one. the only film in which i've liked timothy olyphant is catch and release.

two. i love the music in seabiscuit. hell, i love seabiscuit. which is odd, because i don't like tobey maguire or chris cooper. and i'm not crazy about jeff bridges. he's good in this movie, though. i never get tired of watching this film. ever.

three. i rarely get tired of watching miracle. this film's got some of the best opening credits i've ever seen. and i love its music, too. it's perfect. i like that buzz schneider's character is portrayed by his son. i think that is SO cool. and jack o'callahan? he's a badass. LOVE him.

four. the great raid has one of the most powerful opening scenes i've ever seen. i am horrified by what man is capable of sometimes. but i'm immensely grateful that this film exists, because it also shows how amazingly resilient the human spirit can be, how brave, how beautiful. i am astounded by what man can accomplish when he's embraced those traits. a battalion of army rangers go up against ten thousand japanese to rescue five hundred american prisoners of war. it is the largest rescue effort in the united states military's history. one of the best stories i've known. i love joseph fiennes, marton csokas and benjamin bratt in this film. love them. plus it's got sam worthington and james franco in it. and there's a pretty good love story, too.

five. the film beautiful boy makes me weep. not the whole thing. well, i only caught the last half. but i'd managed to get through it without being too affected until the last scene. and i won't be able to watch stories on the news about an adolescent or young adult doing something heinous without imagining the hell his or her parents is enduring right then. not that the hell the victims' family is in isn't horrific. but i've only thought of theirs. and there're other people hurting. and their pain is so different.

six. i'm over kitkat ads. i thought they were kind of clever at first. but i'm tired of'm now.

seven. kind of like the pappadeaux's barstaff is probably over my camping out there. i had to wait nearly twenty minutes one sunday just to get a glass of iced tea, because there were other guests. like because i'm there so frequently means they don't have to be as good at serving me. that kind of pissed me off.

eight. i have a hard time motivating myself to get moving. a lot. like sometimes, i'd rather watch things like reruns of deal or no deal on the game show network or millionaire matchmaker on bravo than go to the gym or write. there are some crazy people on these shows.

nine. i'd concluded the gist of writing on the first novel in the trilogy for the gang on march second. i do have a few scenes to input here and there, and there is one chapter that will need some serious tweaking, but i reached my page-count goal and am close to my word-count goal. so i'm saying the writing is finished. on to the editing ...

photo snagged here.

ten. the only reason i'd want to go to new york city is to see central park at daybreak, before it gets lively.

eleven. i heard some woman in an advertisement for the bravo show shahs of sunset say something like the two things she hates are ants and ugly people. i don't like that i automatically assume she meant physically ugly. i forget to consider that there's a chance, when a person uses that word to describe someone else, that they are referring to physique and personality. but that word offends me more than any other word in the english language.

twelve. there's an advertisement for cotton that features zooey deschanel singing, the music reminds of camera obscura. and i love their music. not sure i love that ad, though.

thirteen. baseball bores me. i don't even much care for films that are centered around it. field of dreams? blah. bull durham? BLAH. major league? ridiculous. (i used to like that one. when i was a silly teenager. and then i got tastes.) there are exceptions, though. i love fever pitch. i LOVE for love the game (even though it's got kevin costner in it. i am so not a fan. kelly preston's character's pretty cool. and she's really good in it. and i like the music. and i like its opening credits (probably because of the music). plus, john c. reilly is in it. i love him. he is so cool here. but the biggest reason i love this movie is because of the story. here's a guy who's facing major changes in his career and his relationship with the woman he loves, and he's gotta pitch in a baseball game that means little to his team in their playoff efforts but a whole lot to the opponent in theirs. it's full of upheaval, and i like how it depicts costner's efforts, his thought processes as he works through it to make sense of it all.

fourteen. every time i see brian cox now, i think of his portrayal of william stryker in x2 or of ward abbott in the bourne supremacy. he creeps me out.

fifteen. i have had cinema on the brain for most of the past month. heck. i have cinema on the brain all the time. i suppose there are worse things about which i could obsess. like boys. i hate doing that.

sixteen. i don't like cracker jacks.

seventeen. i keep hearing people talk about how much better they feel after they've gone gluten free. and there is no way in hell i would be able to to this. for several reasons: breads, cakes, cereals, crackers, lunch meat, pasta, potato chips and soups. that it is basically my diet. if i were to go gluten free, i would starve to death. i quit smoking. i hardly ever eat ice cream. now you want sandwiches, soups and cereals? gimme a break.

eighteen. every time i focus on how i should better myself, i hear the eagles: these things that are pleasing you will hurt you somehow. bah. it's like everything i do is wrong.

nineteen. the past few times i've prayed, i would start to ask for something, and before i could finish the question, i'd stop. i don't know how to ask it the right way. i don't even know what to ask for. that the things i think i need are the right things. or that the asking even matters. the monk would not be pleased with me. my mema (his sister) wouldn't. my mommy wouldn't. i'm not. as i typed this, images of my niece and nephew came to mind, on nights they would stay with us, just before we put them to bed, they'd look at us, with tears brimming and their lower lips jutted out far in a sad pout cause they wanted their mommy. that is the face i made as i typed this. so childish, i know. but there it is.

twenty. i've never danced with a man.

twenty-one. my room is a wreck. again.

twenty-two. i am very tired of having to get up at three and four in the morning.

twenty-three. i tried to give up iced tea for lent. that didn't go so well, as i'd ended up drinking many, many more cokes in the past few weeks than i probably have in the past few months. so i apologized to the almighty and went back to tea.

twenty-four. most of the clothes i own are too small. some of these would be garments i purchased just a few months before. as unsettling as this is, as gross as i feel, i cannot find enough motivation to do much about it.

photo courtesy of l. tuthill

twenty-five. i miss our cabin. the wife of one of my cousins posted a photo of her sisters-in-law and she sitting on the sofa in their cabin with a comment that she loved being there, and my first reaction was to wonder if she was in the one that's always been theirs or the one that used to be ours that her family now owns. and i was jealous. and sad.

not even the trees. also called nine.

night terrors

half past midnight
his body fails him, falls, breaks
his spirit flees

miles away, my parents sleep

more miles, my pain begins
stomach cramps and surliness

two
a stranger finds him
fifty feet from the entrance
broken, face-down, dead on concrete

they sleep

the pain is fierce
i leave my friends for my apartment
the streets are slick with mist
i worry i won’t make it
it won’t rain, but it can’t be dry

three
another stranger, an officer
bound to protect and serve
wakes my parents

they lie in bed holding each other, crying together

i weed my musical garden
stop for a second to admire one of its blooms
a song of loss, of grief, of forced solitude
not even the trees

six
i step outside
smoke a cigarette
white smoke rises and fades into white sky
it won’t rain, but it can’t be dry
i sleep on the sofa

nine
the phone

my father wakes me

my brother’s gone

the twenty-ninth question

this post is one of many for a project i began several years ago, the griffin inquisition. i asked my friends and family to pose questions to me, things they would like to know that would require an essay-type answer.

the most recent essay topic was offered by a fellow blogger.

honestly rank which of these is most important to you: family, love, money, having children, looking good -- cristina.

family. i doubt i would've lived half as long as i have if it weren't for them. in fact, i'm quite confident i would not have bothered to get past seventh grade. that was hell, and i'm amazed, even now, even when i've blocked so much of it--i can't remember most of that year, but i can remember, quite well, how i felt--i'm amazed that i got through it.

money. and, more importantly, the ability to be reasonable and responsible with it. because at the moment, i am relying on my family too much for too many things. i can't support myself, partly because of the jobs i hold and partly because i am lousy at managing my accounts.

looking good. i know. it sounds shallow. it is. but my face and i, we've never been on good terms. even as i'm typing this, i'm feeling the wrongness of it. the whole right side is feeling odd at the moment. in most moments, actually. and there's nothing, nothing at all that i can do about it.

love. i'm so over this stuff right now. last saturday, some guy bought me a drink and then paid for my lunch, which was really sweet. he was nice and passably attractive, and i think pretty intelligent. but my gut told me he liked to drink. too much. and he was sort of stocky, with dirty blonde hair and blue eyes.

the men in my family and most of the boys i knew in school were long and lean (even my father was at some point, though you wouldn't know this to look at him), so this is what i'm used to, what i prefer. and one of the shuckers was giving me shit about my standards being too high.

so what? i've done that whole lowering-them-so-they-appear-to-be-more realistic thing. you know what happened? i felt guilty for not being true to myself. and for not being fair to the guys for whom i'd lowered the bar.

i've a preference for dark-haired, dark-eyed men who are noticeably taller than i and built more like swimmers and less like offensive linemen. and i'm rambling because some part of me feels like i have to justify this. i'm not sure why that is. maybe because i've heard too many times that i'm too picky. like i don't have a right to be. also? the boy at the bar? he'd prefer to be in places like montana and alaska, and that, for me, ain't ever gonna happen. i am not a cold-climate kind of gal.

and, most irritatingly, there's this small part of me that feels like i should've given the guy more credit. probably because i've been told so many times that i'm too picky.

anyway ... it's too much work, takes too much out of me, messes with my head WAY too much.

having children. yeah. that's a no. i'm not built for that.

the last two? i wish i could put them higher. i really do.

cristina is an aggie, living in arkansas, raising one little girl with her doctor husband and expecting a second baby girl soon! her blog, is there a doctor in the house?, is here.

random quarter: my kabuki

one. kabuki is my older brother's nickname. he got it in high school. i don't remember how.

two. he was born on october twelfth in the year nineteen sixty-eight, four and a half years before me.

three. he died on march twelfth in the year two thousand three.

four. he was older than me for thirty-four years. now i am older than he. forever.

five. in high school, on the nights he would go out with his friends, before he left, he would stand in front of the mirror in the foyer, marvel at his reflection, grin his cockeyed grin and exclaim, "i am a goddamned good-looking man." this habit of grand self-reflection continued on through college and adulthood. while at a&m, his corps unit commander found this habit incredibly amusing. as did i, even though i'd roll my eyes and bitch about his stupidity.

six. the reason two of my friends became involved with each other is because my brother had dared the boy to go over to the girl and smack her on the ass. the boy, who is actually quite shy when it comes to stuff like this, was just drunk enough that he could do it. and when the girl turned, her hand raised to slap his face, she stopped short because it'd registered that he was pretty cute and she'd better not slap him. and they dated for what seemed like a decade. and then they got married. and now they have two of the cutest kids i've ever seen. not the cutest, of course. those would be my other brother's children. but close enough.

seven. i used to hate when he would come and stay at the house when my parents were out of town, because all he did while there was get drunk and trash the place, and i'd be the one doing the cleaning up. it never occurred to me that he was there because he was trying to be the good big brother, knowing his baby sister didn't like being home alone. i'd always thought he'd just wanted a house of his own rather than an apartment and that he wanted to take advantage of my folks and their place while they were away. i'm well aware it could still be the latter there. but i like thinking that he was trying to do the right thing.

eight. the reason i can't be sure if it's that right thing bit is because he had this incredibly uncanny knack for showing up within an hour after their departure and vacating the premises within an hour of their arrival.

nine. he could befriend anyone in a matter of seconds. literally. anyone. he could be standing in line at mcdonald's talking to the guy in line behind him, and they'd be acting like they'd known each other for years by the time they'd placed their orders.

ten. he used to wish i was more like his friend's younger sister and less like me.

eleven. the best memory i have of him isn't a good one at all, really. he'd been in houston, on a binge. my mother'd become quite certain that he wouldn't be home for christmas. my father was in his office, working. my mother was in the kitchen, getting breakfast ready. i was taking turns keeping them company. and my brother shows up on the doorstep at around eight a.m. i'd never seen him look so fragile, as though it hurt him to breathe. and all the years of my being angry with him, all the hatred i'd felt for him got shoved out of the way, because all i could think was my bubby's hurt. it didn't matter that he'd done it to himself. he hurt. he looked broken. and for the first time in a very long time, i'd wanted to make it better.

twelve. the worst? the night he passed out in the upstairs bathroom my brothers and i shared, in the bathtub with the water still running. he'd flooded the house. i yelled at him. he laughed at me. it was like looking at the devil.

thirteen. he was almost always the last person to get the christmas shopping done. when we'd spend christmas in colorado, on christmas eve, he'd come back to the cabin from skiing at two or three that afternoon to shower and change, then he'd go back to aspen to shop. we were never allowed to go with him. he would always, always have the best presents for us.

fourteen. he had the best laugh. it's hard for me to recall it now in perfect clarity, but it was like his whole body, every feature on his face laughed with him.

fifteen. he also had a very short supply of patience. he could not tolerate stupidity in others.

sixteen. he was bigoted. sometimes i had a bit of trouble stomaching how opinionated he could be.

seventeen. he gave me a bottle of ralph lauren's romance for women for christmas. i can't remember if it was the winter before he died or the year before that. once in a while, i'll think i should change that fragrance, and i do. but i always come back to it.

eighteen. he hated how crass i can be. i embarrassed him often because my mouth is so vulgar.

nineteen. he helped my mother wash my mouth out one day. she'd threatened to do it when she got off the phone. he didn't see a point in waiting, so he dragged me over to the sink, yanked my head back and downed what seemed to be half a bottled of dawn in my mouth. i could not stop foaming. so gross. and it didn't do a damned bit of good. obviously.

twenty. he was the easiest person to shop for.

twenty-one. he had AMAZINGLY BAD tastes in music. some of it so pathetic that no record station around in a thousand mile radius would take it back. so i'm stuck with bon jovi, two live crew, eazy-e, taylor dane and whitesnake.

twenty-two. he could not sing. could not carry a note. the man was tone deaf. oh, but he'd try. and he knew he sucked, so he'd just grin at you, come stand right next to you and serenade you right there. and if it was me who was receiving the serenade, there were a lot of kidney shots being snuck in there. my shots. his kidneys.

twenty-three. he was spoiled and lazy and stuck on things having to be just so.

twenty-four. he'd owned a motorycle for all of three days. my parents found out and made him sell it immediately.

twenty-five. in one of those blissful moments where mama's three children aren't tearing into each other, we decided we were going to create a castle made of cups, one that spanned the breadth of the den and reached to the height of its ceiling. kabuki was in college. i was in high school. my other brother was in an intermediate grade. we gathered around in my mother's living room, full of so many things from her mother's. so many things we needed to be mindful of. so many cups. that's what we were mindful of. how many would it take to get to the top and how wide could we get it.and then when we'd finished, the best part, the thing that made it all worthwhile, flicking on the fan and watching the blades send the cups flying.

and there. there's my brother. marvelous, seemingly formiddable. engaging and inspiring and eager to fly.

this (rq post) was a (two-timing) matlock project. learn about that here.

all i ever learned from love

  but all i ever learned from love was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya

(leonard cohen, as sung by jeff buckley in hallelujiah).

(nobody sings that song better, by the way. nobody.)

imagination only gets you so far. you ride the rest of the way on the tide of experience.

below is the best example of my experience. this is what love has taught me.

drain
the structure outside in the park reminds me of a whirlpool, of you, of drowning, of lying on your sofa with your arms around me, your legs entwined with mine, your words beating on, then breaking my happy, idyllic bubble, sinking me, my
tears leaking onto your shirt, mopped up with your tissue. a boy whizzes past on his skateboard. the wheels over the concrete sound like water down the drain. there i go. there we go. but everything goes on around me, just as it had
seconds before, reminding me that this was years ago and not yesterday, that i have resurfaced. memories of you pull me
back under, but not as deeply as before, and not nearly as long
there’s laughter, squeals, joy in almost everything. a
girl hangs upside down and
grins. i watch
from inside
and
wish.

this is what my childhood taught me.

that one was taught at a catholic school by a sour-faced, plain and unremarkable woman. the only concrete memory i have of her is that she wore the black and white headpiece of a nun's habit atop her straight, chin-length, dry, dirty blonde hair.

my mother says this teacher placed me in a cardboard box.

i've no memory of this. i can, however, recall feeling segregated.

i can also recall the day we'd made valentines for our classmates. first we decorated those plain brown paper lunch bags and placed them on our desks. these were for the valentines we received.

and then we made valentines (or filled in the to/from on our storebought ones) for our classmates.

i remember that my peers' bags were stuffed with cards.

i remember that mine was not. in fact, mine was practically (if not) empty.

thirty years have passed since this.

and i feel as unlovable now as i did then.

i suppose that's my fault.

i'm not afraid to say it. i'm a firm believer in that if you have a thought, you speak it. because holding on to it, letting it fly around such limited space in such protected air, that's not being true to the thought. speak it and be done with it. no matter how heinous and hurtful the thought could be.

i've been called sir more than i've been called ma'am. most people who have committed this infraction (and it is an infranction ... not only are you not seen as a woman, but after closer inspection, you're found to be an ugly woman. and all this does is separate the parties. i've been looked upon as though i am lesser because of my face.

i've learned enough,  gone to enough bars and such that i can see who's interested in whom and who's interested in him or herself.

take this date, for example, that a friend of mine witnessed at some taqueria (that it's at a taqueria should tell you alot about the thing from the get-go).

and the lady--who is the avatar of geek hot, speaks arabic and spanish, and has a great sense of humor--is clearly more interested than the dude. she keeps flirting and asking engaging questions...

...and he keeps playing with his phone and talking about his house, and past vacations with other girls. and he hasn't asked her. one. single. question.

a barkeep asked me why i didn't flirt with a guy a little. ask him out. i said, i'm tired of having to do the asking. it's his turn.

i've made these four couples, and they will find success. i've made them pretty. i've made them with at least one redeeming quality apiece.

the basic bones of the story are there.

i know crushed and anxious and overwhelmed. i don't need helping writing those things. i've got'm down. really, really well.

so this is what i suggest.

i need to know joy. that time when you like every single thing about that person because neither of you have opened the dungeons yet.

i don't remember that point in things from my experiences. not well enough to write them.

if you bother to read this maligned post (most of which was written as the ambien kicked in--i've been pretty sick and haven't been sleeping well), and feel compelled to contribute to the creative process at all (PLEASE) ...

leave a comment telling me about a cool thing that you and your guy/gal did. a nice conversation. good quality time. that sort of thing.

a long, long while ago, i asked for bad date stories. now i want the good ones.

so go ahead. brag a little. thanks.

a last look at fall

a letter to me at fifteen

you will want to quit swimming at the conclusion of your junior year. i'm okay with you doing this, because you will have been coached by a lardass geek rather than your current guru. but when the guru coach from mccullough high school comes to you after having heard of your retirement and asks that you join his masters team, say yes. without hesitation. and thank him for thinking so much of your abilities.

your knees will give out on you. it will hurt. you will not know physical pain as great as this. but you won't remember the extent of that pain a decade after they've cut. just that it was godawful. so take advantage of the fact that your knees work well enough right now. run. run lots. because there will come a time you won't be able to do this.

your mother is going to insist that you go look at stephen f. austin and cottey college. she is going to do this because she believes that you will get lost at a&m, that you only want to go there because your brother is there. i don't know about the lost bit ... i can't tell you what will happen should you go there. but i damned well know your wanting to go has nothing to do with his presence there and everything to do with the fact that you love that university more than life itself.

i know you're tired. i know you're angry. and ashamed. and disgusted with yourself. you've a right to be. you're entitled to it. but you're entitled to be happy, too. i need you to not rely so much on attaining goals that are the norm, like marriage and family. if you continue on this current path of yours, this trajectory, if you choose this adventure, it will not end the way you'd like. you will be single and childless. because that exhaustion and anger and revulsion will slowly, slowly erode all that which makes you good.

you are not normal. stop trying to be.

your brother, by the way, is not perfect. stop treating him as though he is a god, an ideal. he is flawed, just like you. there will come a time where you will feel inclined to tell him not to call you. you will regret doing this. let him know how much you appreciate him. every day, if possible. he will piss you off, moreso than anyone else. don't give up on him. you will regret doing this, too.

contrary to what your peers have told you, there will come a time in which men will find you attractive. it will not be soon. you will have to wait a long, long time for this. but someday, a man's gonna want to get his hands on you. i know. it's hard to imagine. when that time comes, don't be so hasty. yes, i know. patience is not your strong suit. at all. wait. just wait. you're gonna be so excited that it's happening that you'll rush things. and nobody likes to be rushed. least of all you ... so ... just ... wait.

NEVER GET A CREDIT CARD. EVER. EVER.

EVER.

money is not your friend.

you don't have a lot of friends, by the way. people don't necessarily outgrow their adolescent selves. stop expecting them to do so. it won't happen. you have such a high moral ground, most of the time. i know you doubt that right now. i know you've made some choices lately that have inspired you to question just how good a person you are. don't let these experiences cause you to think differently.

stop praying for death. it's not gonna happen any time soon. you're mostly depressed lately. it will be significantly worse in your twenties. significantly. it will be terrifying at times. but you will get through it. every time.

it doesn't mean you're weak. you're not. stop letting others opinions of you cause you to feel this way.

focus on your gifts.

draw. write. sing.

you're gonna be curious about smoking, too. don't be. it'll take you a really long to time to kick the habit. and quitting sucks. also, quit drinking all that goddamned coke. your teeth are gonna turn out like dad's. you're welsh and english, idiot! what do you think's gonna happen when you guzzle as much of that crap as you do. crowns? and root canals? they're not cheap. imagine what you could buy with seven hundred bucks! brush. and floss. every freaking day.

oh! and that cabin in basalt? they're gonna build a fucking apartment complex or some such crap across the river, right in front of yall's cabins, and screw up that lovely view. (it's been a while since i've seen it, but it looks a helluva lot like the hideous thing in the photo above), and they're gonna start developing a significant number of commercial properties in the area. so it won't be supremely-small-town, colorado anymore. it'll be an annex of aspen, sort of. and it's gonna lose all its charm. so take tons of pictures. there'll come a point you won't even be able to go there anymore. fight like hell to see that doesn't happen.

your aunt marge and mema jo have set aside a nice chunk of change for you to edumacate yourself. you can do a helluva lot better than a two point three grade point average. and every time i utter those words, i feel like i'm spitting on their graves. it's a damned fine gift they've given you. cherish it.

it doesn't matter what you do. it only matters that you do it well.

there are stories inside you. don't be afraid to share them.

you are brilliant. you are.

hang in there.

. . .

and in other news, i found this neato-bandito christmas project today.

the twenty-eighth question

a few months ago, my blogging friend lacie over at creative attempts was kind enough to pose a question for me for the griffin inquisition, a creative memoir project that began in college.

the thing lacie most wanted to know about me is thus:

are you inspired by anyone that you would be embarrassed to admit? 

for my answer, click here.

instead of my showing you samples of old posts from her site, like i usually do, i've invited her to post on picky. here she will tell you about oula, a nifty new way to shed some of those dreaded pounds.

so, welcome, lacie, and thanks for guest posting.  

If you really knew me you would know ...

Hello to my friends that have followed me here and my new friends via picky. I am so excited to be guest posting here today!!

So I have been wanting to blog about this for a really long time, but I think it’s the hardest to write about something personal that you love because you expose a part of yourself, but here it goes ...

Let me preface this by saying loud and clear that I have never done anything like this, and I am quite possibly one of the most uncoordinated people on the planet. That being said, if you really knew me you would know that I have become absolutely obsessed with something called Oula. If you haven’t heard about this, it is a cardio dance class that is literally one of the most fun things (especially exercise-related) that I have ever done. It is filled with top 40s music, and I feel like it is somewhere that I can let everything else go and rock out and let the music move me. I leave the classes feeling energized, happy and excited. How many times can you say that after you have been sweating like crazy at the gym for an hour?

Yes, this is me. Ugh. I am so not photogenic, but I was part of a project where we were photographed doing some of the Oula movements, and it was actually a blast.

In my head when I am dancing I look like this ... (p.s. this is not me. it is the founder and creative director of the program, and she is AMAZING)

But I am pretty sure I look more like Elaine from Seinfeld (if you saw that episode you will know what I mean) ...

The fact of the matter is that you don’t have to be a great dancer to go to this class and have it change something inside of you. It is amazing stress relief and great cardio, obviously, but more than that I feel like it is just plain good for my energy. How cheesy, I know, and I sound like an infomercial, but there it is, friends. I couldn’t imagine my week without this as part of my routine.

something wicked this way comes

one of my blogging friends posted on her page the other day that she basically kept the dark and twisty stuff to herself. that her blog was not a place for that. she wanted her page to be fun and friendly.

there are days where i wish like hell i could be one of those girls.

but unfortunately, i am not. i have been battling a pretty nasty bout of depression the past month or so. it isn't letting up. or i'm not strong enough to combat it. or both.

i don't have a social life to distract me. i don't have that luxury because i am pathetically socially inept. i am not like her. or any other woman, for that matter, who can contain the ugly under a lovely mask of sunny.

so the world would assume, anyway.

there are things i see in my head that i've never seen in person. horrifying things. tormenting things. things i don't want to know so well. i don't want to know if what i've imagined is better or worse. i don't want the visions to become realities. when that happens, the images stay with me forever. they don't become so clouded by and, therefore, insignificant with time. they are as vibrant in memory as they are at the time of their occurrence.

the trouble with having a mind that is affected by mental instability is that you're constantly battling those visions. doing your damnedest to see that they remain things imagined. and the more you struggle, the harder it is to protect yourself, your world.

i see horrible, horrible things.

it is for this reason that being home alone very nearly paralyzes me with fear. it is for this reason that i am so cognizant of suffering. i am incredibly, acutely aware of trauma and its effects.

most people believe me to be too nice. i lent a friend who had just delivered twins some movies while she was cooped up in a hospital bed.

i've lain on those beds six times, four that i can recall. the first two happened before my second birthday. and every time it was to correct a flaw. and every time my only visitors were my immediate family and my doctor(s). it sucks to be stuck in a sterile, white room with monitors and wires and that stench of hospital with so few distractions.

i had a majority of my movies stored in a portable case. i'd meant to give her that. it should've been a quick thing. run home, run upstairs, snatch it from the floor at the foot of my bed, and run back. but no. my room was trashed, like always. and i'd moved it, but couldn't remember where i'd put it, like always.

so a twenty minute trip became an hour as i filled a large, brown paper bag with dvds.

when i got there with my bag full of plastic cases, she called me crazy and said i was too nice.

there are times when i feel as though niceness is an insult.

but it's important to me that i be nice. because there is such violence in me. i am capable of doing some godawful things. in my mind, i've hurt people i love. and the more i love them, the more pain i've imagined causing them.

so i cling to kindness like a lifeline, a fragile tether tying me to a dingy rocked by a hurricane.

there are things in this world i no longer want to understand. i used to wonder how someone could abuse a child. how a man or woman could harm a toddler for being a toddler, especially one who idolizes that adult.

i wondered and wondered and wondered. and then, one day, as i was caring for my niece and nephew, i got one of those terrifying visions.

and thanks to the demons in me, i no longer need to wonder. i've a very good idea of what would compel an adult to hurl a helpless three-month-old against a far wall.

not that i've done it. i would never. i would commit myself if such a thing ever came so close to becoming a reality.

and i'm careful not to be in a room alone with those babies. and i'm not going to teach, because i'm confident that i am not strong enough to handle a roomful of children by myself. i don't trust me in there. so all that waffling i'd been doing? i shouldn't have wasted my time with it.

still, when i see someone drag a child across a floor so fast and with such force that his head is whacked harshly against a wall ... when that person laughs at his cries and assigns the blame for his injury to him, it's damned near impossible for me to sit silently.

but sit i must. because god forbid a childless woman comment on the care another does or does not provide for a child.

and i've yet another painful memory crowding my all-too-troubled noggin.

someone asked me once what i was most proud of accomplishing.

masking the violence in my soul.

i've been told my smile is amazing. i've been told i am too kind. so i can't shove the sadness down far enough. but the other ... no one will know just how bad that shit is. this is the best glimpse of that you'll ever get.

so this is my prayer today:

this week's wisdom

psalm twenty-seven
1 the lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall i fear? the lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall i be afraid?

2 when the wicked, even mine enemies and my foes, came upon me to eat up my flesh, they stumbled and fell.

3 though an host should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear: though war should rise against me, in this will i be confident.

4 one thing have i desired of the lord, that will i seek after; that i may dwell in the house of the lord all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of the lord, and to enquire in his temple.

5 for in the time of trouble he shall hide me in his pavilion: in the secret of his tabernacle shall he hide me; he shall set me up upon a rock.

6 and now shall mine head be lifted up above mine enemies round about me: therefore will i offer in his tabernacle sacrifices of joy; i will sing, yea, i will sing praises unto the Lord.

7 hear, o lord, when i cry with my voice: have mercy also upon me, and answer me.

8 When thou saidst, seek ye my face; my heart said unto thee, thy face, lord, will i seek.

9 hide not thy face far from me; put not thy servant away in anger: thou hast been my help; leave me not, neither forsake me, o god of my salvation.

10 when my father and my mother forsake me, then the lord will take me up.

11 teach me thy way, o lord, and lead me in a plain path, because of mine enemies.

12 deliver me not over unto the will of mine enemies: for false witnesses are risen up against me, and such as breathe out cruelty.

13 i had fainted, unless i had believed to see the goodness of the lord in the land of the living.

14 wait on the lord: be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart: wait, i say, on the lord.

two proposals

from time to time during games at kyle field, the cameras hone in on members of the twelfth man, usually the cute -- babies, toddlers and the physically blessed -- or enthusiastic fans, like those who have forgone shirts for body paint. just long enough that the individuals involved are aware their mugs grace the big screen in the south endzone.

last saturday, one of those individuals was a man holding up a twelfth man towel, upon which he'd written in black, block letters she said yes.

now, normally i'm not a fan of the proposals that call attention to themselves. i've seen'm advertised on big screens in ball parks, dropped in glasses of wine or buried in a dessert, or ...

written in the sky. like the one i saw today as i was walking from work to my car. there's a plane overhead. a banner with red block letters boasting a woman's name, the question and the man's name.

my first reaction was to smile and think how sweet. but that only last a millisecond. because, really? it's not sweet. that one's not about the joy of the thing. it's not even about the thing, really. or the woman. it's about the man. about the story the woman can tell her friends about the man.

there's no creativity there. there's no romance in that. he had someone fly a plane over a mall. so everybody could see. so everybody could, for that split second, think how sweet. it's horribly cliched and impersonal.

i'd much rather be the girl standing next to the guy with the towel. sure he asked her in a football stadium, surrounded by nearly ninety-thousand people. and sure, it got attention.

but the two of them were doing something they loved doing. together. and when he asked her, i doubt the people standing next to him were listening to his conversation. so the world, for them, for just a second, amidst all that chaos that is kyle field, was just theirs despite that cacophony. it was, for her, just about the boy standing next to her asking that question girls love and long to hear. and it was, for him, just about the girl standing next to him.

and when she said yes, they got to share in their excitement. afterward. in a way that made the people in that stadium smile and think how sweet, a sentiment that stuck with them for much longer than a millisecond.

do you know how i know this? because when i saw that stupid plane with its silly banner, i thought of that other proposal, of the sheer happiness on those young faces, and smiled again. and thought how sweet again.

that other one? i'll have forgotten it by next saturday. at the latest.

random quarter: the how-would-you-blow-a-shitload-of-dough edition

one. pay off my college loans.

two. get current with all my bills.

three. personal training on a much more regular and frequent basis, so my ass could once again fit into a size-six pair of gap boot cut jeans.

four. phineas restored to his supremely awesome self. i've scraped up his belly and his right side quite a bit.  also, i've not detailed the leather since i bought him six years ago. shame on me.

five. that apartment i was telling you about? i'd snag that sucker up and keep it forever and ever and ever. 

i know what you're thinking. why an apartment? why not a house or a ...

because there is no yard to maintain. there is no maintenance for which i must set aside funds or headaches caused by that maintenance that i must medicate. you call the front office. you say my so-and-so is busted. and you wait while they get right on that. that's about as much of a headache as i've had to suffer when it comes to that stuff. 

and i am one person. one person does not need more than the space one apartment would provide. this right here? this is plenty.

six. a graduate degree at texas a&m university.

seven. lifetime season tickets to kyle field, preferably in section one-forty-three, row one, on the aisle. 

eight. restoration hardware's lancaster leather sofa

nine. restoration hardware's churchill reading chair. once upon a time they called it buster. i like the old name a whole lot better.

ten. pottery barn kids comfort chair, slip-covered in walnut washed linen. 

eleven. modifications to the pad to make it more me.

twelve. pay my parents back.

thirteen. give some to my brother.

fourteen. give some to my niece and nephew.

fifteen. vacation in england, ireland, scotland, austria and greece.

sixteen. wardrobe shopping sprees at anthropologie, banana republic and the gap.

seventeen. new boots. because mine are literally coming apart. and this makes me sad because i loved them so. but alas, i will have to learn to love another pair.

eighteen. every album on rolling stones' five hundred best list. i never liked the who, for example, but then i made myself listen to one of their greatest hits compilations until i could at least appreciate them. and it's actually kind of easy to do that with some of their songs. so maybe if i immersed myself in some of the other selections, i might could acquire a taste for a few of those as well. because god knows the music scene right now sucks ass. i keep turning on the radio thinking that i might hear something that will speak volumes to me. and it rarely ever happens. (and every time i think about this, i realize this must be how my parents felt when their music went out of style ... it's not sitting well.)

nineteen. donations to aids and cancer charities and research and to the march of dimes.

twenty. new television.

twenty-one. pottery barn's printer's media hutch.

twenty-two. williams sonoma. i would spend hours in there. hours. and it would most likely be a total waste of that money because i can't even make cinnamon toast. but, oh, i have such a huge fetish for kitchen shit. shoes? handbags? not really my thing. not that i won't go on the hunt for the quintessential accessory, but really? that sense of near-orgasmic glee most girls get over a pair of manolo blahniks or whoever is the it-shoemaker for the moment? i don't get that. ever. i'm happy with a pair of forty dollar flats (although i would be ecstatic if i could find a near exact replica of the pair of boots i'm going to have to replace). a finely made cutting board, on the other hand ...

twenty-three. every film that's ever won any oscar in any category.

twenty-four. barnes & noble. i would spend days in there. DAYS.

twenty-five. get my teeth fixed.

the way is shut

my mother used to worry that she would lose me to alcohol or drugs. i'd get little comments here and there whenever we talked about my aunt or uncle or grandfather. mostly about my aunt. about how i am just like her.

twenty years ago, when she made these comments, i would be irritated by them because i knew myself well enough to know that drinking and smoking and injecting all that crap didn't do a damned bit of good. it made things worse, actually. i watched for years as it took its toll on my brother. i have to ask my family and friends about him now because he's not here to ask. to get to know. and the man i knew ... i got to know more of the things that made him detestable and less of the good.

the things i turned to in times of trouble were stories and swimming. i'd ride my bicycle around my neighborhood for hours sometimes. not because i wanted the exercise but because i was working through a plot i'd concocted. and if those didn't work, i took out my frustration on the water. and then i got tired of swimming. so it's just stories now. usually those told on the screen.

the two movies i'd most looked forward to seeing this summer were crazy, stupid love and one day. the first one made me happy. so much so that i felt compelled to see it again. will probably see it still again. the second made me cry. it made me lonely and miserable.

and i had nowhere to go with that when i left the theater. my friends? they're married. or have children. or both. and you don't call up a married parent at midnight on a saturday complaining about being the hopeless romantic. they wouldn't be able to comprehend that anyway.

so what did i do? i drove to pappadeaux seafood house with the intention of downing a shot or two of vodka and writing. i don't do this often. but the fact that i consider it from time to time ... it worries me a little. fortunately for me, my older brother was looking out for me. the doors were locked. i couldn't get in. and for some reason, the walk back to my car took most of the interest in partaking of adult beverages away.

i don't like how some love stories mess with me this way. i don't like how empty i feel after watching them. and yet, i would watch it again. it's a good story.

i was a better person twenty years ago. i don't like how life is chipping away at that. how the doors almost always seemed to be locked tight. and i was so much stronger two decades ago. i would've found a different way in then. now i seem to spend more time walking away.

two stories

tonight, i sat down with my nephew after dinner in one of the swivel glider rockers i love so well with one of the books, small saul, that i'd given mom for mother's day. usually when bambam is sitting with someone with a book, he wants to do the so-called reading of it. what this means is that he turns the pages back and forth and points out one of many objects on one page, then goes back to turning the pages again. and he is babbling all the while. babbling because he is so animated, so happy inside the realm of his imagination which has been stirred by that one object on that one page that he is content there. your turning the pages and reading to him the words printed on that paper? this disrupts that contentedness. a lot. and he will swat at your hands and yank the book from your grasp and snap at you.

 

i read it! i do it!

it's rare when he actually appreciates having someone read to him. so rare that i cannot recall more than a handful of times during which i've actually been able to read more than five consecutive pages to him in any one sitting.

tonight's reading began like it always does.

but eventually, maybe a third of the way through the book, he ceased with his fidgeting and his babbling and his attempts to yank the book from my hands and listened. he was totally absorbed.

why?

maybe because he hadn't had a nap today. maybe because he was working on a number two.

maybe because we were reading about pirates. who knows.

but at the end of it, when we got to the last page, and i'd read the last word, he said two things:

the end.

(pause)

i like that story.

and that's the first time i've ever heard him say that about a book. ever.

we started to read dirtball pete, which is also a pretty cute book.

but my father had to pull out his newly acquired ipad. and my nephew associates this thing with angry birds. and pete and i lost him.