Name Game

Writing Exercise 8

~ Tell the origin of your first name.
~ Were you named for someone?
~ Is it a name of your parents' own creation?
~ If you don't know, make it up...

Be as wild as you like.

Start with:  It was a difficult decision...

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It was a difficult decision because I had to settle on just one.  There were so many names to choose from, how does anyone pick just one?  I wondered how people do it when they are picking names for their kids.  I suppose if you have a family tradition of naming the first child after the father or some other similar rule-bound naming conventions, it takes the ambiguity out of the choice.  But how do others do it?  How does someone pick one name from hundreds and hundreds to be their child's name?  Then again, why did I care?  I wasn't picking a name for a child - I was picking a name for myself.

For as long as I can remember myself, I've always hated my given name.  Both the full and the shortened version.  I hated it with a sense of revulsion that I reserved for the sensation of wet clothes sticking to damp skin when you get caught in a downpour on a cold, windy day.  The sound of my name, even its diminutive form, set my teeth on edge.  My friends all knew of my antipathy - with them my name morphed into its male version which was at least tolerable or got abandoned in favor of a nickname. 

It wasn't until years later that I realized that I didn't have to keep the name I had.  It was mine and if I didn't like it, I could change it.  The realization was like an electrical shock from a faulty outlet - a sudden jolt and an enduring echo of the thought that just wouldn't leave.  So, what name to pick?

I started by setting some ground rules.  My name was misspelled so often and so hideously that one thing was certain - the name I pick will be one that no one will ever misspell again.  I also didn't want to worry about full v short versions, so another trait of my new name was going to be consistency.  Just one form of it and it will be clear, crisp, and unambiguous.

And last, but not least, it would be American.  Not a name that is so American as to be completely out of character for me, but American enough where people seeing it on paper will not immediately know who I am.  Was I trying to hide my origin?  Yes and no...  I never wanted to hide the fact that I was not born in the United States.  I am a foreigner and I am intensely proud of it.  I don't know if one can be proud of something they had no hand in... after all, I had nothing to do with being born where I was.  But I am proud of the fact that my heritage is one unique strand of what makes me who I am.  What I was trying to conceal was not the actual fact of being a foreigner; I was trying to conceal the specifics of where I am from.  I want people to know that I'm a foreigner - my looks and my accent are clues enough.  But what most cannot tell is where I am actually from and I like that.  The wild guesses are amusing too.

Once I settled on those criteria it was time to make a selection.  Some of the names I like (Alexandra, Katherine, Samantha) failed on the first two criteria of being spelling error free and not having variations.

Many of the others (Emily, Olivia, Cassie) failed on the third requirement - I am just not a good fit for any of those and anyone who reads this and has met me will be able to attest to that. 

Trying on names is not like trying on clothes or shoes.  You can't wear it for a bit and return it to the store or consign it to the back of the closet.  Picking a name is rather like picking a husband - sure, you can always get a divorce if it doesn't work out, but you don't want to go into a marriage thinking that.  And you don't want to pick a name with the thought that if you don't like it, you can change it later.  Yet, that's exactly what I did.  (With the name, not the husband, for those of you wondering)

I was so paralyzed by the fear of choosing the wrong name that I gave myself an implicit permission to change it if I don't like it.  And the name I picked?  Jane.  Simple, easy to spell, just one form and as generic as you get.  It's a name that served me well for years...  Until it was time for a change.

My name is no longer Jane, but that's a story for another time.  One thing I know for certain is this...  I love the name I have now and when it's time, I'll change it again.

(Not) Enjoying the silence

I notice that I am almost never surrounded by silence.  Silence is deafening and beyond frightening.  Silence is the unknown - what will fill it if you don't fill it first? 

For as long as I can remember, I've talked to myself out loud when I was alone.  Not because I had to, but because I couldn't stand the pressure of absolute silence.

As a child I had an old-style record player and a selection of records - both stories as well as songs - that I used to play over and over again.  I am sure that it drove everyone around me up the walls, but it kept me out of their hair so they put up with it.  I knew most of the records by heart, I could recite the long stories word for word along with the record or by myself, but I kept playing the records to stave off the silence.

As I got older I switched to cassette tapes, radio, and eventually CDs.  It didn't matter what the sound was, as long as there was something burbling in the background.  In college, my radio was as close to the door of my room as I could get it - as few steps as possible from the hallway into the silence before the announcer's voice filled the room.  These days, it's TV or Pandora.  The moment I come home, I flick the button on the remote.  Maybe that's why I can't write at home.  I can't concentrate with the TV on and I can't turn it off, petrified that once the silence falls, all I'll be left with is the clamor of my thoughts.  And I fight so hard to push them to the back of my mind, to not let them rise to the surface that the inanity of TV is infinitely more welcome than the loss of that particular battle.

A couple of months ago I came across a song and fell in love.  It took a few times of hearing it before I realized just how much I like it and then it was like a drug.  I spent a couple of evenings just playing the song on a loop for hours.  The song, in case you're wondering, is Mortal by Baskery and it's playing on a loop now as I'm writing this.  As loud as I can stand it, drowning out the sounds of the cafe around me.

Listening to it now brings me back to the first time I fell for the song and therein lies the problem with my obsession with certain songs and pieces of music.  As I fall in love with a particular piece of music it becomes inextricably linked with that bit of my life.  It's like eating so much ice cream at once that you make yourself sick and then can never eat that flavor of ice cream again.  It's a self-poisoning of sorts, but then I've never been good with moderation, my mother can testify to that first hand.  It's an enduring source of wonderment to me that I never took up smoking or became addicted to alcohol or drugs.

But there is something that I'm addicted to...  It's an addiction that I fight on and off multiple times each day, the more stressful the day, the harder the fight.

I look at the faint scar on my left forearm and shudder.  So faint now...

It's a fight that I've lost before and will lose again.  I hope.

Regrets of 2012

This morning I heard an advertisement on the radio for an upcoming daytime program.  The topic was "Your biggest regret of 2012".  I wasn't planning on listening to the program, but the topic stayed with me and as the day went on, I realized that the question percolated in the back of my mind.  A little chime would go off once in a while, What Do You Regret? 

Nothing.  I regret nothing.

I don't think in terms of regrets.  Left to my own devices, I tend to focus on the present and on how it affects the future.  Regrets are a waste of time, although I will agree that there's something to be said for understanding where you went wrong so as not to go down the same path again.  That's not quite the same as regret. 

By definition (yes, I did actually look it up), to regret is to feel sorry about something that happened; to wish that something hadn't happened and another thing happened instead.  Now what use is that?  To me, regret is akin to spinning in place.  It's the proverbial hue and cry over spilt milk.

"I regret the inconvenience..."  Did you cause the inconvenience?  Yes?  Then apologize straight out.  Don't use 'regret' as a cop out.  I'm sort of sorry I screwed this up for you, but I don't have the guts to come straight out and apologize for it so I'll just throw a crumb of regret your way and walk away feeling good about myself.

"I regret all the various things that are going wrong in my life..."  Did you have a hand in them going wrong?  Did you have a chance to get them right?  If you did, then don't regret it, just do it better or differently next time.  If you didn't, then what are you regretting? 

Regret is throwing up your hands and giving up control.  It's saying, I'm not going to take any action to fix or change things.  It's admitting defeat.

Perhaps that's why I don't have much use or respect for regret.

Free-associating

Why am I here?  Here being one of the many local Starbucks cafes.  I'm here to write and I can't write at home.  No, not quite true - I *can* write at home, but I lack the self-discipline to turn off the TV and focus on my writing to the exclusion of all the other distractions.  I'm here because I forced myself to get off the couch and venture out into a dark, wet and cold night with the intent of writing. 

It was a dark and stormy night - isn't that the most hackneyed opening for a story?  I don't think I've ever actually read a story that began with anything as banal as that.  Then again, if I had picked one up, I would likely have put it back down again.

Beginnings...  so many possible beginnings to a story.  Or to the next phase of one's life.  The lack of foresight, the lack of knowing which beginning will lead where, can be absolutely crippling.  It can leave one fumbling in place and never truly beginning anything for fear of starting the wrong thing.

Do you even know where a beginning of something is until you're actually engaged in it?  Whatever 'it' happens to be...  An affair.  Something that starts with an innocent glance, a friendly touch, a laugh a bit too warm, a few words a bit too risque but still under the guise of workplace humor.  Don't most affairs start in the workplace?  Stands to reason...  That's where you spend most of your time surrounded by other people, trying to be on your best behavior.  Or not.

Do you know when an affair begins?  Can you look back and find the moment?  You know the moment I am talking about.  This is that moment that stands out so clearly in your mind days or weeks or months after it began.  Some call it a moment of no return, but that's not always the case.  It's not the moment of no return, it's the moment of commitment.  It's the moment when you commit to leave the touch at an innocent flirtation or add the smile that says that you've committed.  That you are committed.

Commit a crime.  Commit to a relationship.  Commit code to the trunk.  Commit someone to a mental institution.  A single word with such a dizzying array of meanings.  It's one of the strangest intricacies of the English language and one that I am still coming to grips with.  English is not my native language, but as languages go, I couldn't have wished for a better one to adopt as my own.  The layers of meaning and nuances that one can achieve are breathtaking.  But then there are words like commitment and I just want to hit my head against the wall - is it a verb?  Is it a noun?  Is it technical?  Is it romantic?  What the hell does it mean???

Something, nothing, everything...  Language is a weapon and a tool, although that right there is redundant.  Weapons are tools.

I wasn't allowed to use tools when I was a child and I so desperately wanted to.  I wanted to be just like my dad, to do all the things he did.  I wanted so badly to be grown up and to be able to help and fix things, but I was a child and I was a girl. So, two strikes against me and no tools allowed.

Language is a tool I learned to use without quite meaning to.  I started reading around the age of four and I was so good at it.  Without bragging, I was an amazing reader.  I had a clear voice and great diction and, horrific panic attacks notwithstanding, I was constantly being volunteered to speak at public events, to read passages from memory, to recite patriotic propaganda.  I was a good little pioneer.  I was good at many things at that time and I didn't value any of them because no one around me did.  I was expected to be good and so I was.  End of story.

Being able to do things, almost without trying, was part of who I was and I came to expect it of myself.  Language as a tool...  And then I lost it all.

Loss is another one of those amoeba words - it has no shape without context.  Loss of self-esteem.  Loss of weight.  Loss of a partner.  Loss of fear.  Loss of virginity.  Say the word enough times and it sounds funny on your tongue, having lost all its meaning - no pun intended.

Some words have shape and heft - no one mistakes them for anything other than what they are.  They are unambiguous - love, hate, war, hospital, greed - they are also no fun to use.  They carry the weight of all our assumptions and they are already so imbued with meaning that using one in a sentence is like dropping a heavy stone into an aquarium.  It causes momentary ripples and then it just sits there with everyone else edging their way around it. 

I don't like obvious words.  I like words that carry within them the hint of confusion, the chance of a misunderstanding.  Chameleons that change their colors and shade everything around them.  Words like 'commit'. 

I can commit adultery.  I am committed to my work.  I should be committed.

Chameleon words for a chameleon of a person.

Blankness

Few things are more frightening than the vast blankness of an empty page.  Whether it's a page in a journal or on a screen in front of me, the feelings it inspires are the same.  There is the promise of boundless opportunity - I can fill this page, I can make it come alive!  There is the dragging languor of indecision - what do I write?  And on their heels are the twin fears of disappointment and failed expectations.

Writing is a war against the blankness. Each carefully crafted sentence is part of a plan of attack, each molded paragraph - a tiny skirmish. 

Yet, all too often all the hard won skirmishes add up to a lost battle; a page filled with beautiful words but devoid of meaning.  A full frontal assault on a vast castle only to discover, after the gates have been breached, that the castle is crumbling from the inside, the cattle and crops are dead, and the villagers left have the plague.  A Pyrrhic victory.

The truth is, this war cannot be won; it can only be advanced, battle by painful battle.  Or I could stop fighting.  I could say that I've had enough and walk away, but that's not in my nature.  I won't admit defeat and I won't let the blankness win.  Sentence by sentence, skirmish by skirmish, I will be victorious.

Even if the victory is only over myself.

My condiments to the chef!

Writing Exercise 7

Mayonnaise, Pickle, Mustard, Soy Sauce, Relish, Hot Peppers, Ketchup

Use all of these words in a piece that starts: His taste in women was...

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His taste in women wasn't particularly adventurous, but we made it seem more so through our game.  The first time Paul likened one of his girlfriends to mayonnaise, smooth but mostly flavorless, Kurt chose to be amused rather than offended.  From that day it became a ritual for us to nickname his "friends" after various condiments. 

There was Mary Ann, an all-American cutie who loved baseball games and hanging out in a pub any night of the week.  She was never without a ball cap pulled low over her blond hair.  Her signature look was a t-shirt (short sleeves in the summer, long sleeves in the winter) and a pair of comfy old Levis.  She seemed to have an unending supply of trinket jewelry and team jackets, but one thing that never changed was a pair of bright red sneakers.  Paul proclaimed Mary Ann to be Ketchup.

Next came Callie.  Kurt met her at a bikers' retreat and she was every bit as feisty as his favorite Harley.  Wearing short leather skirts and flimsy tops, she was as tough as most of the bikers she hung out with.  Barely five feet tall, she had a way of looking at you that made your insides squirm with unease even if you've done nothing wrong.  We all agreed that she wasn't one to cross and when Kurt inevitably did, she set fire to his prized collection of porn magazines.  For that and her attitude in general, Mark christened Callie Hot Peppers.

After Callie Kurt took a hiatus and we were beginning to wonder if the game was over when Lorraine came on the scene. Lorraine puzzled us for a while.  She could be sweet as honey one moment and then turn on you for seemingly no reason.  She drove Kurt crazy with her jealous rages for days on end before suddenly declaring that she didn't give a fuck what or who he did.  Kurt shrugged when we asked him what he saw in Lorraine, but valiantly soldiered on.  Lorraine didn't have a nickname until the day Kurt showed up for an outing sheepishly trying to hide an angry red gash just above his right eye.  Walked into Lorraine's temper, was all he said and in response Suzy declared Lorraine to be Relish.  Although we all laughed, Suzy's explanation made perfect sense.  Sweet, sour or unexpectedly spicy, you never know what you're getting with relish until you pop open the jar and get some on your tongue.

Kurt was the one who came up with the nickname for Sherry.  For reasons he refused to explain, Sherry became Pickle.  We scrounged for clues to the source of the nickname, but to no avail.  Kurt wouldn't tell and wouldn't confirm or deny our guesses.

Perhaps because of the inexplicable nickname, Sherry didn't last long and Kurt was on to Andrea.  Andrea's personality didn't lend itself to easy nicknaming, but we persevered.  She didn't seem to have any distinctive habits or hobbies.  Her interests could have become fodder for our imaginations, had she ever divulged what they are.  In speaking with her, she seemed determined to say as little as possible and yet, her presence was quite noticeable.  She wasn't particularly likable, but we couldn't pinpoint what we disliked.  Finally, walking home after one particularly awkward triple date, Kevin blurted out that Andrea is Soy Sauce.  When pressed for an explanation, he pointed out that she was all right in small quantities but intolerable in large volume.

And then there was Lucy...  At their wedding, Paul stood up to give a toast.  Many of the assembled guests knew about our game, but none knew of the nickname we picked for Lucy; not even Kurt.  Paul spoke about Kurt's long search for a partner and about how much we all liked Lucy.  He told everyone how well matched Lucy and Kurt are and we all smiled and nodded, knowing what will come next.  Paul revealed that in the spirit of continuing the food tradition, we all agreed that Kurt is most like a hot dog - maybe a bit tough and leathery on the outside, but all goodness inside.  And so it was that Lucy became Mustard - the perfect complement to a great hot dog.

That kind of a day...

I'm drunk...  Not by accident.  Not slowly.

No, I'm drunk very deliberately and very quickly with an almost scientific precision.  Because I drink fairly rarely, I worked hard at figuring out exactly where the tipping point is with various types of alcohol. How many glasses of wine does it take before I am buzzed?  One and a half.  How many before I'm sick and throwing up?  Two and beyond.  I don't get drunk on wine - I get depressed or I get sick, there's no middle ground.  I don't drink wine unless I want to become very maudlin and cry.

Today I just wanted to get f*cking drunk and very quickly.  I wanted to shut off my brain and to do it basically on demand so my choice of poison is potcheen.  What's better than Irish moonshine?  90 proof - two shots, swallowed quickly, and I can't hold my head up, I can't walk, I can't really do much but sit right where I am and wait for the waves of gentle wooziness to pass.

The room is tilting slightly as if I'm on a ferry and the cat appears to be floating on the arm of the couch.  I'm making spelling errors in every other word but I'm just sober enough to notice and correct them as I go.  I type "blindly" and being drunk, it's even more important not to look at the keyboard because otherwise my brain tries to tell my fingers what to do and the directions get all scrambled so my eyes are closed as I'm typing this. I only open them when I feel that I've made a typo.

So, why drink tonight?  Because it's just that kind of an evening and it's been that kind of a day.  Hell, it's been that kind of a week.  My week has been an hourglass of irritations, frustrations and upsets - all of them dripping down into an ever-growing mountain and today, the mountain just got to be too much.

And why drink at all?  Because if I don't, I can't shut off my brain.  It keeps spooling back over the day and the week and all the negative things it brought with it.  I try to distract it with reading or TV, but like an obstinate child focused on a toy he wants, my brain just doesn't listen.  All it wants is to endlessly replay all the bits of the world that I want to leave behind when I come home.

I wish my brain had an off switch...  and I guess, it does.  I'm done.

You may have already won

Writing Exercise 6

You have received a believable-looking, business-sized white envelope in the mail.  The return address is from a company called Peerless.  Printed on the envelope, in bright red letters, are the words "You May Have Already Won."  Tell the story of what it is you may have won - or what it is you didn't win.  Tell what you do with this envelope.

Start with:  Life takes some funny twists and turns...

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"Life takes some funny twists and turns and you just have to go with the flow."  Rebecca drew a thick red line through the sentence and grimaced.  If this is how the whole piece was written, she was wasting her time reading it.  She could already picture cliches tripping over cliches, propped up by bits of homespun wisdom.  What drivel.  Some days the effort it took to get through the articles the editor threw her way far eclipsed the measly amount on her biweekly paycheck.  She sighed and picked up her coffee mug, wincing at the disgusting taste of the lukewarm brown sludge.

She skimmed the rest of the page, smiling in grim satisfaction that her initial conclusion of the article's quality was correct and put it aside into the "write a rejection letter" pile.  She contemplated getting up and making more coffee but decided she couldn't be bothered and reached for the next envelope from the stack her editor sent over while Rebecca was working from home recuperating from recent ankle surgery.

The envelope was addressed to her by name which was unusual as most people wrote directly to the editor-in-chief if they put a name on at all.  Maybe one of her prior rejects who bothered to read the rejection letter to the end and remembered her name?  That would be a novel approach.  Intrigued in spite of herself, Rebecca picked up the letter opener and then noticed something else.  The envelope was missing a postmark and the return address looked like a company instead of a person.  Company's name was Peerless Entertainment Group and the address looked to be downtown, in fact, just a few blocks from where Rebecca worked.  Rebecca turned the envelope over and felt her heart sink in disappointment. On the back, splashed across the expanse of white, were the words "You May Have Already Won" in bright, lurid red typeface.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," she muttered.  Undoubtedly she won a cruise or a similarly exciting venture.  Her mood souring, she was about to rip the envelope in two when her attention was drawn to a tiny black line of text hugging the edge of the flap like a trail of ants heading to a picnic.  Rebecca tilted her head and read Open the envelope, Rebecca.  What have you got to lose?

Well, that was an unusual marketing gimmick.  Of course, they knew each recipient's name so it wouldn't be that difficult to automate the "personalized" touch, but still...  Rebecca paused, then steeling herself against the inevitable disappointment, she ripped the envelope open.

At first the envelope appeared empty but then her fingers brushed against the thick edge of a stiff card.  The card felt to be about the size of a formal invitation and as Rebecca pulled it out, she could feel the delicate embossing on its face.  The words Peerless Entertainment Group were embossed in matte black type on the cream card.  She flipped the card over and read the bold, flowing script:

Congratulations, Rebecca,

You just won a new life.

And then the doorbell rang.

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Those were the days

Writing Exercise 5

Finish this story.  Start with: "Back in 1938, before..."

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Back in 1938, before my little world was turned on its head all I cared about was avoiding marriage to Shmuel Wasserstein.

"A son of a rabbi!" my mother nagged me, always in the tone that implied the exclamation mark at the end.  The crowning achievement for a moderately attractive, "You're no beauty queen, bubbala!", seventeen year old girl.  So what if the smell of him made me want to gag and he had the laugh of a hyena?  He was interested and to my mother that was the end of the discussion.

"What to discuss?" she would say, throwing up her flour covered hands as if genuinely bewildered by my stupidity, "You need a husband, his family is interested, he is interested and you with your...!"  She'd tail off as if even her impressively extensive vocabulary of both English and Yiddish expressions was powerless in the face of my stubborn refusal.

Father stayed out of it, only intervening should our raised voices interfere with his studies.   

"Torah is not be to disrespected by this caterwauling," he would say mildly, coming out of the study into the kitchen where most of these exchanges took place.  His appearance usually meant a reprieve for me as my mother would immediately turn the full brunt of her well-acted 'disappointed parent' routine onto him in a rapid-fire torrent of Yiddish and English, allowing me to escape to my room.

What did I want?  Truth?  I had no idea, but I knew I didn't want Shmuel or any husband for that matter, not then anyway.  I had just finished the level of schooling my parents considered appropriate for a girl and it was time to get married.  And Shmuel was "interested!".  I overheard my mother say once that Shmuel's interest in me was practically a mitzve on his part, but then Father shushed her and I pretended that I hadn't heard.  Was I really so without charms for it to be considered a good deed on Shmuel's part to be willing to marry me?

These arguments would all end the same way, with my mother accusing me of bringing shame on myself and the family.  How much longer could I hold out in the face of her incessant badgering?  And worse, what could I offer in return?  What else was there for me but to give in and marry?  Always, at the thought of going along with the marriage, my throat would close up with choking panic, followed by the feeling of drowning that dogged my nightmares as the arguments escalated and became more frequent.

And then suddenly the answer was right in front of me and it was so blindingly obvious.

I could go to Palestine and serve my time in the Holy Land in a kibbutz.  There was no way my parents could say 'no' to that.  Even Shmuel's parents couldn't object to their future daughter-in-law spending a year in the Holy Land before wedding their son.

I could see Rachelle again...  And just like that, my vision suddenly cleared.  I thought about Shmuel and other boys from the yeshiva and shuddered with distaste.  I thought about saying good bye to Rachelle six months ago when she was heading off for a year in a kibbutz.  I remembered the warmth of her hug, the barely suppressed tears, the softness of her hands as she held mine in hers, the unspoken question in her eyes, the trembling of her lips as she kissed me on the cheek and made me swear to write to her.

I couldn't stop a wide smile as everything fell into place.

I knew exactly what I wanted now.

In need of perking up

Writing Exercise 4

When in need of perking up, some folks go boating, some play air hockey, others listen to loud music.  List four things you do.

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I have trouble thinking of myself as "perky".  I'm not perky.  I can be happy or sad, down or excited about something, lethargic or intensely passionate, but whatever else I am, I am not perky.

Now that that's cleared up, what are the four things that I would do if I were down and needed to snap out of it?



Bookstore... I would go to the nearest Barnes & Noble and lose myself in the books.  Fiction, cooking, writing, magazines...  The reasons for why I'm down might guide my selection, but in general, just being in the bookstore itself is often enough.  It's the endless possibilities, the sense that there's an almost infinite amount of knowledge right in front of me and available for the taking.  New books, new worlds, new hobbies, new interests.  A bookstore for me stands for all of that and that's where I would go as one of my places.

Office supplies...  If I don't have time for a bookstore, I would go to an office supply store.  Office Depot, Staples, one of those.  Office supplies are my therapy.  I don't even need to buy anything, just wandering around the store and looking at all the shiny notebooks, pens, folders, sticky notes is enough to settle my mind and bring a sense of peace.  I don't go near the electronics, just the tactile supplies, the things that I never had growing up or at least not in this dizzying variety of colors and styles.  I can spend twenty minutes slowly wandering through an office supply store and leave it feeling ready to face the world again.

My kitchen...  If I can, I'll cook to clear my mind and get away from whatever is bothering me.  I love cooking.  Not baking.  I don't bake.  Baking requires too many rules and my life has enough rules and regulations in it already.  I love cooking because once you have some sense of how ingredients will behave, you can experiment in just about any direction you want.  Cooking consumes me leaving no room for anything else.  I can have the TV or radio on in the background but it's just noise.  When I am cooking, my entire world is reduced to the ingredients in front of me.  The results of what I make are almost irrelevant.  What matters is that for the minutes or hours that I spend in the kitchen I feel like I'm in full control of my life. 

Meditation...  I don't meditate in the more conventional sense of the word; it's more like self-hypnosis.  This is my last resort and I will employ it before I go to sleep.  If I've had a horrible day and I cannot shut my brain off in the usual ways, I'll go through the steps of my self-hypnosis.  I imagine a long hallway with many open doors on both sides and a single closed door straight ahead.  I walk down the hallway and imagine each door closing as I pass it, secreting behind it part of my bad day - work, personal issues, anything - so that by the time I reach the end of the hallway and am standing in front of the final door, everything that I've been carrying around with me all day is gone; safely away behind all the doors that are now behind me.  The final door leads to a sanctuary and each time I do this I get to decide what I want the sanctuary to look like.  Some days it's a small private library, other days it's a luxurious bathroom with a tub, still others it might be a bedroom.  Whatever works for a given evening, I will draw it in my mind to the smallest detail and once I enter it, I can feel myself physically unclench and usually I am already drifting off to sleep as my mind finishes putting the final touches on the sanctuary of my dreams.

The ideal place to write

Writing Exercise 3

Describe the ideal place to write.  Be very specific and detailed.

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The ideal place to write...  There are two places, actually - one is what I imagine would be the perfect place to write and the other that fits the reality of my personality better. 

First the imaginary place...  In my imagination, the perfect place to write would be at home, in my kitchen.  I can imagine myself sitting at the table with a cup of coffee, one leg folded under me.  My cat curled up on a cushion on another chair.  Sun slanting through the window, birds chirping outside.  Peacefully quiet with maybe a bit of music burbling in the background.  Nothing moving, no distractions, just me and my laptop. 

Now for the reality...  In reality, my ideal place to write is in a busy and buzzing cafe.  Crowds of people around, constant movement, low grade noise that I cancel out by plugging in my headphones and turning the music on loud enough to drown out everything around me.  The distractions are numerous.  Inside, people are laughing and talking, sliding in and out of chairs, brushing by tables in the overcrowded space.  Outside, cars are passing by the giant plate glass windows, flashing their lights, occasionally idling to wait for someone.  And right by me the coffee grinder buzzes on and off, the frappuccino machine grinds away, music on the storewide stereo keeps changing in volume and tempo from time to time.  There is a constant stream of distractions and it is only through fighting and pushing past all of them that I am actually able to concentrate and write.  Some of my best writing took place in circumstances just like this; in places where the sensory overload is so high that I have no choice but to escape inside myself, put up a glass wall around me and let the writing pour out. 

My ideal place to write is a place I want to escape from.

Resolution Revolution

Writing Exercise 2

Note: So, on this one I had to actually do it in the book itself as there is a page with letters sprinkled through the lines and it's not something I can faithfully replicate here.  Here is the product of the exercise.  The given letters are in Bold Yellow to stand out just as they do in the book.

Use each letter as you get to it.
Start with: New Year's resolutions make me...

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New Year's resolutions make me wistful for a better me.  Logically I understand that there is nothing special about the End of a year - each day is a new opportunity. Why then does the 1st of Yet another year fill me with such hope and dread?  I'm prEdisposed to self-improvement.  Always have been, but there is a speciAl kind of urgency with each year that Races past.  Some things I'm now past improving on, but I still resolve to do them.  Some might call it optimistic Rather than delusional; perhaps it's a misguided attempt to be kind.  PridE and total unwillingneSs to give up or admit that something is beyOnd me is really what drives me to make resolutions, be it New Year's Eve or the middLe of the week.  WithoUt resolutions and goals to push yourself To achieve, what is the point of getting up in the morning?  So, perhaps I take it to an extreme on occasion, but no One is privy to my resolutions but me.  So what if they are unrealistic or undoubtedly bouNd to fail?  In the end no one will know that I've resolved to do anything more than to get out of bed and soldier on... one unrealistic resolution at a time.

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Writing exercises

There is a treasure trove of books about writing out there.  And I've bought or tried more of them than I can count.  Books on style, books on writing specific genres, and of course books full of writing exercises intended to exorcise the most stubborn of writer's blocks.

Most of them are like recipe books - you pick one up at the store and flip through it, fingers sliding over glossy pages with full page photos of food so delicious looking, it makes your mouth water.  And then when you get home you realize that the dishes that looked so good on paper take half a day to prepare or contain greens that your significant other will not touch under pain of death or that the list of spices and ingredients extends a full page and before you know it, you've lost interest in the book before its lovely pages even had a chance to develop creases.  Not that I'm speaking from personal experience here or anything...

So, back to writing exercises.  I'm killing time today between flights.  All in all I have about twelve hours between the red eye that brought me from Seattle to Boston and the evening flight from Boston that will take me back home to Seattle.  To kill time with some sort of productivity I picked up yet another book of writing exercises and I am going to try a few of them.

Norbert (that's him on the right) who is my companion for the trip will be a witness to my efforts.  Somehow I think he'll be less judgmental about my writing than I tend to be. 

Writing Exercise 1

In each group below, choose one word that appeals to you

1. Alabama - Banister - Carousel - Diesel - Exorcist
2. Flatulence - Garage - Harried - Insensitive - Jambalaya
3. Keepsake - Lamb - Massage - Nonsense - Oriole

Use these three words in a story.
Start with: Sometimes I feel just like a gerbil, running around and around in his wheel!

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Sometimes I feel just like a gerbil, running around and around in his wheel!  All that effort and expended energy and for what?  Every day is a carbon copy of the one that came before it and worse, oh so much worse, a blueprint for the one that will follow.  Something has to be done...  I know it, but the mere thought of the careful planning involved is enough to send me to the kitchen and the comforts of cooking something long and complicated.  Something with multiple ingredients and even more steps.  Something like an authentic Jambalaya from scratch.  I could even make my own sausage, god knows I have the time.

When I'm cooking I can almost convince myself that the wheel has slowed down a bit, that the scenery has changed or at least paused long enough to become nuanced, to offer options.  Options of escape.  The more intricate and complex the recipe, the more spices and exotic ingredients it involves, the better.  The wheel almost stops when hours go by in the quest for perfection in a single dish.

Only it always starts up again...

All right, enough of this nonsense, the banisters won't shine themselves and there's a pile of laundry waiting in the vicinity of the basket.  Maybe roast chicken for dinner with homemade garlicky roasted potatoes and wilted spinach?  Would garlic mask the taste of arsenic?
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On writing...

Almost three months since my last post...  I didn't expect the hiatus to be quite this long, but as usual, it's only when I return to the blog that I realize just how long it's been since I've written something last.

I haven't been entirely unproductive in the intervening time.  In fact, I think I've made a larger and more determined push to write recently than any I can recall.  And it's all been for nothing.

I feel the need to write.  It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that I crave the satisfaction that comes with seeing a well-crafted sentence on the screen in front of me.  But all these sentences need to add up to something and lately they don't.  Whatever I write feels flat.  There are occasional flashes of goodness - paragraphs that light up and flow effortlessly - and in their light I can immediately see just how flat and barren the surrounding text is. 

I can't connect to what I'm writing.  Without that connection, it's just words on the page.  It's a school essay written under duress on a topic that you have absolutely no interest in.  And that I think is the problem...  The topic.

I've been trying to write stories about a life I can no longer identify with.  Every "how to write" book will tell you to write about what you know.  But what it doesn't tell you is that it's not enough to know about something in order to write about it.  My writing has always relied on my emotions to feed it.  I know about and I've experienced a lot of things.  In some ways I've lived a more varied life than most people I know, but that's of no help to me right now.  None of the things that I know about or have experienced are arousing the sort of emotions and feelings that I need in order to be able to write and write well.

I can't fool myself into thinking that what I've written in recent months is good writing.  I know good writing.  I know my good writing and this isn't it.

Silence

Silence is golden.

Silence is leaden.

Silence speaks volumes.  It says all the things that we're afraid to disturb it by saying.

Many years ago, when I was in ninth grade I had an assignment to pick twenty poems from an anthology and write a brief overview of each one.  One poem's theme has stayed with me for many years, striking a chord then mostly because it was the only one where my critique was in turn critiqued by the teacher.  The poem was about a couple traveling on a train, not speaking, just sitting in silence, watching the landscape pass by.  I remember reading that poem and thinking of how sad it is that they have nothing to say to each other.  I wrote that it was a sad poem, one that spoke to what happens to a relationship when the fire runs out, when two people are left with nothing to talk about.  I remember my teacher at the time pointing out that the silence may have been a comfortable one, one filled with shared memories, a silence of companionship.  At fourteen, I couldn't see that.

I see that now.  I wish I could find that poem again and read it and perhaps see that other kind of silence.  The kind that my teacher at the time spoke about.

I see now that there are two kinds of silences...  Which is why these silences, the kind that my life at home seems to be filled with more and more often, seem that much more painful in comparison.  These aren't comfortable silences.  They aren't full of companionship or shared understanding.  Instead they are brimming with unfinished sentences, hidden thoughts, suppressed emotions, recriminations and defensiveness never voiced.  And like a wound that's allowed to glaze over and fester underneath, eating away the healthy flesh, these silences are slowly dissolving the fabric of my life.

I don't know how to air what's underneath.  I don't know how to clean the wound and allow it to begin healing.  I don't even know if it's possible.

You don't know what you have until it's gone...

Like most people, I tend to take things that are going well for granted.  When I'm healthy, I don't think about it - it's just there.  It's only when I have a raging headache that I appreciate how nice it is when I don't have one. 

I just came back from a whirlwind visit to the East Coast that involved four different flights in less than 72 hours and a bed which, no matter how comfortable, wasn't mine.  The flights there were rough and I am still recovering now, although I'm pretty close to normal.  And that's what got me to thinking about how little I appreciate the wellness of everyday.

There is an old joke that I heard as a child but didn't fully understand until I became an adult.  And in truth, I don't find it funny now, if anything, I find it poignant.  It goes something like this...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
A poor peasant in a village comes to his priest for advice. 

He says, "Father, I know life is hard for everyone now what with the harvest being so poor, but truly my life is so hard, I really need some help.  I have a tiny hovel for my wife and all our six kids,  there is no space for anything.  The kids are constantly fighting, the house is too hot and my wife is grizzling non-stop about how much work there is taking care of all of us.  Isn't there anything you can do to help?"

The priest listens to him, thinks for a while and says, "Son, you have some farm animals that you tend to, don't you?"

The peasant replies, "Yes, a cow, a goat, a couple of sheep, and some chickens."

The priest then says, "Well, I have a solution for you, but you must follow it exactly as I tell you, otherwise it will not work."

The peasant is overjoyed and agrees to follow the solution exactly. 

The priest then says, "Today is Sunday, tonight before sundown, I want you to bring the cow inside the house with you.  Then tomorrow, I want you to bring in the goat.  On Tuesday, I want you to bring in the two sheep and then on Wednesday, bring in all the chickens.  You must have all of them in the house with you and then two weeks from Sunday, come and tell me how things are going."

The peasant thanks the priest and goes off to do as he was told.  Two weeks pass and Sunday comes and the peasant again comes to the priest. Before the priest can even ask him how things are going, the peasant launches into a litany of complaints, "Oh, Father!  I followed your advice, but if you will forgive me, it was the worst thing I could have done!  The cow is mooing non-stop and stopped giving milk, the goat is trying to gore the kids who are fighting worse than ever, the chickens crap all over the floor and my wife is worn to the bone cleaning up after them. The sheep haven't been shorn yet and all these animals are generating so much heat, the house is impossible to live in.  Why did you tell me to do this??"

The priest listens to the peasant and then says, "Son, I haven't said that this is the end of the solution.  Tonight, when you go home, take the cow back to the pasture, bring the goat and the sheep back to their pen, take the chickens back to their coop, open all the windows and go to bed.  Then come back tomorrow and tell me how things are."

The peasant shakes his head, but goes off to do as the priest said.

The next day, when the priest comes in the morning to open the church doors, the peasant is already waiting for him and he has a great big smile on his face.  The priest doesn't even ask him how things are before the peasant rushes up to him and says, "Oh, Father! Thank you!  You've worked a miracle!  I never realized that my house is so spacious and light and airy!  My children aren't fighting and my wife is so happy, she is singing and baking.  I can never thank you enough!"

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

And the morale of the story is much like with me and headaches...  Finding ways to appreciate what you have may not be at the forefront of your mind while things are going well, but if you don't, then when life throws in its usual wrenches, you'll appreciate what you no longer have whether you want to or not.

From the archives...

I've been rereading some of my older works.  Mostly I reread stories that I abandoned, thinking that perhaps I'll pick one up and keep going.  Somehow, that never happens.  I suspect it's because there is usually a good reason for why I've abandoned that particular story in the first place, but still, I can't help going back and rooting around, seeing if anything can be salvaged.  

Today, I was rereading some of my sketches and came across this one...  A bit of editing and I figured I might as well post it since I haven't written anything new in a while.





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Waiting, hoping, watching…  Always watching, but surreptitiously so as not to be noticed.  She's a friend, damn it, she's just a friend.  Oh, but she could be so much more, the wicked voice will not be silenced. 

It's early morning, the office still and empty, quiet as it readies itself for the day ahead.  Perfect for brooding and daydreaming in solitude but Alex is jittery.  Slender fingers tap out a nervous dance on the keyboard, the clicking sound irritating her jangling nerves.  Hands run through short black curls, teeth worry the lower lip.  Waiting, waiting…  It's still early, she won't be in for a while. 

Suddenly the main door squeals and slides closed with a jarring thud.  Alex freezes, afraid to turn around.  Is it her?  But it's too early, what's she doing here?  Schooling her features, pretending calm she doesn't feel, she looks up expectantly.

Quick steps clatter down the hall,

"Good morning, Alex," Léa's voice sings out, bright and cheery, "Couldn't sleep?  Bad dreams?"

No, Léa…  Restless dreams…  Dreams of you.  But of course she doesn't say that.  Instead she smiles widely,


"You know I'm an early bird when I'm up in the uncivilized North Country.  I'll sleep when I get back home." 

Léa's voice quivers with feigned outrage, magnifying her lilting French accent, as she gasps, "Uncivilized!  You're in Montreal; it doesn't get much more civilized than that."

 Alex laughs, the joyful sound rending the silence of the office, covering the blush, the heat coursing through her veins.  

"And why are you here so early?"  She leans back in her chair, looking up at Léa.  Her heart is pounding, breath catching in her throat.  Will it always be like this between them?   

"Well…" Léa's hesitation caresses the words as she speaks.  "Since you're only here for two days this time, I thought, maybe, we'd go for coffee this morning?"  The ensuing silence is fragile, lasting barely a moment before Alex breaks it.

"That would be great."  A wide grin and the invitation is accepted.  It's only coffee… behave, behave.

"Ok, let me just check e-mail…  five minutes?"

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard that one before," Alex waves her hand in mock surrender.  "Take your time; I'm not going anywhere if there's coffee in the offering."

Inside, she's churning, the unstoppable rush of happiness flooding her senses, making her giddy.  Calm down, calm… 

Léa giggles and disappears into her office, leaving the door wide open.  Alex sighs in relief and takes a deep breath, and another.  Calm down…
 
Leaning back in her chair, she turns at an angle that would allow her to watch Léa through the glass pane in the wall.  Ahh, the joy of modern office construction where everything is on display and privacy is long forgotten. 

Minutes tick by, five, ten, but Alex is content to wait.  From the guest cube she has the perfect view.  Humming with pleasure she watches as Léa peers at the screen, smiling at something.  Her perfectly manicured fingertips skipping over the keyboard; tap, tap, clickety-click.  Alex's hungry eyes feast on the image before her.  The gentle curve of Léa's back as she leans toward the screen, the tiny frown marring her brow, the quick smile, then a tiny shake of her head.  Tap, tap, clickety-click.  She can watch her for hours.  Watch, wait, hope…

Suddenly Alex's computer beeps, yanking her out of her reverie.  The Instant Messenger window is winking at her from the middle of the screen.

"Are you ready for that coffee now?" 

Exhaling a sigh of contentment, Alex grins and taps back, "For you, dear, anytime." 

The truth in signs

"Perhaps the most misunderstood of all the major arcana, the Devil is not really "Satan" at all, but Pan the half-goat nature god and/or Dionysius. 

These are gods of pleasure and abandon, of wild behavior and unbridled desires. With Capricorn as its ruling sign, this is a card about ambitions; it is also synonymous with temptation and addiction. 

On the flip side, however, the card can be a warning to someone who is too restrained, someone who never allows themselves to get passionate or messy or wild - or ambitious. This, too, is a form of enslavement. As a person, the Devil can stand for a man of money or erotic power, aggressive, controlling, or just persuasive. This is not to say a bad man, but certainly a powerful man who is hard to resist. 

The important thing is to remember that any chain is freely worn. In most cases, you are enslaved only because you allow it."

Let me make it very clear at the outset...  I don't believe in astrology or fate or destiny or any other deterministic philosophy.  And yet, I do find it utterly fascinating just how closely I resemble the God associated with the Capricorn sign (my sign).

What makes me shake my head now is just how hard and for how many years I've fought against those qualities that I now embrace.  The drive, the desire to be in control, the passion, the explosive bursts of emotion - all of the things that I was brought up and taught to suppress, all of them are right there.  All of them are me. 

Pleasure and abandon, wild behavior, unbridled desires - all of these are things that I spent so many years fighting and tamping down.  My upbringing was filled with admonitions to keep quiet, to not show emotion, to keep my feelings to myself, to not get too excited.  Those admonitions were repeated and harped on for so many years that at some point I've flipped to the other extreme...  Too restrained, too rational, someone who never allowed herself to get passionate or messy or wild.  Someone who forced herself to pretend for years that the farce of a life she was living was what she was supposed to be content with.

Do you know what the absolute worst of it was?  The very worst of it was when the person who spent so many years telling me to control my emotions accused me of being cold and unfeeling and told me to learn to show my feelings.  Now how is that for irony?

I am who I am and I won't apologize for it.   To anyone.

The elephant in the room

Last night, looking for something to watch, I stumbled on a series of shows that I've never seen before and within minutes I was engrossed in it.  The show itself isn't important, the reason I mention it here is this...  in the middle of the second episode, I burst into tears.  The scene that caused the breakdown?  A seduction scene.

A masterfully done seduction scene.

A believable seduction scene and one that reminded me in all its painful reality just how long it's been since I've experienced that same simmering rise of passion and explosion of desire.  I burst into tears because I was suddenly reminded of what that feels like.  I wanted to rewind the show and watch it over and over again, but the build-up wouldn't have been there and the scene would have lost its appeal.  The same elements that made it feel so real made it impossible to replicate on demand.

And now to the elephant...  Need I be explicit?  The preceding paragraphs should be enough of a clue.

We don't talk about it.  It's there, in the forefront of my mind, but we don't talk about it.  The few times I tentatively brought it up, it was acknowledged and the conversation died there.

My previous marriage left me with some fairly deep emotional scars and one thing that I've always loved in my relationship with J is that I didn't need to fear rejection or worry about being desired or wanted.  In whatever ways we may have been incompatible, passion or desire for each other was never one of them.  Except that now I can't help but question that certainty.  When days go by I can ascribe it to tiredness, when weeks go by, I can attribute it to stress, but when months go by...

What scares me most is that I have almost accepted the status quo.  Almost...  And then a scene like the one I saw last night comes along and I'm stabbed with the full knowledge of just what it is that I'm giving up and tacitly agreeing to live without.

The elephant in the room is making me cry.

When does "tired" become plain old "depressed"?

Yesterday someone asked me if I'm all right, if anything is wrong.  Actually, three different people asked at various points through the day.  One of them is the kind of person that you know, if he's asking, you must look like you're about to keel over on the spot.  To all these inquiries, I mustered up some enthusiasm, smiled, and replied that I'm fine, just a little tired.

The inquiries got me thinking though...

I have been tired.

I've been tired for days, actually for weeks, actually, since before Christmas.  Realizing how long it's been made me wonder.  Am I really tired?  It's not a physical exhaustion - my lifestyle is depressingly sedentary. I haven't been sleep deprived nor do I have trouble falling or staying asleep, and yet, I wake up most days feeling just as exhausted as I did when I went to bed.  I feel wrung out and listless.  Does that qualify as tired?

I tried to chalk it up to the stress of my new position.  And it's true, my new job role has been taking up a lot of time and has been very stressful.  But if I'm honest (and if you're writing a blog, what's the point in being anything but honest?) I've had periods that were a lot more stressful in the past and I had woken up each morning buzzing with energy and determination to get through it, to learn as quickly as I can, to do well, to do better, to push myself.  I'm not feeling that now.  So, to get to the heart of this post...  Am I tired or am I depressed?

I am so terrified of the latter possibility...  It's a sinkhole.  I've been there before and I can't go through that again.  I won't go through it again.  Twice through that particular Hell was enough.  I won't make it through it again.

I don't know what to do to fix this.

I don't know that there's anything I can do to fix this.

I could go to a therapist, but that hasn't worked before and I doubt it will work now.

I could talk to my friend, but she is not here and while I miss her desperately, talking via email or even on the phone isn't the same.

I miss her so much, it's a physical ache that takes my breath away and makes me want to howl.  She was a colleague; in fact, a colleague I interviewed and advocated hiring.  She and I became friends almost instinctively and then she moved away.  I wish more than anything that she could be here.  I wish we could go for a walk and talk and cry.  I miss her wisdom and her laughter and her "buck up and deal with it" advice that I'm sure to get if I were to lay out my issues.  I just miss her.

I hate feeling sorry for myself.  I hate feeling defeated or beaten down.  Normally, it triggers my instinct to resist and fight, but not today.  Today, I just want to lie down, curl up, hug my cat and cry myself to sleep.  And there isn't a damn thing I can or want to do about it.

Death

Yesterday afternoon my father called to tell me that my grandmother passed away.

The phone call was not entirely unexpected - my grandmother was 91 years old and had weathered more in her life than most people her age.  She lived through the war and evacuation, through losing both of her parents when she was barely a teenager and losing her husband when they still had many years ahead of them.  She went through immigration in her seventies and made a life in a new country with a new language.  And through it all, she remained a source of strength for her family until the end.
 
I don't know any of the details of her passing, she died half a world away from me, but I hope it was peaceful and painless.  I know enough to know that she would not have wanted to linger and so from that standpoint, it's a blessing.

My memories of my grandmother center around her role in my life through my childhood and until my family left Soviet Union.  I was closer to her than I was to anyone else in my family.  I don't remember a time when she didn't figure prominently in my life.  I remember myself as a tense, nervy, and anxious child, but my time with my grandmother was my reprieve from the anxieties of regular life.  The happiest moments of my childhood center around my grandmother.

I remember going to my grandmother's house, traveling on two trolleys or buses, then walking from the bus stop, feeling my heart thud louder with every step, running as far ahead of my parents as they would let me, and then finally dashing up the final alleyway, bursting through the gate to the little yard before the one-story house and yelling, "Grandma!  I came to see you for a million days!"  Even when I got older and was allowed to go and visit on my own, I would keep to the same ritual, laughing as I spoke the same words.

I was a sickly child, constantly struggling with colds and various other childhood ailments that caused me to miss many days of preschool and kindergarten.  I would spend most of the week at my grandmother's house while my parents worked.  I remember going down for a nap in the afternoon on the couch in my grandmother's living room.  Above that couch hung a large intricately patterned rug.  I would fall asleep on the couch and when I would wake up, before opening my eyes, I would turn toward the wall and then open my eyes.  I remember the feeling of hot contentment and happiness that would flood through me as I saw the rug and knew that I was at my grandmother's house.

My grandmother was the sole person who I felt loved me just as I was.  I never felt that she wanted me to be better, smarter, more courteous, more accomplished than I already was.  Her love truly came with no strings attached.  I have never felt as accepted as I did when I was with her.  I was no angel, but I never felt inadequate with her.  She had the gift of encouraging me to be better without implying that I wasn't good enough already.

Children are innately selfish and I'm sure I was as well.  I am sure that I took her love as a given, but I hope that I never took it for granted, I just didn't know of any way of repaying her other than showing her how much I wanted to be with her.

Although my grandmother passed away yesterday, I had truly lost her twenty two years ago when my parents took my brother and me to the United States and my grandmother stayed behind in Moldova.  She later immigrated to Israel with my aunt and her family, but we were still an unbridgeable distance apart.  The relationship I had with my grandmother was what sustained me through my childhood and losing it was beyond traumatic.  I'd like to say that it took me years to recover, but in truth, I'm not sure I ever truly recovered, I think I just learned to accept it. 

Ever since my father's phone call, I've had a series of movie clips slowly unfurling in the back of my mind.  Long forgotten memories resurfacing...  Most memories bringing with them short bursts of the calm contentment that I experienced back when those memories were formed.  It's a bittersweet experience because I've never since felt that kind of an overwhelming sense of childish happiness.  When we left Soviet Union, I tried to block all thoughts of my time with my grandmother because the pain of losing her was more than I could bear and so I don't think I ever properly grieved for the loss of that closeness.  Now when the intervening years had dulled the pain, I can relive the memories and appreciate the happiness they contain without drowning in the grief of their loss. 

My grandmother's love and influence have left an indelible imprint on my life and although I've never properly thanked her, I hope that she knew how much she meant to me.  I wouldn't be the person I am today if it weren't for her and for that I will be forever thankful.

До свидания, бабушка.

Spend money on what makes you happy

Recently I read a post about how we choose what to spend money on.  The general premise is that we all have things that we know we must spend money on (mortgage, car insurance, groceries, etc.) and then we have things that are optional.  Now imagine that all of those necessities are taken care of and you have all the money you could want to spend on things you choose.

You are supposed to ask yourself what would you spend that money on?  The general idea here is that even if you have unlimited funds, you will likely end up spending it on things you imagine will make you happy, but in reality won't.  By going through this exercise, you should come to a realization that it's not lack of money that's keeping you from getting things that would make you happy, it's the choices you make.

It's not a novel concept, I've seen the same line of thought in numerous other posts and articles, especially on sites aimed at women. Usually, I just breeze by it but this time it got me thinking.  If I had unlimited funds, what would I buy?  The answer took less time than it took to formulate the question...

Nothing.

I wouldn't buy anything for the simple reason that I don't lack for anything that I can buy.  Sure, I could find things to spend money on - books, pens, notebooks, office supplies - but there is nothing in particular that I am pining for and feel unable to afford.  I don't want ridiculously expensive jewelry or clothes.  I don't need a huge house or a car that costs more than I earn in a year.  My tastes just don't run to things like that.

For me money is not a purchasing tool, it's a symbol of security.  If I had all the money I could want, I would save it.  How much money would I need to have saved in order to feel secure?  A million?  Five?  Ten?  I can't quantify it - security is priceless.

The feeling of security is what I would spend money on if I had all the money in the world.

Playing

It's been so long since I've "played" that I prefer not to think about it...

It's no one's fault...

It's everyone's fault...

It's life's fault.

What does it matter, really?

The truth is, playing is a bit like exercise... The more you do it, the more you want to do it.  It's a rush unequal to any other - mental and physical.  The build up and release are intoxicating.  But, as with intense exercise, once you stop doing it for a while, it's difficult to pick it back up again.  And the more time passes, the more intimidating it seems to step back into the groove that once felt so familiar.

If you haven't played for a while and then you get a chance to, you want to make up for lost time, to pick up where you left off.  But if  you try to do that, you end up taking stupid risks, pushing yourself and getting hurt (and not in a good way).

Or, worse, you end up frustrated because the high just isn't there and instead there is just straightforward pain and discomfort and the mental release never comes.  That feeling of being cheated of your expectations, of not getting what you got before is worse than not playing at all.  Being disappointed by a scene is like having mediocre sex without release - it may have seemed worth it at the time, but in the end it really isn't.

There is no substitute for playing for me...  I've tried other diversions, other ways of disconnecting my brain, but nothing ever provided the same kind of overwhelming relief.  And sure, I could ask permission and perhaps play with someone else, but I have no interest in doing that.  Playing has always meant J, even when we weren't together.   There is no substitute for playing and there's no substitute for J.

So, if playing is not going to be an option for now...  Perhaps it's time to revisit other, however unequal, pursuits.

Recipe for a very bad evening:

• One three minute long conversation;
• One cracked, if perhaps not broken heart;  
• As many questions as you can think of;
• As few answers as occur to you when you're too exhausted to think any more;
• A pinch of doubt
• A dash of self-pity
• Lots of tears

Mix all the ingredients and then tell yourself that you've survived before and will again.  

And believe it.

Today is one of those days when I'm seething with irritation.  I haven't had one of those in a while...

There have recently been days when I've gnashed my teeth in annoyance, when I've had to work hard to hold back tears of frustration, when I didn't manage to hold back tears of sadness.  And then there were days when the turmoil of constantly changing emotions made me wonder just what I was feeling anyway.

Today there's no question - today I'm really, really irritated.  Granted, my tolerance level for bullshit is particularly low these days.

I think it's fair to say that this will go down as the absolutely most wretched holiday season in the history of my life.  At least I hope this is as bad as it gets because I don't think I can handle one that's worse than this one has been so far.  I've had a really rough couple of weeks...  it's hard to believe it's only been that long, feels like it's been months.  Every hour felt stretched and magnified, a bit like looking at the back of your hand under the magnifying glass.  You know all those pores are there but you don't really think about them.  Just like you know there are all those minutes in all those hours in all those days that normally pass you by unnoticed, but once you stop and really pay attention to it, you realize just how long a single hour can take.

Time has taken on a different dimension these past two weeks.  I haven't been able to eat which isn't a bad thing in and of itself, but for me it's highly unusual.  I haven't really been sleeping well and I wake up in the morning still feeling like I'm nowhere near ready to face the day.

I've made a decision.  A decision that will affect multiple lives.  A decision that I hope is the right one, but I don't really know.  Does anyone really know if a decision is the right one?  I think it is.  I'd like to believe it is.  Because if it isn't, then it will be a whole lot of upheaval for something that will turn out to be a very costly mistake.

I'm rambling a bit, I know...  I am actually, quite spectacularly drunk at the moment.  The "I can't stand up without help" kind of drunk.  It's not an accident, I got drunk quite on purpose.  When the bartender asked what I would like, my answer to him was "I'm trying to figure out how quickly and how drunk I want to get."  Nick (the bartender) has known me long enough to know not to ask any other questions. So, I'm on my second gin and tonic and I'm feeling no pain.

And now that I've had enough to drink to effectively pickle my brain, my irritation doesn't seem nearly as important.  Did I mention that it's my birthday today?  Happy birthday to me...