. But I put out in the world this thing for this very reason. And a silver lining is that my sister will, in January, turn the age that all women who smoke and take the pill know, will have to quit too. So though I'm several years ahead of her, I will at least know someone else shares my love, desire and abstinence from the thing we want so desperately.

water wears away stone

That's the tattoo I have on my forearm. It was meant as a daily reminder that with perseverance, I could accomplish most anything. Funny thing is that the tattoo is less than a year old and it has already become ornamental arm adornment that exists on the periphery. I rarely notice it, unless it is an aesthetic thing with a particular shirt or blouse I am wearing. Even rarer still, is me reading the words and contemplating its meaning. A permanent faulty reminder, and another thing to add to the growing list of Donna disappointing Donna. Le sigh... In my early twenties, I became a vegetarian, for about 5 years. Land animals. Yes, I was one of those vegetarians who would occasionally eat fish, but still felt haughty in my vegetarianism. I would like to say that my decision to become a vegetarian was for ethical reasons. That it was the socially moral thing for me to do. That factory farming was/is a horrible practice and I would not support that industry. That watching the episode of Faces of Death, where they slaughter the cow, had turned me away from eating meat ever again. But that's not the case. I mean, I grew up in Tennessee, and still lived there. Steak is good! Bacon is good! Chicken, well I've never been a fan of chicken, so I was more than fine not eating that. But a medium rare t-bone steak, meatloaf, pork chops, country smoked sausage, anything cooked in lard!! Mmmm hmmm. So tasty. Anyway, I was at my granny's house with my dad when on the news came a report about ranchers killing bison. Apparently the bison were protected as long as they were in Yellowstone National Park. Once they grazed off park grounds, ranchers would kill the bison to protect their cattle. Hundreds of these bison were slaughtered, for venturing off an invisible land border as they grazed for food. Well, I was appalled by this and stated it with my out loud voice. And it was at this point my father asked if I liked to eat meat, "Don't you like hamburgers? Don't you like steak?" To which I replied, "Of course I do." My father retorted, "Well then, quit your bitching or do something about it." "I will," I said. And I did. I gave up meat right there on the spot and lasted for 5 years. But I gave up meat, because my father called me out. It felt so much like a dare, and I being a stubborn fool, embraced that challenge and wanted to show my dad that I could do something about it. And I surprisingly discovered that I had an incredible amount of will power and perseverance to not eat meat in a "What the hell do you mean you don't eat meat?" (imagine that being said in thick, southern twang) kinda world. I did eventually go back to meat, but mostly for health reasons. I wasn't a healthy vegetarian, and there just wasn't a lot of support for that way of life in the early 90s in Tennessee. Currently, I tend toward a vegetarian diet, though the taco truck below my apartment makes it difficult with their damn asada and carnita tacos wafting through my window...

So I was reflecting on this time, and wondering where the hell that stubborn, foolhardy girl had gone. I had so much will power at one point and time in my life. I felt like I was a force to be reckoned with. But now, now I feel like a shell. No ghost, just a shell. And I disappoint myself almost daily with my lack of willpower. I know that if I don't quit smoking I will die. From cancer, or more likely a blood clot formed in my lungs. I have tried to stop smoking for longer than I care to remember, and still I somehow find myself going back for another drag, that in all reality, doesn't taste very good. I understand the scary as hell health risks, I've guilted myself, I've patched it up, I've nicotine gummed it up, I've cold turkeyed it and they all work for a while. You see, it's not the stopping. I can stop for days or even weeks. It's the starting again that I can't quit. So maybe I need a good challenge. An I dare you. For someone to call me out. So I can finally quit bitching and do something about it.

Thirty days hath September...

It's a shame it has taken me so long to put something up since my last post. This is due in part on intentionality and in part on poor time management and in part on sheer exhaustion. I have been fortunate enough to be employed all month, save 5 days off dispersed in there, which weren't really days off because those are the days you catch up on real life stuff. I am a tired, albeit grateful, girl. I haven't been this physically active on the job for a while. 12-14 hour days moving around, often lifting and moving items from one place to another, or cutting endless reams of paper, or bouncing around in a truck picking up set pieces fighting the desire to be lulled asleep by the rocking passenger seat, or lighting candles, so many candles, and keeping those pillows fluffed just right (the secret is a karate chop, and being half-asian, I perfected it in half-time). These long days have enabled me escape the confines of my small apartment hovel and free my mind a bit from the anxiety inducing thoughts that generally fill my head. It has also provided the emolument I needed to keep me away from the unemployment line, with a little extra so that I can take a short trip in October. One that is long overdue. All of this working has made me pay attention to my body and how it has adjusted to the sudden burst of activity. All and all, I feel pretty damn good about myself and how I have been able to manage all month. I didn't throw my back out and my legs and arms are looking a wee more toned. I was able to manage it all month long. But that's the catch, I'm at the point that if I had to trudge through another month, I'd be a complete wreck. At least I think I would. I just feel like age is creeping up on me and as much as I want to have the energy and stamina to kick it with the twenty-somethings I work with, I just don't have it in me. Or I don't have as much of it in me as I once did. And I have pretty mixed feelings about that. Particularly since September is my birth month.

I was brought into this world on September 11, thirty-something years ago. My birthday was one of the 5 days I had off and thought about posting on that day, but felt overly inundated with 9-11 coverage and crying over the personal and heartfelt stories NPR was featuring all freaking morning that I just went into birthday/9-11 denial mode and shut down. I would treat it like any other day (as much as one can in between the phone calls and family skype video chats). How can I celebrate A) getting older, especially when it coincides with B) The Day That Will Live In Infamy? But I will share my two poignant 9-11 life stories. Being a September child, I started school young, which meant I was the youngest in all my classes. Everyone else would turn 13, 16, 18, etc. before me. I was in my freshman year of college when I turned 18. I had an amazing boyfriend at the time and I was driving to his house to pick him up and we were going to my granny's house for my birthday dinner with the family. He was late arriving from work, and missed the dinner altogether. I went to granny's and had supper and went back to his house to wait for him to return (his parents were in Florida at the time). I stayed there for four days in his house, with his two miniature poodles staring at the front door waiting for him to walk in. He never did. He died the night of my birthday from internal injuries suffered from a motorcycle accident. That was one of the most devastating experiences of my life and changed the course I had chosen for myself. It is the reason I am an artist and not some other "practical" career choice. His early death gave me the courage to pursue my interests and not for purely financial reasons, but for because this is what I want to do with the rest of my life reasons. I will always be grateful for that and have immense love for Kevin Bruce Pugh.

Ten years later, I have another amazing boyfriend (whom I would eventually propose to and marry). Again, I am at his house, though this time we are in Florida (graduate students at USF working on our MFA in visual art). The alarm goes off and it is set to some radio station that is in total chaos, so we push snooze, and figure it is some sort of shock-jock radio schtick. Alarm goes off again and I remember hearing high pitched voices, almost in a panic. Third snooze alarm goes off and I decide to get out of bed and get coffee brewing. I sit on the couch and turn on the TV, and watch in real time the second plane crash into the World Trade Center. Mouth agape. Heart racing. It's not my birthday anymore. It's some other sombre day. And one that has filled me with a multitude of mixed and often contradictory emotions and has deeply skewed my beliefs in human nature. It has changed the course of how we as Americans have lived these past ten years. And looking back at the me I once was and the me I am now, much has changed. I am not the artist I wanted to be, nor am I perhaps the artist I once was. But I still long to be that person, and I believe I still have the courage and fortitude to see my way through.

Farewell September.

Meow

Meow. Mer. Meeowww! I'm a Pussy. Let me start with today was a suck ass day. Totally. Suck. Ass. My lovely, lovely granny called me yesterday to tell me that she put birthday money in our account yesterday. Now when I say our account, I mean our account. My Granny account. This is the very first banking account I ever opened. The one my granny signed onto when I was in high school and took my first ever economics class and decided I wanted to have all the rights and privileges that came with opening a checking account. READ: I wanna go shopping and write some checks byotches! So, when I was 16, my granny went to Sovern Bank and opened me up a checking account. It has since been Nations Bank and is now called Bank of America. My granny has had her lil ole name on my account for more years than I am willing to admit. READ: I ain't telling you byotches my age yet! It was my main bank account until I got marrieds (yes, plural) and I kept it, because some sage advice was given that a woman should always have a separate checking account. So I kept it. It is now referred to as the granny account, because nowadays any funds that are deposited are put there by The Granny. The account is now used for emergency funds or a girl needs to get a lil something special shopping spree. My birthday is coming up, so I thought it was sweet that she filled it early. Not only with birthday funds, but catch this ya'll, with back to school shopping money too. She added a lil extra to compensate for the fact that she takes all the grandkids back to school shopping. Now, I've been out of school for a while. This includes teaching. So I think its so extraordinarily special that my granny still treats all her grandkids the same and still includes me in her thought process when it comes to spending the same amount on everybody. So. So. Sweet. Sigh... Anyway, today I got myself together to do a little a girl needs to buy herself something special shopping spree. And it was a big, ole FAIL. Fail. Fail. Fail. No cute stuff. No great sales. No nothing but traffic congestion and construction. Suck ass boo. Then I had to go to the dentist.

I hate going to the dentist. READ: I fucking hate going to the mutherfucking dentist byotches!! I'm not quite sure when my sheer and utter terrifying fear of the dentist began, but I always tell people, I had a bad experience as a child. That is a lie. I don't ever remember being afraid of the dentist as a child. Good ole Dr. Carpeneter. I heard as an adult he was an alcoholic and a gambler, but that never made any difference to me as a kid. I had a mouthful of cavities, and he filled them up just right. I think my fear began when I got my wisdom teeth pulled. Well, my bottom two wisdom teeth at 22. Worst experience ever. Had a baseball sized lump in my jaw that lasted over a week. No pain medicine, just pain. Blech. Consequently, I didn't return to to the dentist for about ten years. Mostly due to the fact that I didn't have dental insurance, once I grew too old to be on my father's policy. Bad Idea folks. One shouldn't wait ten years, because the news is never good when you go back. I knew that pain in my tooth (or teeth) that I had endured for seven or so years (which caused me to chew food on the left side of my mouth and drink lukewarm fluids- why do you think I like a whisky neat) was probably a good indication something was wrong. That and my top two wisdom teeth had come through, well at least halfway through. Let's just say I understood why kids cry so much when they're teething, and I had been teething for years. So when I was finally able to go back to the dentist, fully insured, I discovered that I had cracked some teeth from grinding my teeth too hard during my sleep. This made since to me and was a bit of a relief to understand why my teeth were hurting so much. Verdict- pull the wisdoms, two crowns and a root canal.  I won't go into too many details, except this one. The root canal was the the most horrible experience ever. Not only did I have three Novocain shots in my mouth, but during the procedure I still felt pain. So much that tears were running down my face, so the doctor gave me a shot right in the root nerve. Apparently, I had a "sensitive" nerve (duh). It certainly made a lasting impression on me, particularly since I opted for gas. Which brings me to today. In LA, my dentist has decided that all of the fillings good ole Dr. Carpenter had given me were loose or defective in some way, so I have had the fortunate opportunity to have all of my fillings replaced (that and another discovered cracked tooth- I do wear an expensive mouth guard BTW). My last appointment, we discovered my nerves were still "sensitive" so to speak, which required an additional numbing shot. One that I reminded him of today, when I went in for the final filling replacement (he is keeping an "eye" on the cracked tooth right now, so delaying the crown on the one tooth I felt really needed attention and the only one that really gives any sort of discomfort). Whadda you know. Shot one, he starts drilling and I jump. Shot two, he resumes drilling, and I jump. He asks if he can keep going and I reply just finish this. Then the tears of pain start leaking from my eyeballs and my quite freaked out dentist decides to give me one more shot. Finally after three shots of Novocain in my mouth and dried leaky eyeballs, he manages to re-fill my teeth. I am shaking with nerves and my fear of the dentist has increased tenfold. That on top of the fact that he does not provide the so necessary gas I need to chill the fuck out. Final verdict- We'll keep an eye on the cracked tooth. WTF! Fuck my cracked tooth. I'm pussy McPussy. I waited ten years for the first crown, I may well last another. Next time knock me the fuck out. There are not enough recreational drugs in this world that will make this dread any better. Shit, shit, shit. I wait for January or so for the next round. For now, I'm waiting for Fat Albert's friend Mush Mouth to exit my body. READ: three shots of Novocain fucks a byotch up byotches!!