Supposed to miss home.
Posted by Dee on Oct 30 2010 | Comment now »
Right? I’m suppposed to miss my four walls and trinkets and bed and what-nots. Right? Well, the truth is, I don’t. I don’t want to go home. Now, don’t get me wrong, there ARE life forms that I miss. Lu and Dad, Lolita and Charles and Lammie. I DO miss them. But I don’t miss home. These days, my home feels like it’s inside me. Whether it’s in a Holiday Inn with shitty carpet, obnoxious neighbors, and stopped-up tub, or a seasonal store space transformed into my company’s ideal vault of money. Or on an insanely crowded Bangkok street alone…
Truth is; nobody really, misses me. And I think I’m ok with that.
I begin to fantasize about home. How about if I sublet my four walls to someone who hasn’t four walls to claim? Wouldn’t THAT be cool?
Wouldn’t THAT be something? I could come home and smile. I could feel better about my own humanity.
I mailed my rent check today. I’ve repeated the motion for decades. It just feels weirder today. Like, what’s the point?
I pay my rent for an apartment I don’t LIVE in anymore. I haven’t LIVED there for years. My heart travels with ME now. My hats are hung from an interior rack that you cannot see. Or, can you?
Can you? Can you see that I’m not your local citizen anymore?
I’m supposed to miss home. But I don’t. I think there’s a plan that’s more global than I imagined for my mid-life years.
I think I’m gonna like it.
The dirt coaster.
Posted by Dee on Jun 12 2010 | Comment now »
There’s a provocative commercial making the rounds lately. It’s an AT&T advert, but it’s the music that evokes this one permeating memory. It comes on so strong now, so forceful and bullying. Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory’s; Imagination. The voice over asks; “Remember when you were five, and anything seemed possible?”
No. Not really. I have threadbare recollections of my 5th year on planet Earth. But I DO recall year 12, in North Vancouver, when my friends and me were ushered out of doors until at least dinner time. North Van’s geography includes Grouse Mountain. Grouse Mountain includes sprawling evergreens and giant-ass hills. We lived halfway to the summit on Montroyal Blvd. My friends Susanne and Jason Sumpton lived two steep blocks up and four over on Blueridge Rd. We all had fabulous backdrops for childhood. The bike ride or skateboard ride down to Hardy’s, the corner store, filled with scrumptious penny candies was magnificent! 80 degrees steep. The pedal home was treacherous, even then. Even for my young and healthy lungs. Yes, I was 12 that year and was the boastful and teary recipient of a second-hand bicycle. I loved it. Green and sparkly with a banana seat to boot! I rode the shit outta that bike. My brother and father taught me to ride. I rode to Jason and Susanne’s house a lot. One spring day, Susanne and I imagineered a grandiose-but tangible-plan.
The dirt coaster.
Susanne had a cool yard. It angled downward for half a block, sporadically laced with majestic evergreens and thick juniper bushes. But there was this one path, this one path that we saw clearly as the answer to our boredom. We both envisioned a theme park ride. (We’d both only ever been to one theme park in our lives-the PNE). A ride that would go super fast down the trail and eventually slow down into lovers lane. We both had crushes on boys just then, and perhaps this was the REAL purpose behind our plotting…
We had everything SO figured out. The size and shape of the cars that folks would ride in, the speed and thrill everyone would enjoy. We never even thought of charging for our ride, it was enough of a thrill for us to thrill us. And you.
We saw our vision metabolizing in real time and we never questioned whether or not this was a fantasy. It was real. It really was.
I suppose that’s why I can still be stirred to remember it. Even now. Even after a hundred lifetimes.
I still dream in dirt coasters. I sometimes believe I can make things happen just by my own sheer will. I still can see with pristine clarity, our vision for that fantastic ride.
Unfortunately, our dirt coaster never came to fruition. I think Susanne and Jason followed the straighter and narrow trail as I was called to travel down the nefarious path…
Ah, but such as this life. A dirt coaster at every twisty turn…
Who would’ve guessed that some dumb commercial could bring me back to the realism that I once believed in?
The dirt coaster.
I bet it would’ve been so freakin’ fantastic!
I can’t write shit.
Posted by Dee on May 27 2010 | Comment now »
I was perusing the Folio during dinner with the folks last eve. I came to an advert regarding a writing workshop open to all, opening soon. I read internally, (Lu HATES it when I read at the table, but life on the road alone forces me to divert attention) the requirements and alleged offerings of this workshop. Come one, come all, it said. Writers on site to discuss your works, however amateur, it promised. Stirrings. Stirrings just then. Stirrings rising up in me over fried green tomatoes with salt…
I catapulted myself as I can, and tend to do so easily, to that place of imagination. Lu and Vern never noticed a thing. I’m so good like that-living and acting and performing inside my own world.
The place of fiction and fantasy… Here I am! Over here! Read my stories, they’re very good and oh so heartfelt.
I then imagined the character from Ratatouille, in full diabolical form; Anton Ego (aka Peter O’Toole), grinning at me. He finds error in the very first sentence of my very first story. “I can find fault with the first word of your first sentence” says he with sly lips and pointy fingers and British drawl.
I had a physical and tangible reaction to my imaginings just then. I felt it. I felt doomed. I felt like shit.
I can’t write. Shit. I’m the laughing stock of cartoons for Christsakes! I got scared. I vowed then not to offer up my posts for Ego’s of any kind. I will never earn a living as a writer, despite my family’s best hopes. I’m too scared of everyone who’s better than me, smarter, and more delicate than me. My dream occupation exceeds my grasp-I’ll not ever be the female version of Anthony Bourdain. I’m just not that great. I just can’t swallow that knot in me that whispers sour and bitter nothings in my ear.
God, please don’t judge me for what I write down. It’s primitive, I know. But it’s always been what was good enough for my weak and faltering ego. It is always my heart and fast spinning mind that writeth before my fall.
Perhaps one day I’ll show up at your writer’s workshop. Perhaps I won’t even give a Ratatoulli’s ass if I’m the worst writer to ever grace your presence. Alas, that day isn’t today. I’m my own nemesis, my own Anton Ego. Sans pointy fingers and British verbiage but wealthy beyond measure with sly lips.
I’m still a whacky, mindless wreck at times whom acquires knots in her stomach just before doing the thing she loves most- eating with friends, cooking for family.
Food prevailed over knots last night, and my folks never knew the difference. I just smiled at them and internalized their adoration. They love me-words or not. There’s not a reason on Earth to subject them to my psychotic little fear…I’m folding up the Folio now, our plates arrive, just in my time.
I’m still gonna claim this as a victory.
I’m not gonna stop writing, fighting and talking. I have to. It’s in me. Whether I suck or not. It’s my mental diarrhea.
I write shit. But it’s my shit. Can’t I ever just be satisfied with that? Well? Can’t I?
My God. Eh-Net was right. The spammers are asshats.
Posted by Dee on May 02 2010 | Comment now »
So I haven’t (obviously) been blogging these days. Well, these months. But as I try to check AOL mail at least weekly, I am bombarded by blog-barf. Spam, as it were. Yuck. Fuck. Get off. It’s making me so crazy. It seems the less I type, the more that the nefarious bull crap ensues. Ok. So I’m writing now. Have a new computer, have a new station in job-ville, have a new outlook on those I once trusted. Life’s spinny and whack, this is for certain. People continue to baffle and amaze me, as I’m most assured now that I do them. But at least I don’t bullshit you. That’s one merit badge, right? I won’t look in your eyes and tell you lies. I won’t work with you for years, mentor and love you, and then become a nightmare too frightful for the most heinous of standing dreams. I’d never have fucked you over. It’s just not my style. But I WILL tell you when you’re hurting me. I WILL speak up when you’ve tripped and spilt your shit all over me. Did you ever once think of me? No. You didn’t. Selfish gains blind the young. You should’ve known, kid. You should’ve known the reality, you should’ve known the day in and day outs of me. Too bad that you hitched your caboose to the wrong wagon. It could’ve been so easy. I was only ever a phonecall away. How the Hell did I fail you? I spent many a concscious hour pondering this equation. Enough said now. My heart is armored and is ready for business. Figure it out and get back to me when you’re ready for an honest conversation. Those that love me tell me I’m gonna be waiting idly for awhile… I still have more faith than brain. But I must credit you for making me slightly more weary for this world. Spammers ARE asshats-but so are the people who have a genuine connection to me as well. Loyalty doesn’t mean that I stand up for those who are fucking up. It means that I will kneel down with those who have fought for real justice. Look it up. Justice means to me that I appreciate properly those who treat the life/balance as something real, something to fight for. I once believed that I tought you that. But now I take credit for failure. How can I think any differently, when the proof is in the pudding?
Peace out for now.
Hey you.
Posted by Dee on Dec 15 2009 | Comment now »
Got a card today. Made me laugh. Made me sigh. Laugh-because you ‘get’ me. Sigh-because you’re there.
I ponder over October mornings, I swim fast inside October nights.
I DO miss you. I DO long for January to show her lovely face. Within her; yours.
Yes, I adore your winter hue. Your Ram-perature and cable knit pics.
I’ll make us warm, my darling. Promise.
I’m your comfy Snuggie, but you’re so much more to my weary bones.
January is a prayer to me now. A Christening, a wish.
Let’s find our tree. Let’s blow the effin’ roof off tradition, baby.
I’m going to cry on Christmas, just so you know. It’s gonna kill me to miss you- can’t even kiss you. God, what a sap I grew up to be.
BTW- Do you have the Timmex for me?
I need to hug you now.
It’s never too “latte,” I always say.
Posted by Dee on Nov 28 2009 | 2 Comments »
Oops, hang on a sec… Dropped my lathe on my foot there, buddy. Ouch. Horizontal axis rotating tools are surely a danger! Ask Lukey. I bet he knows…
There are bits and pieces and portions and parts of my life that I’ve not yet written down here on my “digital journal.” Years and months and ages of pages of me are omitted. No, not because of any lesser significance. Merely because I’m older now, more prone to the release of several measures of youth. Measures that I need to recall, but measures that goeth before my fall. I fell alot, y’all. And took prisoners along my descent. It’s just that I’m so far removed from that era, I forget so easily. I just don’t recognize that Dee anymore. But still-it behooves me to recall, if nothing more than a method by which to keep myself firmly planted in the garden of sense and rooted in the land of justice. Here we go kiddies…
Barb. 1995. What an eff-fest THAT was. I was a carbon-copy of a fiasco, those days.
Then came (anonymous). I saw her at the ball field and there/then was the beginning of my undoing. Schemed, planned, cavorted and manipulated my way to a first date. I tripped and fell into her without once looking ahead. Without ever looking back. Down the rabbit hole, Alice.
It’s been more than a decade since I’ve really put my mind to analysis about those days. But as I press and prod my brain to recall, it all comes readily back to my frontal lobe.
This is another one of those: ‘to be continued posts.’
Bummer. But I’m really weary this week.
I’m feeling beat down a bit and I very much miss my girl in Pa.
Nevertheless, I’ll continue this story. Probably tomorrow, since I have an entire glorious day to enjoy football and my narcissistic self. I have much to say on this very topic. No, silly. Not narcissism, Deeiscoolism!
See y’all then.
Ok, so I didn’t quite fit myself or my words into the aforementioned timetable. I must have needed to sleep because I missed a couple of other engagements too. Oh well. C’est la vie. The story WILL get told. (Without any persuasion from any peanut gallery attendees, either. Ahem!) No worries, I don’t often look backward with disdain. Only “aha” moments and life lessons. Except for that one time during a thunderstorm…
The past is where it should be.
Posted by Dee on Nov 27 2009 | Comment now »
So this woman appears. Out of my nowhere, out of this blue. She leaves me a message, leaves her feet marks, even. Does she forget how much I remember? Just how long ago and far away we were? She does not even know me now, yet feels the sanctimonious justification to bark out a solemn diatribe toward my oblivion.
Duck this, dodge that. Preach this, type that. Tell me, Grasshopper: What would the MASTER have me do? ‘Tis MY blog, these, MY thoughts. ‘Tis my seen and unseen narcissism. Leave it. Take it. But don’t fucking judge it. You really haven’t looked at this lightening bolt lately.
Perhaps; “Loveiscool” will be the calling card for your own blog-ful journey?
I remember the poetry, I recall the twisting turns. I remember the maelstrom of chaos, the artful, passionate spurns.
I left it behind, I left it for good. Manage your own lightening bolts, baby. But don’t blame me for your burns…All history does not go down in the book of greatness, my ****-bearing, darling.
Some things, are the kinder left unwritten.
What would happen if…?
Posted by Dee on Nov 09 2009 | 4 Comments »
According to Helen, (intermittent nods of agreement, peppered by Al), I stirred up and created much angst over this repetitive question during my youth and beginning adolescence. Could I help it? No. I was a victim of a gene pool that I wasn’t made privy to.
But really…
What WOULD happen if?
What would happen if those dastardly Dee-maker’s never had left me? What would happen if folks never lied straight in my face? What would happen if you said what you felt? What would happen if you shoved a blue crayon up your nose? What would happen if JFK woulda ducked lower? What would happen if I wore a Vera Wang gown and I had a wedding day with you in it? What would happen if I just totally said Vera Wang when I’ve really no idea what that means? What would happen if Lolita scrunched her legs up underneath her and made me think she’s dying? What would happen if the girl who said she needs to; “just get herself well” really just needs to ask herself what would happen if that happened? What would happen if I said I loved you?
Nothing, you idiot. Because I’d never fucking say that in a blog…
I’d be brave enough to make you feel it, know it and get it. I’d mush your face in it like a Wisconsin snowball fight during the first shivers of winter.
Hey you! Can you hear me now when I ask your opinion in my educated and adult state? Can you undo your prejudice long enough to get me?
Nope, didn’t think so. But it’s okay. I have my own resources now. People/places/books and life tools with whom I treasure, people who try to find the answers to what would happen when I ask. No matter how juvenille and foolish they secretly think I am.
I always and ever want to know what would happen. That’s just me. Someone snuck an almanac into my petrie dish. I used the dictionary and encylopedia as floatation devices to swim upstream.
What would happen if I said I just don’t give a fuck anymore?
Would you still try to prove me wrong?
24 hours removed…
Posted by Dee on Nov 08 2009 | 4 Comments »
…and I feel better already. Sticking close to home now. Getting duped takes some getting used to. I’ve even managed to downgrade from $700 gifts to $300. Thanks for pointing that out, Ani. YES! I’ll be laughing again soon, my loves. Soon, I guarantee and certify it. I feel it already, and it’s only been a day. Your resident wise-ass can’t stay down for long. I won’t cheat my Dee-voted public outta any more sarcastic and witty wise-ass barf-o-logues than necessary.
Promise.
It’s smooth sailing from here on out…tick tock, time is a gift.