roshambo monkey

Into the Light

2011-12-21T20:05:00.000-08:00

Stolen with impunity from Ralfee Finn

It’s solstice time, once again, and in the Northern Hemisphere that means it’s time to celebrate the return of the light through a wide variety of seasonal festivities. This year, the exact moment of the winter solstice takes place on December 22 at 5:30 AM GMT, 12:30 AM EST, and 9:30 PM PST on December 21. “Solstice” means the Sun’s standstill, and it marks the extreme positions of the Sun when it is rising in the East and setting in the West, positions that appear to occur at the same point on the horizon for three or four days in a row. It is as if the Sun seemingly comes to a halt as it turns around in preparation to repeat its path. Of course we know that the Sun is not following a path – we are – and that the winter and summer solstice occur because of Earth’s axial tilt to the Sun along our orbital path. (And for those of you who want more precise astronomical details, start your search engines, now.) It seems our ancient predecessors in a variety of cultures that span the globe were well aware of these solar extremes, and many archeological sites in the Northern Hemisphere are aligned with the sunrise of the winter or the summer solstice; Newgrange, in Ireland, and Stonehenge, in England, are among the most famous locations.

My favorite solstice symbol is the Sun Dagger, an Anasazi petroglyph located on Fajada Butte in Chaco Canyon, New Mexico. Unrelated to any of our Christmas icons – Santa Claus, Rudolf, or the Jupiter/Saturn conjunction known as the Star of the Magi – the Sun Dagger is believed to be the only astronomical marker of its kind: It indicates within a simple spiral, etched in stone, and a secondary smaller one next to it, also etched in stone, the winter and summer solstice, the vernal and autumnal equinox, and the major and minor extremes of the moon. (Frankly, until I studied the Sun Dagger, I was completely unaware that the Moon also had a “solstice” or standstill pattern.) But what’s even more amazing is that all these significant astronomical moments are marked with the passage of light across or at the sides of a petroglyph carved into the side of rock, which (and here’s where it gets mind-blowing) is hidden behind three enormous boulders. (And I’m not even talking about the rattlesnake nests you have to climb through to see it.)

Because the Sun Dagger is staggering in both its simplicity and its complexity, the research about it tends to focus on how the Anasazi managed to calculate and so efficiently mark these solar and lunar events. Yet while the “how” is important, I’m more interested in the “why.” For our ancestors, the cosmos was a structured, orderly, animate and intelligible system that contained both Heaven and Earth. Celestial events mattered because they were organically linked to terrestrial experiences. “As above, so below,” goes the old adage. The Sun Dagger marks the solstice at Noon, another archeological rarity that reminds us of the diversity of ways cosmic order is observed and expressed. This solstice, from dawn to dusk, invite the Sun to light your way, as a reminder that no matter how chaotic and out of control life may seem, a greater order persists.

In My Absence

2011-12-13T12:35:00.000-08:00

Quote du Jour

2011-11-20T18:55:00.001-08:00

"Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable." - John F. Kennedy

Anniversary in Exile

2011-11-16T08:45:00.001-08:00

It occurred to me that, as of yesterday, it's been exactly a year since I left San Francisco. On the one hand, it seems so crazy to me that it's been that long since I was last there, and a large part of me feels like I've been living in exile ever since. Maybe that's why it seems like a lifetime ago that Joy and I loaded my Honda onto the back of a moving van and made the long drive north to Portland. I'll never forget that last trip across the Bay Bridge, watching the first morning rays dance playfully over the choppy waters below while the last wisps of fog dissipated with the dawn.

Joy and I were barely speaking to one another at the time since we'd had an epic blowout to end all epic blowouts the day before. Now, anyone who's known Joy and me for very long has either heard of or had the misfortune of witnessing one of our legendary fights, but this one took the cake I tell you what. It was a perfect storm where all of the darkness I was living in at the time -- all of my fears and frustrations and hysteria over where and how I was going to jump after finally arriving at the end of my very long rope -- came to a head against Joy's fervent and desperate need to make it better by stubbornly trying to take some kind of control over the situation. Suffice it to say it was NOT a pretty sight, and once the maelstrom finally subsided, I was pretty sure we were never going to speak to one another ever again. Fortunately, I was wrong. I'm pretty sure we both realized that we didn't have time to lick our wounds and re-group. I think we both knew that, if we didn't reconcile then, we might not get another chance to for a very long time. But whatever the reason, the next morning we were seated side-by-side in the moving truck, having made the tacit agreement never to speak of that particular fight ever again. It kind of reminds me of this quote:

"Fate controls who walks into your life, but you decide who you let walk out, who you let stay, and who you refuse to let go." - Unknown

From a very early age, Joy and I have had a lot of practice watching some pretty important people walk in and out of our lives. Like most things, it's something you get better at with practice. To be honest, if there's one thing I've learned, it's that there are very few people in this world who are really worth refusing to let go of, and without a doubt, my sister's at the very top of that list.

Since leaving California last year, I've lived in four different houses in two different states, applied for countless jobs and landed two, lost several friends and made a few, lost my Tofu-kitty and picked up an obsessive parrot who fancies me his girlfriend along the way. Needless to say, a lot has changed. And since Joy dropped me off in Portland and headed off to the airport exactly one year ago today, we've only seen each other once: last month at our baby sister's wedding. And even then, Joy was busy working for the first few days after I arrived, so with the wedding and all of the whirlwind visits with various friends and family members, we hardly got a chance to just kick it. Most importantly perhaps, I didn't get a chance to tell her, in person, that I'm finally doing okay.

In 2010, Joy and I only saw each other two times. The first was when she came to SF in April so that I could help her pick up the pieces while she was going through her own crisis, and the second was when she came to SF to help me pick up mine. (Don't even get me started on what my baby sister, Abbie, went through last year. It was a doozy for all three of us to say the least.) I guess the thing that set my collapse apart from my sisters' was that there was the small matter of a psychiatrist who wanted to have me institutionalized at the time. We don't need to go into the details of how or why that came to pass, but I will admit that if I'd had the time or resources to just drop out for awhile and NOT land myself in the county psych ward, I may just have taken her up on it. Instead, I landed on Shannon's doorstep with a fully loaded moving truck, a cat in a crate, and a dark cloud hanging over my head that threatened to absorb all of the light in the Pacific Northwest. Good times. And though my friendships with Shannon and a few other people didn't survive the long dark winter of my deep discontent, somehow I managed to. Somehow.

In a couple of days, I'm going to pick Joy up at Sea-Tac Airport for a week-long visit and I am SO EXCITED. She's not coming because either of us is in a crisis. She's not coming to pull me off of any ledges. She's coming for a run of the mill holiday vacation where our only job is to have fun and do our best to just get along. Joy's never been to Seattle and I've been working so hard since I got here that, to be honest, sometimes it feels like I haven't either. I cannot wait to explore it together, or to spend some quality time just hanging out and talking and laughing like I can only do with her, or to go to Portland for Thanksgiving together so we can spend it with Malika. But most of all, I cannot wait to finally show her that I really am doing okay.

Up for Air

2011-11-12T21:40:00.001-08:00

I wish I could say I haven't updated because too much has been going on in my life. I wish I could regale you with stories of the great adventures that have been otherwise occupying my time. But instead, I'm barely lifting my head above the waters of the work I've been drowning in lately to simply report that I'm still alive. You see, I've been working. A LOT. I'm pretty sure that, in the last five weeks, I've taken a total of three days off of work. And I'm not gonna lie to you, kids, it's been a little rough. It's been deadline after deadline after deadline and I've just been trying to stay afloat. Like being up to your chest in the ocean and the waves just keep coming and coming, and all you can do is to try to get into a rhythm with them or else you're going to end up gulping for air right as a wave comes crashing down over you. So yeah, it's been intense, but I'm not complaining. Maybe it's because I'm still so grateful to just finally have a job doing work that I care about. Maybe it's because I have no life outside of work anyway, so I may as well be at the office trying to catch up on the deadlines that are crashing down around me. Maybe it's because I'm still trying to prove something, though what exactly or to whom I'm not quite sure. Whatever it is, it hasn't been all that bad.
There have been positives, though I'll be honest, it's taking me a minute to come up with any...umm...

...

...

Oh, I've got one! I got to see Portishead on their first U.S. tour in over a decade and it was AMAZING.

umm...what else? I'm loving this fall weather. I love the leaves, and the sweaters, and the hot tea, and the warm baths. And so far it hasn't been accompanied by the seasonal depression that has been a pretty faithful (and punctual) companion these last several years. And Joy's going to be here in less than a week and she's staying through Thanksgiving weekend, so all this craziness is going to have been worth it if I can afford to take that whole week off of work too. Insh'allah.

I also came across the following quotes about a month ago and have been reflecting on them a lot ever since:

"But we must not forget that only a very few people are artists in life; that the art of life is the most distinguished and rarest of all the arts." (Jung, from the 'Stages of Life' article)

There is nothing you can see that is not a flower; there is nothing you can think that is not the moon." - Matsuo Basho (Japanese poet)

As busy as I've been lately, I've been trying to focus whatever energy I have on those individual moments. I've been trying to remind myself to take advantage of every opportunity and to see every moment as a flower (or at least whenever I can remember to stop and breath and think). For instance, I may be at work right now for the 15th day in a row, but I'm currently listening to Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker, drinking Earl Grey tea, and preparing a submission that will actually go a long way toward changing someone's life for the better. Trust me, I'm doing okay.

Life Mirrors Art Mirrors Life

2011-10-19T09:52:00.000-07:00

I know yesterday was quote day. But last night as I was making my way home from work on the bus, head buried deep in the second installment of the Game of Thrones series, I came across the choice description of a minor character that left me so dumbstruck I was forced to put the book down after carefully dog-earing the page.

Over the years, so many people have asked me how it was that I came to fall in love with my ex-husband, what I saw in him, what it was about him that was so special. I'm not sure how I feel about the fact that so many of them waited until after my marriage had fallen apart to gently inform me that whatever it was that I had seen had somehow eluded them. But how do you explain to someone that thing? How do you convey what it was about this one other soul that captured and mesmerized you so much that you were henceforth blinded to the enchantments of all others?

Well I'm sure it wasn't just one thing. To be sure, my appreciation of him grew as our relationship developed. But there's something to be said about first impressions, dear reader, as I'm sure you can attest. Maybe it's because, in those first few moments, we're able to see the other person more clearly for who they are, objectively assessing the slightest gestures for the deeper character traits they so often reveal. They say that opposites attract. And one thing's for sure: from the moment I laid eyes on my ex-husband all those many many many years ago, I was absolutely taken with him. Taken? Maybe enthralled is the better word...or intrigued, which is a pretty rare thing for me.

Whatever it was, reading those words on the bus ride home last night took me right back to December 1994 at the Paramount Theater in Austin, Texas; articulated for me for the first time the fascination I felt for the young man standing before me; and perhaps even went a long way toward explaining why we were probably doomed from the get go.

And it seems only fitting, that on the day that would have been our eighth wedding anniversary, I should share them with you:

"...he was cursed with all the certainty of youth, unleavened by any trace of humor or self-doubt, and wed to the arrogance that came so naturally to those born blond and strong and handsome." - George R.R. Martin (from A Clash of Kings)

Quote du Jour

2011-10-18T11:13:00.001-07:00

"Without justice, what is sovereignty but organized brigandage?" - St. Augustine

She Goes On...and On

2011-10-01T17:55:00.000-07:00

Well, I've moved beyond the pity party (for now), so I thought it'd be a good idea to update. My laptop's still at the doctor getting a 'complete system restore'. I'm not sure what that means, but I'm here to tell you it ain't cheap. So yes, that means I'm checking in from work. And yes, it's Saturday. But we're not going to focus on that right now, are we?

Instead let's talk about the trip I'm taking to Texas in a few short days for my baby sister's wedding. Or maybe even the birthday trip I just bought myself to SF in January. Hurrah! I'm so excited I could spit. In fact, there, I just did dammit. I miss my family and friends so much it hurts. And yes, I know this is all part of the process of starting over and that eventually I'll make friends here too. Yes, yes, these things take time. A couple of wiser voices than my own have even suggested that perhaps this is just what I need right now anyway, some time to focus on nothing but myself. Fine. It is what it is.

But the knowledge that in almost exactly 92-hours, I'm going to be hugging and laughing and chatting it up with my loved ones is just about the only thing getting me through yet another long weekend of work-related drudgery right now. And the promise of spending several days in San Fran-freak-show among some of my most favoritest people in the world for my birthday may just be enough to get me through the next few long dark months.

In the meantime, I'm trying to settle in here. I've registered my car again, gotten a snazzy new haircut (for the second time this year), and realized that I'm going to have to do something to address the toll that my work has started to take on me. I'm not sure how much I've mentioned about my role as the U Visa Coordinator at my firm, but the gist of it is that my clients are all victims of some pretty serious crimes. Working day in and day out with survivors of rape, domestic violence, kidnapping, child molestation, felonious assault...it's emotionally challenging to say the least. Fortunately, one of my co-workers told me to keep an eye out for signs of vicarious traumatization, which I'm pretty sure I'm exhibiting. So I've armed myself with a copy of this book to hopefully help me figure out how to cope. Unfortunately, although I've been reading a lot lately, I haven't felt the urge to pick it up just yet. Instead, I just finished the Hunger Games series and the first installment of Game of Thrones. Color me hooked. In fact, I'd better finish up this U Visa petition so I can get to the book store before it closes and buy book #2!

Woe Is Me

2011-09-24T18:14:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the lack of updates lately. My computer is at the doctor. It may be dying. As much as I'd like to blame Earl for telling me that all I had to do to watch my favorite cable TV programming was to run a quick Google search, I have to accept responsibility for the fact that, in my stupidity, I listened to him. And though I've been talking about it for oh...about two years now(?) I have yet to back-up the five-or-so years of photos, music, and other miscellany that therein reside. Idiot.

Of course, there's not a whole lot going on in my life worth blogging about anyway, as evidenced by the fact that this post is coming to you live from my office computer on SATURDAY EVENING. In all fairness though, I could have waited until tomorrow morning to write, when I'll be back here bright and early.

This is my new life. I know you're terribly jealous. The other day I realized I'm not very happy and haven't been for quite some time. In fact, I found myself trying to remember what that actually means -- happy. Yes, there have been improvements. And yes, there have been some very good days. But in the grand scheme of things, I don't think happy has been a word I could use to describe my present state in longer than I care to remember. Maybe happiness isn't something I'm entitled to right now though. Gratitude. Now there's an emotion I can get behind. Roof, paycheck, my health, enough to eat, and even some relatively new hole-free clothing. That should be enough, Mandy; and most days it is. But all the same, I'm desperately glad I'm going home to Texas in a little over a week for my youngest sister's wedding because I tell you what, dear reader, it'll sure be nice to wrap myself up in the love of my family, if only for a little while...and the tex-mex. That'll be good too.

Quote du Jour

2011-09-12T07:59:00.001-07:00

"We can spend our lives letting the world tell us who we are. Sane or insane. Saints or sex addicts. Heroes or victims. Letting history tell us how good or bad we are. Letting our past decide our future. Or we can decide for ourselves. And maybe it's our job to invent something better." - Chuck Palahniuk, Choke

Summertime

2011-09-10T09:31:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, I took the opportunity to escape from the rigors of the 60-70 hour work weeks to which I am becoming woefully accustomed, and travel up to the northeast corner of the Olympic Peninsula for another round of camping for what was, by most accounts, probably the last viable camping weekend of the season. McKee and I had been talking the talk about said trip for a couple of months, so when the designated weekend arrived, he drove up from Portland with his two roommates, and on Friday morning we headed straight to Edmonds, where we boarded the ferry to Kingston to cross Puget Sound.

And have I mentioned how much I love the Sound? It's calm waters dotted with tree-covered islands and white-sailed sloops, catamarans, kayaks, ferries, the bracing sea air, and majestic views of Mt. Rainier in the distance never cease to impress.

Alighting in Kingston, we set out west through Port Gamble and headed west to the Park's Visitor Center in Port Angeles, passing briefly through the rainshadow of Sequim, whose lavender farms stretched out for miles in full bloom. We stopped at the Visitor Center just long enough to register our campsites and pick up a couple of bear cannisters, then we headed due west past the shores of Crescent Lake, all the way out to the small ranger station on the north end of Lake Ozette . We parked, loaded ourselves down with our packs, and took what looked like an overgrown and unused path westward out of the parking lot. The trail was about 5-miles of old logging roads, which made for easy hiking, which was a huge relief since we were racing against the sunset, but a couple of short hours later, we found ourselves standing on a bluff overlooking a desolate stretch of the Olympic Coast National Marine Sanctuary that we would call our own for the next several days. Heaven.

Picking our way down the steep side of the bluff with the use of a handy rope that someone stretched down the path ages ago, we headed a few hundred yards down the beach and quickly set up our tents before sundown. Then, equipped with my trusty SteriPEN, I headed over to the nearby freshwater creek a few steps away that empties directly onto the beach, and found the water cool and refreshing. After all the tents were up, we set to work gathering driftwood for the fire and I was relieved to discover that the supply was more than we could have ever needed.

And then there were stars...oh boy, were there ever stars. We sat around the fire for hours just watching the reflection of the moon off the ocean and the stars unveiling themselves overhead until they blanketed the sky like the sand on the beach, the Milky Way streaking overhead. No sound other than the crashing of waves and the crackling fire. Peace. The next few days were spent lazing around camp, exploring tide pools (sea anemone and starfish galore!), watching bald eagles fly idly overhead, identifying tracks on the beach (big cat and bear!), getting deeper into my incredibly engrossing new book, and generally reveling in the chance to feel light years away from everything. I tell you, it would have been perfect if I hadn't awoken in my tent with a start on Saturday morning with the realization that I screwed the pooch on something at work, which I proceeded to stress about for the duration of the trip complete with nightmares about how my boss would react when he found out. Grrrr. (I ended up dealing with my fuck-up before my boss got back to the office on Wednesday and received a light slap on the wrist in addition to an 'Awesome job!' on a major accomplishment from Tuesday, so it all worked out in the end. All that anxiety for nothing. I'm sure there's a lesson in there somewhere.)

I managed to put it out of my mind enough to enjoy myself though. It wasn't too difficult a task considering my idyllic surroundings. By Sunday night we could see some heavy clouds coming in off the ocean, and while it didn't rain, by the time we were packing out the next morning, the thick and foggy mist left us with little question that it was time to be heading back. My inner campaholic has definitely been reawakened though. It's too bad I have to spend this whole weekend at work or I might have given in to my itch to give solo camping a try. But McKee promises to introduce me to snow camping this winter, and being from Washington, he seems to have the in on all the cool places to check out. In the meantime, I'm enjoying the dwindling summer days that seem to have just arrived here. Seattle seems to have finally found that sweet spot in between sweater weather and sweaty weather, and I'm cherishing every second of it.

But the days they grow shorter, and the dark nights grow deeper. And as the refrain in my novel keeps reminding me, "Winter is coming."

Appo Deepo Bhava

2011-08-23T23:23:00.000-07:00

As the Buddha was dying,
Ananda asked
who would be their teacher after death.
He replied to his disciple -

"Be lamps unto yourselves.
Be refuges unto yourselves.
Take yourself no external refuge.
Hold fast to the truth as a lamp.
Hold fast to the truth as a refuge.
Look not for a refuge in anyone besides yourselves.
And those, Ananda, who either now or after I am dead,
Shall be a lamp unto themselves,
Shall betake themselves as no external refuge,
But holding fast to the truth as their lamp,
Holding fast to the truth as their refuge,
Shall not look for refuge to anyone else besides themselves,
It is they who shall reach to the very topmost height;
But they must be anxious to learn."

Quoted from Joseph Goldstein's The Experience of Insight

I've spent quite a bit of time reflecting on those words of late. Fortunately for me, one of the most valuable (if most difficult) lessons I've learned over the course of the last year or so has been just how important a thing it is to trust in myself...to be my own refuge. This has been especially important as I've finally chosen to ween myself off of unhealthy relationships, happy pills, smoking, and the various other instruments of diversion and distraction that have kept me preoccupied for so long. Easy, no. But I'm finally starting to trust the fact that, no matter what, I'm going to be okay...

Even on the days when I find myself wondering what the hell I'm doing all the way up here in these distant reaches of the country, (Did you know Seattle is the northernmost major city in the contiguous 48 states?) so far from everyone who loves me the most...so far from any good Tex-Mex! That's usually when I remind myself that it hasn't gotten above 90 degrees here all summer, and I realize it's not so far after all! Just a hop, skip, and a jump to either of the places that still feels more like home to me. No reason for me to suffer through the brutal heat of TX, or the paralyzing unemployment of CA, right?

It just takes so damn long to settle into a new place and to start laying down any roots. Growing pains can be uncomfortable, and I've been experiencing a lot of those since saying farewell to SF last November. With all this starting over and starting over business, I've let go of a lot -- materially and emotionally too, I think. I guess the best part though, has been realizing that everything I'm still carrying with me is just the stuff, and the relationships, that I really need. At the end of the day, the rest was ultimately just unnecessary baggage. Because all I ultimately need is to trust in myself, and in the knowledge that I am my own refuge.

Quote du Jour

2011-08-02T08:34:00.001-07:00

"My heart was fashioned to be susceptible of love and sympathy, and when wrenched by misery to vice and hatred, it did not endure the violence of the change without torture such as you cannot even imagine." - Mary Shelley

This Is How We Do It

2011-07-16T12:17:00.000-07:00

Wow. It's been way longer than I actually expected it to be. But I guess since I'm home lazing around in bed on a Saturday morning now's probably as good a time as ever to play a little catch-up.

Last weekend, I finally went camping again for the first time in waaaaay too long. So long in fact, that by the time I started packing for the trip and realized I was missing my tent, my hiking boots, my headlamp, and a whole bunch of the rest of my camping gear, I had no idea which of the last several moves I could have lost them in.

The boots? I used them for the first (and only) time the last time I went camping which, to put it in perspective, was with my ex-husband.

The tent? Used once, but not by me. It had its maiden voyage with Earl on a camping trip he took aaaages ago.

The headlamp? Loaned to Barak for his trip to India, but I know he gave it back to me because I remember giving him a lot of shit about losing it before realizing he'd already given it back. And I remember, when I was leaving SF, holding it in my hand and thinking "I'll put it here so I don't forget where I packed it," which clearly happened immediately before I forgot where I packed it.

Then there's the camping towel, my titanium spork, Leatherman utility tool...no doubt all of these things are nestled cozily together in the same box...somewhere.

You see, before going back to law school, I worked at REI for a year or so. It was one of the menagerie of jobs I worked during those first couple of years in SF. I love camping. I love hiking out into the wilderness and removing myself from the urban landscape. I love immersing myself into nature and rediscovering the parts of myself that are deeply tied to a more natural rhythm. Nothing rejuvenates my soul so much as that first glimpse of my surroundings upon throwing open the tent flap in the morning and taking a deep breath of crystal clean air. Some of my best memories from the trip to South America involve nights spent under a canopy of stars, miles away from the nearest signs of civilization at the furthest reaches of Patagonia or from the heights of the Andes. You get the picture.

Also? Working at REI provided a great opportunity for me to take advantage of some insane discounts on some radical gear. I bought more gear than you could shake a stick at. But last weekend I realized to my great dismay that my little treasure trove had shrunken substantially over the course of my recent nomadic days. (Or should it be daze?)

The saving grace to the devastating reminder that you inevitably lose things every time you move, was the (re)discovery of my Steri-Pen, which was not only brand new, but remained unopened in its original packaging. Nerd alert: I have literally fantasized about using my Steri-Pen in all of the places I've ever camped since buying it as my last REI employee purchase all those years ago. But it wasn't until last weekend, on a weekend trip to Olympic National Park with Daniel-san, that I finally got the chance to finally take it for a test run. And I saw that it was rad. It didn't 't hurt that I was camping on the banks of the Dosewallips River either.

And the trip was everything I hoped it would be, except for being way too short, so I've made a silent pact with myself to camp again soon and often until the weather gets bad again. Then again, the promotion, raise, and full employee benefits I just got at my 90-day work review this week may mean I have even less time to do so. (Yeah, that's right.)

On Being Alone

2011-06-26T15:25:00.000-07:00

The first time I ever consented to really stop and let myself be alone with...well, with myself, was on a four-day meditation retreat I attended over New Year's weekend 1997 in Chapel Hill, Texas. I was excited about my first retreat and equally terrified at the prospect of confronting my demons for the first time. Maybe confronting isn’t the right word. But in my mind, I somehow likened it to what I thought the process of therapy would be like. Not that I had any idea about that either.

Because, to put it mildly, I was pretty resistant to the idea of therapy. Maybe it was the stigma that was alive and well in my family. Maybe it was the fact that several adults had tried to force me into it as a child. Maybe it was the fact that when I finally conceded that it may be of some benefit and told my mom and Aunt Sharon that I wanted to try it, their responses were, shall we say, less than supportive. “Just tell your problems to your pillow before you go to sleep,” or “There’s nothing you could tell a therapist that you can’t tell me!” Seriously.

Nonetheless, everyone I knew who had ever had a positive experience with therapy had urged me to do it. Friends would even have talks about it in front of me, nodding in agreement that it was just what I needed, as if they had all seen and read my exact description in the DSM-IV authoritatively stationed on their own therapists’ desks.

I remember having this vivid image in my mind at the time. I pictured myself running, running, always running. And it was dark all around me, almost pitch black. But it wasn’t complete darkness, because behind me, I could make out a shadowy mass, lurching toward my back and changing violent shape as it hurtled menacingly forward. I know. Très dramatique. But the idea of therapy, or a meditation retreat, or really any effort to STOP making such a constant effort to run from 'my demons' seemed, well, it seemed stupid...and just plain dangerous. But eventually, I got too darned tired of all that running. Hence the retreat...

So Bruno talks me into what, by most twenty-somethings' standards, does not promise to be the coolest New Year’s event of all time. But I'm okay with it. I decide I'm ready to rumble. I'm ready to finally stop exerting all that energy fleeing from the darkness. It was time to turn around, to brace myself, and to allow the tidal wave of terror wash over me. For the first time, I decided it was worth standing and facing whatever it was I needed to so that, for God's sake, I could just stand still. Maybe it was courage that drove me to do it. Maybe it was sheer exhaustion. But all I knew at that point was that I’d rather do battle with my demons than continue my futile attempt to escape them.

What I wasn't so sure about was my ability to observe Noble Silence for such a prolonged period of time. No talking, no eye-contact, no reading, no writing...nothing that would remove you from the experience of being in the present. But you know what? It turned out to be one of the best gifts I’ve ever given myself. I learned so much about little ol' me over the course of those four days, both good and bad, that a couple of years later I was drawn to take another retreat, this time for a week in California.

And then there’s been the therapy. A few months after my mom died, I realized that my grieving process was not exactly what you’d call ‘normal’ (though it’s probably for the best if we not get into too much detail about that, mkay?) and thought it might be a good idea to talk to someone. Unfortunately, at the time I didn’t understand that the process of even finding the right therapist can be torturous. After several false starts, I gave up on the whole thing, until years later after I had moved to California and decided to reapply to law school. That's when the panic attacks I had been getting after mom died returned with a vengeance and I figured I really needed some professional help. Yet again, things fell apart long before they ever got started. But that's another story for another time.

It wasn’t until I started law school again, when I was feeling completely overwhelmed by the insane workload, the traumatic flashbacks of my first time around and the events that led me to drop out, and the disintegration of my marriage, that I finally felt like counseling wasn’t so much an option as a lifeline. So over the course of the next several years, I engaged in some seriously intensive cognitive therapy. It wasn’t fun. And it wasn’t pretty. There were a lot of times I wondered why I was subjecting myself to it and many times I wanted to quit. More often than not, I left with eyes so sore from crying that I couldn’t see straight for the rest of the day. It was a lonely journey and a lot of hard work that tested me to the core of my being. But by the time I had my last appointment before moving from SF in November, I hugged my therapist with the deepest sense of gratitude for the profound healing and self-awareness she helped foster in me.

These days I spend a lot of time alone; most of it, in fact. I feel like I’m in the process of reconstructing my life at the most basic level – like re-laying the foundation of a house after a devastating storm. I’m starting from scratch in so many ways, using the most basic building blocks -- from building a wardrobe, to figuring out how to get around, to making new friends, to deciding where and how to spend my free time each and every day. It’s a completely fresh start and I’m finding that it is completely awesome. Like a kid at an amusement park, I often find myself feeling almost overwhelmed by all of the possibilities of everything there is to see and do. But even the deciding on which ride to take first has been so much fun. I realized the other day that I’m happier than I’ve been in a good long time. And, ever so slowly, that lingering fear that all of it’s going to be stripped away at any moment is starting to fade away.

So forgive me, dear reader, if the updates are a little less frequent in the coming days. I’m just too busy exploring, and discovering, and appreciating the opportunity to be alone...at least for a little while.

"Many people suffer from the fear of finding themselves alone, and so they don't find themselves at all." - Andre Gide

Another New Beginning

2011-06-05T09:32:00.000-07:00

Today, I'm moving for the third time in as many months. And I hope, I hope, I hope it's the last move I make for a long time. On Friday night, I took Daniel-san out for a farewell dinner at a phenomenally delicious restaurant, followed by a night cap at the local British pub. By the time we managed to waddle our way back home, we were stuffed like two turkeys on Thanksgiving Day. Good times.

Living with Daniel-san has been great. And a valuable reminder that I'm not actually wholly impossible to bunk up with. We've gotten along like spaghetti and meatballs for the most part. And when, on the rare occasion, we have had conflict, we've addressed it and moved on (sometimes being known to scream at each other like siblings before we're through). It's been such a relief though, and it's restored my faith in the value of open communication. As a matter of fact, he's not ready for me to move out. And I probably wouldn't be either if I didn't feel the need for more space, my own bed to sleep in, and some much needed semi-permanence. I'm just ready to be settled somewhere again. Hopefully the new digs will provide me with that.

I'm optimistic. After interviewing with the new roommates about a month ago, they actually courted me. I think they may even be more excited about me moving in than I am. And that feels good. Not that there isn't a lot to be excited about. It's a big beautiful house with vegetable gardens, a piano, a cockatoo named Charlie, and four very cool individuals that I'm looking forward to knowing. (And it's a month to month lease so, you know, I always have an out should it be needed.)

So here's to another new beginning in another new city. Let's all just hope this one sticks.

100% Hapa

2011-05-30T15:05:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I braved the crowds to make my way downtown to Qwest Stadium so I could watch the national teams of Mexico and Ecuador face off in an epic futbol match -- me and pretty much every single Mexican in the state of Washington apparently. The law firm rented out a box just for the occasion, and it was pretty spectacular viewing I must say. Before the game, we all met up at a bar to watch the Barcelona v. Manchester United game on the telly. Good research since I'm now the newest member of the Chupacabrones, a club soccer team I was recently recruited onto; and one on which I now find myself in the unenviable position of being the least experienced member. This should be interesting, folks.

Everything was all fun and games: cheering and drinking and high-fiving and what not. That is until my co-worker, Jesus, screamed at the screen, "You crazy chino!"

- Excuse me?
- Oh, I was talking about the Asian guy on the English team.
- Right. I'm pretty sure he's Korean.
- Oh, well, you know. In Mexico, we pretty much refer to all Asians as chinos.
- Yeah. I know.

No big thing. I'm well aware that the term chino is used pretty universally in Latin America to describe anyone of Southeast Asian descent. It wouldn't fly so much in English (anymore), but who am I to try and undo such a culturally embedded term, right? And that would have been the end of it, no harm no foul, if another co-worker hadn't chimed in, "I have a hard time taking any Asian athletes seriously. I mean, they just look so ridiculous!"

- Seriously? You did not just say that.
- I can't help it! Whenever I see them running around, I just picture them playing the Wii.
- Um...you should probably just stop talking. Like, now.

It reminds me of the time, a few years ago, when I went to see Swan Lake at the SF Ballet with some law school buddies. The production was stunning and prima ballerina just so happened to be Asian American. I was so moved by the performance that, as the lights went up for intermission, I leaned over to one of my friends (who happens to be a former professional ballerina) and asked for her impressions.

"It's great, I guess. I've just never been a fan of Asian ballerinas' bodies. When I bought the tickets, I thought the other lead ballerina was performing tonight."

Unfortunately, the only response I was able to muster before my jaw hit the floor in front of me was, "Oh".

I'm not sure if it's that people don't know I'm a Rice Cracker, that they forget I am because I don't really look it, or that they simply don't care. But it's hard to imagine people saying half the racist shit they do in front of me if the combination of my features weren't so ambiguously ethnic. Or if they were talking about blacks instead of Asians. Then again, maybe not.

I remember the time I was in high-school when my dad had a little sit-down with me and my sisters to inform us that, "There will be no interracial relationships in this family...it's just not fair to the children." Seriously...I know. Ironic then that several years later, during a conversation about racism, the same man had the audacity to look me straight in the eye and say, "You've never experienced discrimination a day in your life." Sadly, I think it was more evidence of his sincere wish that that were so, rather than of any of the empirical evidence at his disposal.

For better or worse, it's a lot easier to confront my dad about these things than friends, co-workers, or strangers even. Maybe it's because I know my stuttering and emotional response isn't going to end with us coming to blows. It's hard to articulate what the experience of being half-white was like growing up in Texas in the '70s and '80s. Fortunately, I have Daniel-san to confirm for me that no, it's not all in my head. It took me much longer than it should have to consider my mixed ethnicity something to be proud of rather than something I had to compensate for. There's a subtle and insidious form of racism involved that's hard to put your finger on, and it's a strange sort of relief to have someone else to share it with. But it doesn't change the fact that my family was refused service in Biloxi, Mississippi in the 1960's; or that laws banning interracial marriage were struck down a few short years before my parents tied the knot; or even that things like this actually happen today. And it is only slightly mitigated by the fact that recent polls show that only 63 percent of Americans are okay with their family members marrying someone outside of their race; or that the 2010 Census was the first time in my life that I didn't have to choose between one race or the other to be counted as. After decades of identifying myself as "Other" on countless exams, forms, surveys, etc., it was indeed something to celebrate.

Things are getting better, no doubt. But it just takes one off-the-cuff, patently racist comment to stop me dead in my tracks, make my tongue feel like it's tied up in knots, and remind me of how far there is yet to go. I can only imagine how well my co-worker's comment yesterday would have been received if, instead of Asians, she had said blacks. I just wish I had had the courage or the wherewithal to point that out. Maybe the next time around I'll remember the quote Daniel-san shared with me after I texted him so that he could share in my angry disbelief:

"Stand before the people you fear and speak your mind -- even if your voice shakes." - Maggie Kuhn

The Rapture

2011-05-21T19:45:00.000-07:00

Voicemail I left for my dad this morning: "Hi, Daddy! I was hoping to catch you before you made your ascent, but I guess I missed you. I would have liked to say goodbye though. Give me a call if, for whatever reason, you missed your bus!"

Voicemail from my dad this afternoon: "Hi, sweetheart! It's a funny thing: I was on the bus and we were on our way out of town when they caught me having dirty thoughts about this cute little blonde angel. They told me I wasn't ready, pulled over, and kicked me right off. Oh well."

Some things never change...

Eat, Drink, and Be Merry

2011-05-14T17:17:00.000-07:00

In the last month since I started garnering a paycheck, I think I've been to the grocery store about 10-15 times; mostly because there's really nothing like the sheer joy of going food shopping equipped with the knowledge that I can buy whatever the hell I want. It's been so long since I had the luxury of going to the store without constantly fixating over what the items in my basket are totaling up to. As a result, the not-having-to these days has made these trips one of my very favoritest of pastimes.

As you know, I don't like to be rushed. And that goes for grocery shopping too. I like to take my time, leisurely cruising the aisles like a low-rider through the 'hood. I will completely lose track of time browsing, studying ingredient lists, and evaluating the merits of one brand over the other. There's not another country in the world that provides its consumers with as many options for things like toilet paper, toothpaste, garbage bags, you name it. Honestly, it's a bit much. But chalk it up to a severe case of thinking too much, if you offer me a choice, I'm gonna make an informed one. Oh yes, dear reader, I will squeeze the Charmin. Of course this used to drive my ex totally insane, which I completely understand. I'm well aware of the fact that the vast majority of shoppers prefer to get in and out with just the items on their list. I fall more into the minority of shoppers who, like this morning when I stopped in for coffee and English muffins and left an hour later with 5 bags of groceries, have a more fluid idea of 'what I need from the store'. For the sanity of those around me, its best if I shop alone.

Don't get me wrong, I've been spending my newly acquired hard-earned income on other things too; namely, the totally amazeballs Star Wars exhibit at the Pacific Science Center last weekend that also included a stunning visit to the Tropical Butterfly House. I've beautified Daniel-san's bachelor pad by installing three planters along the railing of his patio that are positively overflowing with pansies, petunias, and fresh herbs. I bought two (count 'em TWO) pairs of shoes at the mecca that is the REI flagship store downtown, and I'm counting down the days until their annual sale starts next Friday. (I cannot effing wait to start camping again and I could really use a new pair of hiking pants, or a new Leatherman, headlamp, camping stove...oh, the possibilities are endless!) I've already started bookmarking some of the places I intend to visit in one of the two (count 'em TWO) new books I just bought. (This is the other one, just in case you're curious.) And tomorrow I have grand plans to head to Pike Place Market for the Seattle Cheese Festival which, when I learned of it yesterday, settled any lingering doubts I may have had about whether this town is indeed the place for me. Because clearly, it is.

I desperately need to go clothes shopping so I can build (read: start) my 'business casual' wardrobe. Unfortunately, the thought of that is not nearly as enticing as another trip to the grocery store. Daniel-san loved the homemade key lime pie I made last weekend so much that I think I may have to make another one tout de suit.

"As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again." - Scarlett O'Hara, Gone with the Wind

Familiar

2011-05-07T19:11:00.000-07:00

Dear Tofu,

You've been gone for five weeks and two days now, and the hurt in my chest isn't any closer to subsiding. Most days I do a pretty good job of ignoring it. Things have been busy...and different. There's just been so much change in so little time. This weekend I agreed to house/cat sit for a new friend, mostly for the chance to have sleep in a bed by myself for the first time in awhile, and to give Daniel-san the same opportunity. But I also thought it would be nice to hang out with the two cats that live here. They're sweet little things. Gray. Friendly. When I showed up this morning and opened the front door, they were sitting by their food bowls staring at me intently with an expectant look I'm all too familiar with. And I can't say I blame them, but immediately upon walking into the house, I was struck by grief like I was punched in the face. Because even though I'm in a new city, and a new place, not a day goes by that I don't come home and expect to find you waiting there. So I've pretty much been crying ever since. I miss you so much I'm not even sure what to do with the pain. It's not like I can take to bed for three months like I did when mom died.

I'm haunted by SO MANY memories; like the time I took you outside so you could feel the grass under your paws for the first time, or the first time I showed you rain. We just stood at the back door for what seemed like forever, just staring outside together, you in my arms. I think about the long walks in the woods we used to take, you and Thaiphoon trouncing along behind me in the tall grass; and how, the day I left for South America, I scooped you up in my arms and told you I was going away for awhile but that I'd be back for you. I've always wondered, if I had managed to find and tell Thai the same message that day, whether she too would have been there waiting when I got home. I think about the hours you spent playing with my feet while I pored over law books, or how miserable you were for the entire three-day move to San Francisco. I picture you lazing in the sunshine in the garden in the Mission, or the day I came home to find you sitting quite contentedly in the midst of a spray of bird feathers under the dining room table. But mostly I think about that last night we spent together and how, though I'll never be certain, I think you were trying to tell me that we had come to the end. Lying on my chest like you did, staring deeply into my eyes well into the night; there was a sadness there, and a resignation I fought so hard not to recognize.

I remember the day I was going to pick you up to bring you home. I had just moved in with dad. I had just turned 16. It was less than a year since my childhood home burned down and only a couple of months after mom had left the U.S. for the last time. I still don't know what I was thinking, asking dad and Missy if I could get a cat even though I was allergic, but it meant the world to me that they had agreed. And I remember the weekend when I finally got the green light from Jordan Lowery that the runt of the litter was finally finished weaning and you were ready to be picked up. I got cold feet. I called my boyfriend, Alex, who was going to drive me over there that day, and I told him I didn't think I could go through with it. The reason was, as I explained to him, I knew I was going to love you so much -- more than I had ever loved anything -- and someday you were going to die, and I didn't think I'd be able to handle it. I don't know how he did it, but he talked me down from the ledge that day, by telling me it was still going to be worth it. And of course, it was. Every single day I had with you was a gift I wouldn't give back for anything in the world.

I'm sure that someday, like with mom, I'll learn to focus on all the good memories instead of spending so much time visualizing what your last moments must have been like. I'll forgive myself for not being there to hold you when you took your last breath. Someday. But that day is not today.

I came across this selection from a poem recently, and it's become a mantra of sorts over the last couple of weeks:

To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

Mary Oliver (from In Blackwater Woods)

It's that last part I'm having such a hard time with. Especially today. So I just wanted you to know that I miss you. So terribly much. So terribly much.

Love,

Mama

Doin' It ,and Doin' It, and Doin' It Well

2011-04-27T20:18:00.000-07:00

24 days ago, I interviewed with M, one of the partners at the law firm where I'm now working. He had graciously agreed to meet with me on a Sunday morning, so that I could get back to Portland in time for my minimum wage, graveyard shift, manual labor temp. job that night.

20 days ago, the partner I'm now working for, H, offered me a position working as his Legal Assistant, against his better judgment, which he was very honest about -- so honest, in fact, that he only agreed to bring me on as an independent contractor instead of as a permanent employee just in case I didn't last. It seems that, after our interview, M really went to the mat for me in order to somehow convince H that they should give me a chance. The big sticking points, ironically, were 1) that I have a law degree, so they felt fairly certain that I wasn't going to stick around; and 2) that I'd been unemployed for so. effing. long. (But I'm just going to spare you the hysterical tirade I could go off on about all that. Because the truth of the matter is, you've probably already heard it.) The point is, against all odds, they finally did decide to give me a break. So,

18 days ago, I moved to Seattle after borrowing the necessary funds to hire a moving truck and a storage unit where I could keep my things while I squat indefinitely in Daniel-san's cramped one-bedroom apartment. Fortunately, I had just moved in with Mildread a week prior after overstaying my welcome at a friend's house once again, so all my stuff was still in boxes. About as easy a move as I could have hoped for. And in a weird turn of events, I couldn't have done it with Tofu since Daniel-san's allergic to cats. Heartbreaking synchronicity.

16 days ago, I started working at the firm. And shit howdy, have I ever been working. Because this isn't like any Legal Assistant job I've ever heard of before, folks. Like they told me when I first started, it's more of a Case Manager position. I'm responsible for practically every aspect of the cases I'm in charge of (minus writing the legal briefs and appearing in court). It's been especially taxing since I'm following on the heels of two Legal Assistants who, combined, lasted about 4 months. They just couldn't handle the stress levels. And as I was warned 'just-between-you-and-me' by pretty much everyone in the firm, H is a bit of a hard ass. His expectations are high. His patience for mistakes is low. Oh, brother. Consequently, I've been busting my butt to impress for the last two weeks -- a tall order considering the state of affairs I found my ridiculously large caseload in. But, to be honest, it hasn't been that hard to do. I forgot how much I effing love immigration law. Nothing gets me as excited as an asylum or U Visa petition. I will call clients all day long to discuss their cases, prepare mountainous filings for the court, and work 10 to 12 hours straight without so much as looking at the clock. Honestly? The hardest part has been waking up at the butt crack of dawn and coming up with 5 straight days of outfits that can even loosely be considered 'business casual'. Remove the hoodies and t-shirts from my wardrobe and things start to get pretty sparse up in here, I'll tell you what.

Fast forward to yesterday when H asked me to come into his office and shut the door. Uh oh. With palms sweating, I took a seat across from him at his large desk -- the distance between us suddenly seeming to stretch for miles -- and prepared for the worst. Imagine my surprise and relief when he started off by telling me how utterly impressed he's been with my work. "You work so quickly. No, so efficiently," he said, leaning back into his chair. And that's not even the best part, dear reader.

He went on to explain that he doesn't think the firm is taking enough advantage of my skills and he's worried I'm going to get bored fast, so he's been talking to M about creating a position for me -- one that would allow me to use my legal skills and give me more responsibility to oversee my own cases. And how would I feel about that? Um, yeah.

Honestly though, the coup de grace came when I told H that, while of course I'd be happy take on my own cases, and wherever the firm needs me the most or sees my contributions best capitalized is fine by me...the thing is, I'm gonna need some benefits. And more importantly, I'm gonna need more money. And the best part is? He didn't bat an eyelash. Boo yah, my bitches. She's back.

Later on, I had a meeting with M to discuss the handful of cases I've been assigned with him. M told me he was a little confused by the fact that H hadn't been complaining about me like he had his last two assistants. I suggested that it would probably have been difficult not to exceed his expectations after the stories I've heard about them. "No. It's because you have the critical thinking skills of a lawyer. Actually, I know plenty of lawyers that don't have the critical thinking skills you do." (I think I actually heard the sound of my head filling up with air at that moment.)

Of course, things aren't set in stone yet. H still needs to talk to their accountant about the logistics of how much they can pay me, considering it's a position they don't yet have. He said he knows that I want to learn as much immigration law as I can, so he's willing to let me have a lot of input into what the scope of the position will entail. Oh yeah, and he told me not to work so many hours. "Keep it to 40. Or, better yet, 35." Um, okay!

All this change has been happening so fast it's hard to grasp. And there's one nagging question I just can't seem to shake: Could somebody please pinch me?

Resurrection

2011-04-24T07:00:00.000-07:00

Things are good. I might even go so far as to say they're great. (Knocks on wood.) I'm loving the job despite the 60-hour work weeks I'm averaging. I'm loving living with Daniel-san, even though I'm fairly certain we will both get sick of sleeping in the same bed at some point in the not-too-distant future. I'm enamored of this city, which appears to have adorned itself in a veil of cherry blossoms just in time for my arrival. And I'm feeling something akin to optimism again for the first time in as long as I can remember.

It makes me feel more confident about the fact that I've been tapering off of my happy pills for the last couple of months. (And it's a good thing too, because I'm getting down to the dregs of my last bottle.) I don't know. Maybe everything will dissolve again as quickly as today's perfect sunshine into tomorrow's forecast of spring showers. But now that I have more than $2 in the bank and another paycheck rounding the corner, I feel like I could handle almost anything. (Knocks on wood.) Winter has finally given way to spring up in these parts. Renewal is everywhere, and most importantly, in me.

And Spring arose on the garden fair,
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;
And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast
rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
- Percy Bysshe Shelley (from The Sensitive Plant)

Capricornus

2011-04-20T06:03:00.000-07:00

For the last couple of years I've been a pretty staunch devotee of Ralfee Finn's weekly astrological forecast. A bellwether of sorts, it's helped put things in a little bit of perspective through a time of change and upheaval. If anything, I've used it as a gauge, measuring my own experience against that of those around me. It's helped me stay present to the way I relate to others through the constant reminder that, as different as our unique experiences may be, we're all in this together. But I'll admit, I've rarely been as struck by the prescience evidenced by last week's advice for Capricorn. Published right on the heels of my rather unexpected move to Seattle, it just helped to remind me that I'm exactly where I need to be -- and that's always a good thing:

Capricorn December 22-January 19
"You’re moving – I don’t know where and I don’t know how – but all the indications point to shift, both inside and out. If it hasn’t happened yet, get ready for dynamic changes."

Smitten

2011-04-13T22:00:00.000-07:00

Today after work (yes, work!), I decided to take myself on a little outing downtown. First stop: the Downtown YMCA. Now that I have a job (yes, a job!), my mind has been racing with all the things I need, all the things I want, and all the things I've had to deny myself for so effing long; one major example being yoga classes; another being a pair of shoes that doesn't have holes in the soles. And though I'm still going to have to wait until my checking account is no longer, quite literally, in the red, the fact that the YMCA is just a few blocks from the immigration firm (that has deigned to hire me in spite of the gaping chasm in my employment history), along with the awesome Yelp reviews, made me excited to scope out the joint tout de suite. As expected, the gym is three stories of state of the art equipment and amenities with none of the typical drawbacks of any of the other fitness clubs I've ever joined. And, oh yes, I will be joining as soon as I get my first paycheck (yes, paycheck!).*

But the real glory came afterward when I hopped across the street to the Central Branch of the Seattle Public Library system. Oh. My. God. It is 11 stories of glass and steel awesomeness that looks like an origami sculpture, awing the visitor -- floor after floor -- with its sheer architectural genius. Taking the elevator up to the top and wandering my way back down to the bottom floor, I was in a sort of delirious haze. It wasn't until I reached the bottom and realized that I had tears in my eyes and a goofy smile plastered across my face that I understood why I had been getting so many strange looks from everyone around me. And, oh yes, I will be joining that too -- right after I get some sort of proof that I'm Seattle's newest resident.

I don't know what took me so long to wind my way up to this far corner of the country, but I'm simply elated to be here now. My morning and evening commutes, on foot and by bus, from the Fremont neighborhood (where I'm staying with Daniel-san) downtown to work, afford me more gorgeous vistas than seems appropriate somehow.

Then there's the welcome wagon. Daniel-san has been so accommodating about housing me in his cramped one bedroom apartment that, as I told him today, he needs to stop being so nice to me because it's kind of freaking me out. There are the friends that seem genuinely excited to have me close. There are the introductions that have been overflowing from all over the country and the new acquaintances that have gone out of their way to make me feel welcome. I don't know. It's all a little weird. But something about it feels very, very right. So I'm just gonna try not to question it too much; not to harbor the suspicion that it's too good to be true; and to let myself hang onto the glimmer of hope that I'm finally back in a place I'll be able to call home.

*And did I mention the ping pong tables?

Portlandia

2011-04-08T06:47:00.000-07:00

This is Just to Say*

It's been real
and it's been fun
but I can't say
it's been real fun

You were there for me
in my time of need
and I'm
grateful
for your hospitality

but I've met
someone else
and I'm leaving you

Forgive me
Seattle's just
so exciting
and so inviting

*A modest homage to William Carlos Williams

Tofu

2011-04-02T13:29:00.000-07:00

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message She Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

She was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.*

*This isn't the first time W.H. Auden's "Funeral March" has looped in my head like a broken record. Each time it's like these are the only words that come remotely close to expressing how I feel. And each time, the subject in my mind has been a 'she'. So with gratitude and apologies to the poet, I've taken the liberty of changing that word in the above reproduction.

City of Roses

2011-03-30T11:20:00.000-07:00

Here I find myself in The City of Roses, though due to my well-timed arrival in the PNW, I have yet to spot a single one. Oh, I know they grow extraordinarily well up in these parts. Several years back, on my 1^st visit to PDX with Heather, we visited the International Rose Test Garden. Its spectacular display of every specimen imaginable would impress even the pickiest rosarian, and though I’m loathe to make even the slightest concession as to Golden Gate Park’s incomparable prominence among our nation’s municipal parks, the variety of roses in Portland’s Washington Park puts SF’s collection to shame.

I imagine there are rose bushes all across this here town just shivering with the anticipation of spring, ready to burst forth in all the glory that has earned this city its flowery moniker. Like the bulb shoots that have begun erupting out of practically every square foot of soil, the excited buzz of nascent life is palpable. Even the pulse of the city seems to be vibrating with a different rhythm these days, with the majority of conversations tending to wend their way toward talk of the promising days ahead. I’ve noticed that these discussions are usually accompanied with a kind of impatient hunger. Like horses that have been kept in the barn all winter, it sort of feels like a collective ‘chomping at the bit’.

One of the little ironies I’ve noticed since migrating north, however, is that the relationship the natives tend to have with the family Rosaceae tends to be one more of begrudging tolerance than of admiration. Sure, you may get the rare admission that the species has its aesthetic or aromatic merits, but the discussion will invariably turn quickly toward the subject of thorns.

As I can attest, the advantages of the PNW’s climate to the rose’s fickle temperament encourage it to flourish here with the temerity of a liana in the rainforest. It will curl and twist its way up the post of the front porch without compunction. It will stubbornly wind its way right across the garden path and even, on occasion, up other trees(!) with absolutely no regard for the sensitive ninnies that find its pricklier aspects so offensive.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m no champion of the rose by any means. Any affection I may have for the iconic bloom has been cheapened and marred by the annual cramming of it down the proverbial throats of the romantically inclined, come February 14^th of each and every year. In my opinion, you can keep your dozen long-stem roses on Valentine’s Day, thank you very much. No clichéd symbol of passion’s full-bloom is going to warm this frost-bitten heart. Even if I were inclined to succumb to the sentimental inanity of a day that greeting card companies, chocolatiers, and florists the world over have co-opted in the name of cupid’s skewered victims, my heart wouldn’t be so easily won by an overused symbol of love that’s fated to wilt and die by month’s end; genetically engineered to brag of beauty over its uniquely intoxicating aroma – its thorny stem deceptively clipped to mask any evidence of its potential for drawing blood.

If there’s an expression of love worth celebrating with a flower, why not make it the winter-blooming Hippeastrum, whose couplet of blossoms stands side-by-side, unified by a singular stalk? Or let it be the exotic orchid embedded in a pot, whose tender flowers, though fated to fall, will re-emerge again and again through the patient cultivation of their ever-growing roots. Or let it be the elegant tulip, ushering in the beautiful days ahead with humble beauty and the delicate feel of a lover’s kiss.

If ever there were an untamed heart, I tell you it is the thorny rose. Deprive it of its natural defenses and you snip it of half its complex beauty. Better to leave it on the bush then, where its delicate splendor is best offset by the taunting menace of an unexpected prick. Allow it to grow freely, with only the occasional pruning necessary to ensure a friendly co-existence. Spare me the picture-perfect apotheosis too. I’ll take the flawed and fragrant splendor that consents to perfume my days, requiring only that I tolerate its singularly offensive shortcoming.

For what is love if not the willingness to abide by one another’s thornier aspects? What better reminder than the prick of the thorn to remind us of the importance of handling one another with tenderness and care? Besides, does the fault not lie more with the careless grasp of the eager admirer than with the rose’s natural defenses?

We all have carefully barbed armor capable of delivering a wayward sting to the unsuspecting soul who fails to account for our more bristly natures. And if by revealing our spiny defenses (adapted to protect ourselves from injuries past) we were destined to be mercilessly discarded, labeled a nuisance – condemned to exile from the garden – would we not rail against the unfairness of our bitter fate?

Be warned, gentle flowers, these Portlanders have no tolerance for your imperfections. City of Roses, indeed.

Sturm und Drang

2011-03-27T17:56:00.000-07:00

I'm not gonna lie, things have been a little rough lately. Sick pets, arguments with friends, the death of friends' relatives, and the rising anxiety of not knowing where I'm going to rest my head rounding the corner (once again). I'm sick of treading water. I'm sick of being forced to rely on the generosity of others. I'm sick of the disrespect and derision that so often comes with it. I'm sick of the instability. I'm sick of the futility of seeking the acceptance and (dare I say it?) appreciation of those around me. I'm sick and I'm tired. And I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired.

It's moments like this when I just want to give life (and almost everyone around me) the middle finger; when I feel more like Pip bobbing atop an endless expanse of ocean than Ahab shaking his fist at the sun; when the sheer effort of just going on feels like the vaudevillian exercise in futility of a Beckett play.

It's no fun being a pariah, especially after a lifetime of being such a studied people pleaser. Whether you chalk it up to my being an ACOA, having a raging case of middle child syndrome, or some other less forgiving explanation, this personality trait has clearly not served me well in the long run. The knowledge that 'you can't please everyone' has rarely stopped me from trying. It's not like it's something I do consciously. I just desperately want the ones I love to be happy and would do almost anything to make it so. Nonetheless, I find myself in the position of being in the company of fewer and fewer people these days. And oddly, the realization that maybe those few souls who are around have absolutely no interest in participating in relationship has offered its own sort of liberty from those old patterns.

And maybe that's a good thing because I don't think I've ever been more psychologically or emotionally self-reliant. I guess the irony is that I don't think I've ever needed that kind of support more. But as hard as it may be to remember sometimes, there are people out there who love me, however far away. Three of my friends on Facebook have me in their current profile pic. In the last week, more than three people have extended invitations for me to come and live with them. I've gotten love, love, and more love via text, email, and phone. So I may be down and I may be out. But I am not, I repeat not, down for the count.

“Where I am, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.” - Samuel Beckett

The Graveyard

2011-03-18T11:18:00.000-07:00

Well, I got a job. I am stoked. It may be temporary and it may be minimum wage. It may be manual labor and it may be from 9pm-5am five days a week. But it is also gainful employment, and so it is awesome. Maybe this way I'll be able to give Shannon another courtesy check for housing me these last few months. Maybe I'll be able to make up for the $300 I spent on emergency vet bills this week, thus depleting my bank balance by approximately fifty percent. But regardless of the financial benefits, the most important thing is that it will let me breathe a little deeper than I have done in quite some time. And there's a lot to be said for that.

Tsunami

2011-03-13T11:11:00.000-07:00

"There is, one knows not what sweet mystery about this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seems to speak of some hidden soul beneath; like those fabled undulations of the Ephesian sod over the buried Evangelist St. John. And meet it is, that over these sea-pastures, wide-rolling watery prairies and Potters’ Fields of all four continents, the waves should rise and fall, and ebb and flow unceasingly; for here, millions of mixed shades and shadows, drowned dreams, somnambulisms, reveries; all that we call lives and souls, lie dreaming, dreaming, still; tossing like slumberers in their beds; the ever-rolling waves but made so by their restlessness." - Herman Melville, Moby Dick

Consider the Porcupine

2011-03-09T17:01:00.000-08:00

Schopenhauer's 'Porcupine Dilemma':

Once upon a time on a dark winter night, a group of porcupines found themselves quite without shelter. With nowhere else to turn and shivering with cold, the porcupines eventually began to seek out each others’ warmth by huddling closer and closer together. Despite the relief they managed to achieve however, they couldn’t help but to poke one another with their sharp quills as a consequence of their proximity. In order to avoid being stabbed by each others’ spiny barbs, the porcupines shuffled apart from one another until the freezing winds inevitably drove them back together for comfort. And so they passed those hours of darkness in their futile little dance; never finding the coziness they so desired, and rather worse for wear by morning.

It occurs to me that, these days, this porcupine is feeling rather cold. On the other hand, the dark winter night that was the last year left me feeling an awful lot like a pin cushion. And boy, did I ever retreat. There’s nothing like the paralyzing flashbacks of getting caught up in my brother’s manic psychological unraveling last year, provoked further by Charlie Sheen’s recent monopoly of the entire media, to remind me why. Of course, that wasn’t the only reason I dis-connected almost entirely. But we’re moving past all that now. Because there will always be reasons to retreat and withdraw. We’ve all been skewered and we’ve all thrown up our hands in the air and said it’s just not worth it.

But this is a new year. This is a new era. I’m not going to let the spiky memories of days past convince me that shivering out here in the cold alone is the only alternative. I simply cannot accept Schopenhauer’s premise that we must always inevitably sacrifice warmth for comfort or vice versa, even if my own experience may often support it. There’s a lot of territory between those two extremes, my fellow porcupines. But in these woods, I'll be damned if I can find another brave soul willing to explore it.

White Rabbit

2011-03-01T18:53:00.000-08:00

Over the course of the two or so years that my sister and I were holding down the fort at Ranchero Road we befriended Macey and Meredith, two sisters who lived down the street from us and attended our same school. They had an older brother, Justin, who had been friends with Tuffy back in the day. But they’d had some kind of falling out during the Carney era. Clay Carney and his older brother Jake were our next door neighbors back then. All the boys had been thick as thieves until an incident involving a lead pipe and, henceforth, a seething hatred of all things Carney was born. I was too young to remember anything of it. My only memory of Clay was that he looked like the head Cobra Kai dude from the Karate Kid and he and Tuffy were best friends. Then they weren’t, and as our sworn enemy, the lot on which the Carney clan lived was known as “gay-fag country” (this was the early 80’s, folks), and the air on the street directly in front of it un-breathable, thus forcing us to hold our breath whenever we drove past. Unfortunately, we lived on the further end of a cul-de-sac so this became a part of our daily routine. The ritual, of course, did nothing but feed our Hatfield-McCoy rivalry, though I don’t think anyone but Tuffy had any idea where it stemmed from.

Eventually the Carneys moved out and were replaced by a family of Mormons. They were nice enough, though it was next to impossible to keep the names of all their 13 kids straight. Really the trait that recommended them the most to us was their basketball hoop, which they were happy to let us play on whenever the mood struck. And I’m sure you can imagine the awesome pick-up games that took place. I think Macey and I became friends when she started attending Greenhill. I was in 8^th grade and she was in the grade below, which was when the grades started mixing together for sports. In addition to being on the same cheerleading squad, Macey and I both participated in field hockey and basketball so we naturally got close. It was great having a pal in the neighborhood. Living as far away as we did from most of our schoolmates in Dallas, having a friend so close by whose house you could swing by whenever just to hang out was a luxury.

One morning after one of our many slumber parties, I remember Macey told me something I’ve thought about a lot over the years. When we woke up it happened to be the first of the month, and as soon as I opened my eyes Macey looked over at me and exclaimed, “White Rabbit!” She went on to explain that if the first thing you say on the 1^st of the month is “white rabbit” it’s sure to mean good luck for the next four weeks. I know, random. Now, I’m not what you would call a superstitious person, but I’m not one to turn up my nose at the chance to add a little luck to my coffers either. Those few souls who had the great (mis)fortune of witnessing my peculiarly intense fascination with a certain ‘lucky’ wall in Dubrovnik '08 can attest to this.

Someone once said about me, “If that girl didn’t have bad luck she wouldn’t have any luck at all.” Maybe my record in that department explains why I will generally take any opportunity that presents itself to try and tip the scales a little in my favor. No harm. No foul. As you might imagine, remembering to say “white rabbit” before anything else on the first of the month is its own special kind of challenge. But somehow, against the odds, I managed it today.

When I was a kid it seems like it was a lot more common to see people carrying a rabbit’s foot for good luck. And although the thought now horrifies me to no end, I was quite enamored of them at the time. The one that I remember in particular was picked up on one of our many trips to SF with our mom. It was dyed a dark crimson and dangling from a red and gold 49ers pin. One of those round plastic dealies. I rocked that bad boy pinned to the front of my maroon rabbit-fur jacket like it was going out of style. And I guess it really was.

Some of my best memories of childhood are from those trips to San Francisco with my mom, Tuffy, and Joy. The hills were as big as roller coasters. Nothing tasted better in the world to my happy tummy than a steaming bowl of clam chowder on a foggy night at Fisherman’s Wharf. But I think Chinatown was my favorite. It felt like a completely different world. I loved all the color and the lights, and the shops selling everything from exotic Chinese herbs to finely-carved jade sculptures. As kids though, I think what we looked forward to the most was the rare opportunity for two things: white rabbits and fun snaps. The only thing that could detract from our enjoyment of those delicious creamy candies encased in the thinnest rice paper wrapping were the cracking sounds of fun snaps exploding at our feet as our brother cackled and screamed, “Dance, fool!” Good times.

This morning Tofu woke me up around 8am as usual. No longer content to patiently await her breakfast, she was pacing back and forth across my back purring like a motorboat. Having just managed to pull the words “white rabbit” from the foggy recesses of my sleepy head while brushing my teeth, I was surprised to look out the window and find the entire back garden blanketed in a thick layer of powdery snow. “White rabbit”, I heard myself whisper once again.

Last month we entered the Year of the Rabbit. They say that means it will be a calmer and more peaceful year than either the Tiger that preceded it or the Dragon that will follow. Sounds good to me. And I sure hope it brings a little bit of luck too.

Tomorrow my dad’s going in for a renal biopsy. The doctors want to find out why his tests keep coming back positive for Lupus. Joy tells me not to be worried, so I’m doing my best not to. All the same, I’m glad that this month of all months I remembered to say white rabbit.

Quote du Jour

2011-02-28T19:49:00.000-08:00

"The world suffers when you're not shining." - Joy

Law, Marriage, Horse, Carriage

2011-02-25T12:47:00.000-08:00

Here I go again writing about politics, but I just had to talk about how incredibly happy I am about the latest news in the fight for marriage equality. With major headlines streaming out of Libya and Wisconsin all week, the DOJ’s statement that it has concluded the Defense Of Marriage Act is unconstitutional and that it isn’t going to defend it anymore was issued without much fanfare. Boo. Yah. “What was an even bigger development, however, was the conclusion of the president, the U.S. attorney general, and the Department of Justice that all laws that discriminate based on sexual orientation should be presumed to be unconstitutional.” And though I would argue that laws discriminating on the basis of sexual orientation should be reviewed under strict scrutiny rather than the heightened scrutiny framework the DOJ recommends, it represents a huge step forward in the struggle for gay rights nonetheless. We clearly haven’t seen the end yet, but I’m cautiously optimistic that it represents the kind of Malcolm Gladwellian ‘tipping point’ that Lambda Legal’s Legal Director thinks it does.

It got me thinking about how important the cause of marriage equality has been to me since moving to SF back in 2003. Because ultimately it’s really all about me, no? Anyhoo…not long after I moved to SF, Gavin Newsom directed the city-county clerk to start issuing marriage certificates to same-sex couples. You may remember it because it was kind of a big deal, yo. Here’s what I wrote about it way back when:

“Today I was driving to work, late as usual, bitching about the insane amount of traffic for a Saturday afternoon and commenting about how the number of moronic drivers per capita in San Francisco must seriously defy the law of averages. That is, until I got to City Hall and began slowly passing the thousands of people who snaked out the door of City Hall, down the front steps, down the block, around the corner, down the next block and turning another corner, waiting their turn, along with their families and friends, to get married with their same-sex partner in an act that may be invalidated by the courts as early as next week, but will certainly be one of the most important civil rights issues of our time. Some were dressed in their finest, some in whatever they happened to be wearing, and some in inexplicably weird garb I have no explanation for. It was one of the biggest tributes to love I've ever witnessed. And it was inspiring. It reminded me of how much hope there is in love, and of how essential and intrinsic it is to everything good.” (Feb. 14, 2004)

Of course, that wasn’t the end of the story any more than yesterday’s news was. I would have hoped by now that that kitchen magnet I bought around the same time that reads, “Let gays marry so they can suffer like everyone else,” would be an anachronistic memento of struggles past by now; but I don’t think even my idealistic self on that Valentine’s Day would have been surprised to hear that history would prove itself otherwise. From a vantage point, in many ways, at the cultural epicenter around which the debate has raged, I’ve watched it wind its way through the gauntlet of the state and federal courts.

I remember the crazy waves of emotion that rolled through the city on election night 2008. Even amid the excitement of the early declaration that Obama had won, there was a growing anxiety over the early Proposition 8 returns (the ballot measure defining marriage as strictly between a man and a woman in CA). Not to be deterred in our revelry over the presidential victory, we rallied the troops and headed down to the Castro to celebrate. Emerging from Castro Station, we were enveloped immediately by the huge crowd of people that had gathered.

From Market Street all the way down the hill to 18^th, the street was packed from one sidewalk to the other with people celebrating. A huge screen had been erected, blocking traffic down Castro and the excitement over an Obama victory shot through the air like an electric current. But even shouldering our way through the frenetic crowd as we headed down to The Mix, that consummate meet-up spot, I couldn’t help but notice the nervous glances that kept flitting back to the giant screen. Slowly, but surely, the gap between the Yes and No votes for Prop 8 continued to widen while we found our way down to 18^th, located our friends, edged our way to the bar, and reconvened with drinks in hand. With emotions as shaken as our drinks, we toasted Obama’s victory, and did our best to drown our disappointment in our clinking glasses.

And I remember standing vigil at Civic Center the next day when grief and anger drove us all back together. I’ll never forget the raw emotion of my friends’ reactions, many of whom struggled with the harsh message that, even in San Francisco at the dawn of the 21^st century, they are indeed second class citizens. Needless to say, it was a dark day in San Francisco. There were many rants, and there were even more tears. Blame flew around the city like we were in a paintball war. But thankfully, at the end of the day, there was the vigil – an opportunity to come together and be united in our wide range of emotions, to regroup and remind ourselves that the struggle will go on, and that the outcome is inevitable. There were the marches. There were the protests. And it wasn’t long before we were back at Civic Center watching oral arguments simulcast on a large screen outside the CA Supreme Court. Of course, that wasn’t the end either. Though the issue has slowly found its way to the 9^th Circuit Court of Appeals, the CA Supreme Court is still deeply involved in the debate over Prop 8 and will be for some time.

This struggle has definitely proven itself to be more of a tortoise than a hare. Maybe that’s why this latest development is such welcome news. The race may be far from over, but we’re making progress. It’s on days like this when I would normally take the N-Judah downtown to Powell and Market, and head the few blocks east to the MLK Memorial at Yerba Buena Gardens. Following the foot path behind the waterfall and reading Dr. King’s inspiring words etched into granite while the roaring water fills your ears is an indescribable experience. But suffice it to say, my regular visits there provided me with a great deal of inspiration and comfort over the years. They reminded me that today’s battle is part of a much larger struggle. That each victory, no matter how small, is a step forward. And like the anti-miscegenation laws that were finally struck down only a few short years before my parents marriage foretold, the inexorable march toward marriage equality in this country will ultimately prevail.

"No, No, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like water and righteousness like a mighty stream.” – Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. (Washington, D. C., 1963)

The Centre Cannot Hold

2011-02-19T01:21:00.000-08:00

"...twenty centuries of stony sleep were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle..." - The Second Coming, William Butler Yeats

For the last few years I've shied away from getting too political on this blog. Mostly because who the hell cares what I have to say? There are much more well-informed and much more eloquent people out there to whom I happily defer. (Like demi-god Bill Moyers.) But you know me. I'm not one to stay quiet for very long. Probably one of my most striking and most dangerous qualities.

Is it just me, or is the world just sort of fracturing right now? Or is it that these fractures that have been cricking and cracking underfoot are finally putting us in an untenable position? It's like, you have Egypt on one side, reconfirming the possibility of true democratic change in the face of entrenched systems of injustice, and the power of the internet to enable it and provide instant and unfiltered global access to it. And hasn't it been just awe-inspiring, terrifying, and totally amazing to watch that wave of revolution continue to ripple across the region?

It's not like we haven't seen sporadic proof of resistance before now. We saw the protests in Bangkok just last year that ushered in the worst political violence of modern Thai history, erupt and disappear like so many uprisings before them. Like sunspots appearing across the surface of the sun, they seemed temporary and ill-fated. As if we've come to accept the outcome of might versus right as a foregone conclusion. But with news of the long-oppressed openly challenging corrupt systems in Tunisia, Egypt, Bahrain, Iran, Yemen, Libya, and even in Thailand once again, these days those sunspots are looking a little less like isolated incidents and more like the makings of a pattern. Oh, if only Howard Zinn were alive to see this!

But then you have things like the Abortion Provider Murder bill before South Dakota's House of Representatives. WTF? It's unfathomable to me that I actually live in a place and time where a bill like this would ever be written in reality, much less reach a vote. I mean, seriously?? SERIOUSLY?? It sounds like the premise of a Jonathan Swift essay, except there is absolutely no modesty in this proposal. The first time I saw a headline about it, I thought it was a link to an Onion article! My incredulity knows no bounds. And that's not to mention the many other incidents of the full-frontal assault the Rethuglicans are waging on women all across this country (from attempts to re-define rape to those trying to deal a death blow to Planned Parenthood's federal funding). The gloves are off, people.

It's not just Egypt. And it's not just South Dakota either. It's all too big to grasp really, and it's all happening so darn fast. But it really feels like globally, or at least nationally, we're heading toward a moment of significant reckoning, ya'll. "The centre cannot hold." Maybe we're finally getting to a point where we're ready to start asking some of the real questions. Or maybe the fact that I've been reading Hunter S. Thompson's The Great Shark Hunt has something to do with my barely suppressed hysteria. I don't know.

This isn't the first time I've felt this way though. I spent the summer of 2006 working in London on a Public Interest Grant as a law clerk at Reprieve, an organization founded by acclaimed human rights attorney, Clive Stafford Smith. I was part of the team representing various Guantanamo Bay detainees. And let me tell you, it was emotionally heavy work. I've never cried so much on the job. My security clearance gave me access to some highly confidential information that I obviously wasn't allowed to talk about, so I've never talked about it much. I think the closest I ever got to writing about it was in a post from June 14, 2006.

But as hard as it was for me personally, there was also some part of me that felt like what I was doing was extremely important. Even if it was just bearing witness. I think some part of me truly believed that once all those horrors that were and continue to be perpetrated in the name of freedom (or worse yet, in our name) were exposed, that a major shift in the way we allow our government to operate would inevitably follow. Part of it went way back to my whole fixation with the Holocaust as an adolescent and my inability to reconcile how we, as a civilized society, could have sat back and allowed it to happen. I honestly can't say I've gotten any closer to understanding that conundrum after all these years, but I feel like something about Guantanamo Bay is disturbingly familiar.

We, as a people, have an amazing ability to turn a blind eye toward the suffering of others. Maybe we're too busy with our own lives to pay too much attention, de-sensitized from a culture that's so blood-soaked that nothing's shocking, or satisfied with Big Brother's constant reassurances that the ends justify the means. Maybe we're a little too willing and content to accept the suggestion that all those faceless monsters wearing black hoods and orange jumpsuits surely deserve the unspeakable treatment they've received at the hands of their tormentors these last 9 years, regardless of whether they've ever been charged with a crime. I may not understand how or why that complacency envelops and blinds us, but I have lived to see that it most assuredly does.

I bring this up because I just read an article about Gitmo for the first time in awhile (which I highly recommend) and it really affected me. I've read lots of articles on the subject over the years, though unlike the article's author, I wouldn't describe my interest in America's torture and rendition program so much as obsession as morbid interest. But for some reason, Mr. Leopold's article really reminded me of what it was like on an emotional level that summer. It reminded me of the tragic day that three prisoners killed themselves under extremely questionable circumstances; one of them a 17-yr-old boy who had already been cleared for release. It reminded me of the legal memos I drafted furiously, responding to the arbitrary and nonsensical rules and requests of the CSRT's that gave new meaning to the term 'kangaroo court'. But I think most significantly, it reminded me of the letters of Shaker Aamer.

Shaker was one of the cases I was assigned to work closely on and, consequently, I was given pretty extensive access to his file. I read the letters he wrote to his attorneys (Clive and Zachary) describing, in intimate detail, the unspeakable events that transpired from the days leading up to his capture to the infernal nightmare of his life at Camp Delta in excruciating detail. (As one of few inmates who had any education or command of the English language, he provided detailed first hand accounts.) I met his wife and children (the youngest of whom he's never met) and I sifted through the letters and drawings they would send with Clive on one of his many trips to Cuba -- meager attempts at maintaining some semblance of contact and providing the smallest amount of hope in Shaker's endless days of darkness. Those letters still haunt me sometimes, but reading that article brought them crashing back unexpectedly to the forefront of my mind.

I don't even remember what I wanted to say with this post. I guess I just wanted to do something to try and process these memories and feelings and observations. Maybe I'm just reminded of the real stakes involved, the bittersweet emotions that accompany this growing tide of change, and the reason my fist is raised in solidarity with the courageous heroes all over the world who are rising up to say 'enough is enough.'

"Prefiero morir de pie, que vivir siempre arrodillado." - Emiliano Zapata

UPDATE: Lawyers and human rights groups criticize proposed UK torture inquiry, as the government fails to address the return of Shaker Aamer, the last British resident in Guantánamo.

On Valentine's Day

2011-02-14T10:45:00.000-08:00

"I believe that everything happens for a reason. People change so that you can learn to let go. Things go wrong so that you appreciate them when they're right. You believe lies so you eventually learn to trust no-one but yourself, and sometimes things fall apart so that better things can fall together."
- Marilyn Monroe

Procrastination Station

2011-02-08T13:56:00.000-08:00

Well, my third tweet story made it to the Top 25 stories of the Finals round but, alas, I did not win the entire competition. Such is life. No time to fret though, as the Short Story Challenge is already underway. This time around things are a little more intense. I got my assignment on Saturday. Genre: Comedy. Subject: Freezing. After letting my subconscious chew on it for a couple of days the semblance of a story started to emerge from the fog yesterday. I pictured it like an egg that had to gestate before I could lay it. Mostly an internal process. And once I finally had the makings of a story, the question became how I was going to prepare it. Scrambled? Poached? As I suspected, the execution appears to be the tough bit. Go figure.

So last night I sat myself in front of the computer in an effort to bang out a first draft. Not as difficult as making myself study for the Bar Exam, but that's not saying much. And let me tell you, it were excruciating. I was reminded of a little tid bit I picked up from The Portable MFA in Creative Writing I got from the library recently; specifically, the part that says, "The amateur's crisis of confidence as she begins her first short story is the writer's crisis of confidence at the outset of every new project." Small consolation indeed, but consoling words nonetheless. Like Jacob with his angel, I spent the evening wrestling characters and events onto the page; struggling to drag the hazy images swirling in my mind out of the fog -- to discover their shape and form. Yeah, I didn't get the complete draft out. I'm off to a decent start though, and I hope to have a good lay of the land by the end of tonight so I can spend the next few days sculpting it into something readable.

I'm actually just really impressed with myself that I've even gotten started already. You see, I'm what some may call a procrastinator. I've devoted quite a bit of time and energy trying to get to the source of the problem, mostly because it was an effective diversion from whatever else I should have been doing at the time. This doesn't mean I've gotten much better at NOT doing things at the last minute. Take, for example, my recent move to the PNW. Deadlines have just never been my thing, and if there's one thing pretty much everyone knows about me, it's that I hate to be rushed.

Chalk it up to another trait I inherited from my mom. As kids, we used to joke that she operated on BST (Bhuket Standard Time), which is generally two to three hours behind whatever time zone in which you happen to find yourself. The woman got wherever she was going whenever she was good and ready. Period. And while I don't share her marked propensity for pushing the boundaries of socially acceptable tardiness, I do understand the why. Oh yes, friends, this recalcitrant streak runs deep.

If there's one thing that years of therapy and endless hours devoted to understanding my shortcomings has taught me, it's that you should always ALWAYS blame your parents. Right? I'm not sure there are adequate words to convey how very little discipline and oversight we received as kids. Suffice it to say that, for most of my childhood, the idea of such things as bed times, groundings, limitations on television, what could properly be considered a toy, or what, when and where you could eat, were completely foreign concepts to us. A laissez-faire approach to parenting would be one way of putting it.

For the most part, if we felt like doing something, we did. And if we didn't, well, we just didn't. Oh, the fun times we had! However, sometime in my adulthood, it occurred to me that the hands-off approach maaaay have done us a slight disservice. Have you ever heard the joke about the Asian-American kid that comes home with a test she scored a 99 on, and her parents' only comment is to ask what happened to the other point? It's funny cuz it's true. But in my case, I would have had to bring my grades to someone's attention in order for that conversation to take place. It happened, but it was rare. Because it occurred to me this morning that I don't think I ever showed a single report card to anyone. Ever. Honestly, it's a miracle I graduated high school.

Deadlines never did mean much to me. I was docked more points for turning assignments in late than I should ever admit to. But thanks to the deadly combination of a higher than average intelligence and the ability to work well under pressure, I coasted through most of my education without drawing too much attention to my complete and utter disregard for other peoples' time lines. This is not something I'm proud of. And it almost spelled the undoing of my completing law school. Never underestimate the motivating power of fear.

I'd like to think I've grown a little in the process though. That fear-based cycle of productivity gets a little old. And as it turns out, the psychological wear and tear from a lifetime of practiced procrastination isn't particularly pleasant. These days I'm trying to train my attention a little more on stress-management. It's a new year's resolution of sorts. And focusing a little more on the emotional payoff than on whatever the dreaded task at hand may be has allowed me to shift my perspective a little. Ultimately, I want to turn in a short story that I'm proud of. Each submission will receive a proper critique from the judges' panel. That seems invaluable to me right now. Of course, with all that said, you and I are both probably wondering what I'm doing writing a blog entry right now instead of finishing up that first draft. And I think that's my cue to go.

Supplies!

2011-01-31T15:12:00.000-08:00

As luck (and numerous Facebook friends) would have it, my flash fiction story was selected as one of the top 5 in its section. Hurrah! Having received the most votes, I got the Audience Award and automatically earned a spot in the finals. So last Thursday, they emailed out the assigned word ("surprise") and again, I had five hours to submit three stories. This time the stories poured out of me so fast I had to make myself stop writing after about an hour and a half and start the difficult process of narrowing the field down to three submissions.

Unlike last round, I pretty much liked them all equally. I hadn't really struggled with any of them and their were so many that each one appealed to me for different reasons. So I decided to take it to the internets since everyone I spoke to about the last round seemed to prefer the story that got me to the finals in the first place. Finally at around 4 hrs in, anxious to catch the second half of the Blazers/Celtics game, I took the three stories with the most votes and uploaded them onto the site. I'm not sure those are my favorite three, but I change my mind every three minutes, so going with the popular choices was probably the safest bet. What do you think?

I didn’t mean to surprise him. He just made me feel so much like a woman I forgot to tell him about that one thing that proves I’m not.
With a little blush, Mr. Chan realized his misunderstanding as he added a pack of new pencils to the pile of gifts at the surprise party.
No, the big surprise came later when they came to and realized they’d all dreamt about wrestling a leprechaun into the trunk of the car.
And all that for an apple? Imagine her surprise when she realized they were pretty much the worst tasting fruit in the joint. Damned snake.
It came as no surprise they’d failed to inform the bulls that he’d only come to Pamplona as a publicity stunt. But publicity’s what he got.
Surprise didn’t begin to describe his range of emotions about the news but, reading her smile, he hoped it was all she could see.
Their surprise engagement followed by their surprise pregnancy made their surprise demise somewhat ironic; but no one ever dared say so.
He’d always warned people he wasn’t a fan of surprise parties, so they waited until he turned 100. And boy, should they ever have listened.
Imagine my surprise when the beggar turns out to be Odysseus! Here I haven’t aged a day and he looks like something the tide dragged in.
He would take her to hear Haydn’s Surprise Symphony that evening, but the dagger in his pocket hinted she had more than one in store.
Always underestimating the element of surprise, Trotsky turned his desk toward the window in order to appreciate the lovely garden view.

Honestly, I've been a little more preoccupied with the Short Story Challenge , which starts in a few short days! I also find myself in the unsettling position, once again, of wondering whether there's an international move in my imminent future. But we'll talk about that later.

UPDATE: Story #3 made the Top 25! Oddly enough, that's the one I almost didn't enter. Just goes to show how little I know, I guess. Voting is open for a week and then they'll announce the winners. And the competition this round is fierce!*

*But you should still vote for mine.

Back on the Boogie

2011-01-26T23:45:00.000-08:00

The rest of my Seattle trip was great. The sun decided to make another appearance on Saturday, so we did our best to do it justice. First, we headed over to Gas Works Park, which is a cool old gasification plant located on what is possibly the most prime piece of real estate in the joint. Climbing to the top of the hill, we used the afternoon sun to cast our shadows across the giant sun dial. Then we just hung out for awhile, chatting as we looked out over Lake Union and the city cradling it on all sides; kayakers skimming quietly across the water's calm surface. Finally working our way down the hill and around the plant, we debated the difficulties of infiltrating the enclosed complex undetected after dark. Blackberry vines twist menacingly around the bases of the rusted structures adding an extra warning to keep away, which inevitably led us to a conversation about the merits of Tom Robbins' writing. That is, until we entered...the play barn.

The play barn is basically the original pump house. It's a covered structure full of old pumps, compressors, and piping painted in bright cheerful colors. And it is the epitome of a kid's climbing fantasy. The fact that there are little plaques neatly affixed to the structures at regular distances admonishing visitors not to climb on them is completely beyond human understanding. Like surrounding a monkey with bananas and telling him he can't eat any. Does not compute. (Apparently they haven't always been there, but you just know someone had to go and break their neck and sue the city; thus ruining it for everyone.) Soon Daniel and I were hopping across gas tanks, tip-toeing across I-beams, and hunting down whatever wheels would still turn.

Afterward, we went down to the EMP and walked around the Space Needle and Seattle Center. I've had a soft spot for Frank Gehry ever since I spent the summer in Bilbao, Spain and walked past the Guggenheim to and from work every day. We circled it slowly, taking it in from every angle, until we came across an outdoor labyrinth, like the one in the floor of Chartres Cathedral (one of my favorite symbols from one of my favorite places).

So we walked it of course. Later, we rounded out the night by heading to Shorty's in Belltown where we dropped some serious quarters on pinball, arcade games, and a few draughts of local beer. A good time was had by all, especially after Daniel-san got the day's hi-score in Joust (which he proudly captured by taking a pic on his iphone for prosperity's sake).

I'm back in PDX now. It felt good to feel like I was coming home. I guess that means I'm adjusting to the new digs. Ironic timing too, since I've been steadily navigating my way through the interview process for a potential job in Bogota, Colombia which would require me to relocate within the month. More on that later though.

It's taken me awhile before I had a proper answer for the question: How's Portland? I read recently that Katherine Dunn described Portland as a city of fugitives and refugees. And I'll be honest with you. When I arrived here, that's exactly how I felt. In some ways it's felt more like I took sanctuary here than it did an actual relocation. But at a time when I needed it the most, that's exactly what the city provided me. It wrapped me up in its warm blanket and said, "There, there. You just rest a spell." The long dark days, deep gray skies, and endless rain didn't hurt either. That old bear finally got a chance to do some hibernating.

But just as subtly as the days have started stretching their arms in both directions, I've settled in a bit and started sniffing around the place. There's a short stretch of undeveloped paths running alongside the Willamette River between the St. Johns Bridge and an old railroad bridge close to here. One of my favorite pastimes has been taking long walks down there with Leon. He gets to go off-leash and piss on everything in sight, and I get to wander along the water letting my thoughts run free. It's times like that when I think to myself, "Self, whatever happened to that little voice recorder you had? Because you're gonna forget all these great ideas by the time you get home, you know."

Eventually though, even those thoughts tend to drift away and leave me listening to the crunch of my boots, the trains coming and going across the bridge, and the occasional horn off a freighter gliding upriver to port. I'd be in hog heaven right now if I were a trainspotter, yessiree Bob. Sometimes we'll take one of the paths leading down to the water in the cove under the railroad bridge. Down there by the shore, where the water quietly laps onto the desolated strand of beach under forgotten graffiti, it feels like we have our own private place tucked away from the eyes of the city.

Lately, after we've walked for awhile, I've started to enjoy finding a seat among the moss covered concrete blocks that I can only guess are the scattered remnants of an old building from when St. Johns had its own port. There I'll let my gaze rest unfocused over the river's surface while Leon sniff's around in the underbrush before settling down at my feet with some new-found stick. This, of course, is only possible when it isn't raining. And when it hasn't rained for long enough that sitting won't leave me with a giant wet spot on my bum. So clearly it doesn't happen all that often.

I guess the point is that I've really started to like it here. I've noticed that these days when people ask me how Portland's treating me, it tends to elicit more of a response than, "It's cold". And I guess the possibility of another big move feels a little premature and leaves me feeling nostalgic for a place I hardly even know. But until then, I'm going to take advantage of the sunny days, which are becoming less few and far between, and get to know this here city of fugitives a little better.

Emerald City

2011-01-21T19:49:00.000-08:00

A couple of days ago, I decided to take up arms against the inertia that's kept me from doing much exploring since relocating to the Pacific Northwest, and a little road-trip birthday gift to myself seemed like just the ticket. Aside from several layovers at the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport en route to Thailand, I've never had the opportunity for a proper visit to Seattle; a city I've heard nothing but good things about. But the sun was shining, the sky was blue, and I didn't have much else going on so, excited for some adventure, I hopped on the I-5 and headed north.

The distance between Portland and Seattle is about the same as the drive from Austin to Dallas, a journey I took countless times during my 10-year stint in the Texas capital. I had almost forgotten how much I love cruising solo down the highway, bumping to some tunes, and taking in the open road. We've talked about my marked propensity for woolgathering and I'll tell you what: there's nothing like a road trip to really chew on things.

Passing endless swathes of evergreens and the staggering grandeur of snow-covered Mt. Rainier, I finally arrived at my destination feeling lighter. What is it about the mere act of just going that allows you to breathe a little deeper? As if you can literally leave your cares behind. As if each mile you put behind actually distances you from your own oppressive thoughts. And once I caught my first views of the city, all of them were washed away in one fell swoop.

It was as if the city had dressed itself up in its finest finery just for my sake. The sweeping views that greeted me were, quite literally, jaw-dropping. The Emerald City, gently hugging the serenely sweeping Sound, was basking in the golden glow of the westward falling sun. Spectacular. And lucky, since it's pretty much been raining ever since, but it was a fabulous introduction nonetheless.

I settled in at the home of Daniel-san -- the same friend who whisked me away to Austin way back in October. And for the last couple of days he's played the dutiful tour guide to my lazy tourist, replete with a post-birthday dinner in the International District, mandatory promenade through Pike Place Market (where I couldn't resist the urge to buy some super-fresh wild sockeye salmon that's been marinating in a homemade soy ginger sauce for the last 24 hours + two shrimps, each the size of my fist), and constant recriminations for not packing my hiking boots. Apparently, he's as anxious to do some snow-shoeing this winter as I am! Of course, there's tons more to see and do. There are the friends I have yet to see, the sites I have yet to visit, and the foods I have yet to mow. But I'm completely smitten with the place, so I'm sure I'll be back soon...with hiking boots on.

Get Out the Vote

2011-01-19T09:55:00.000-08:00

As it turns out, my first micro-fiction story was chosen as one of the Top 25 in Group 9 of the Tweet Me A Story contest by the judges' panel! Go figure. Now there's a week of voting and the story that receives the most votes will automatically move on to the final round. So you know what to do, people! I think mine's the 10th or so from the top. And in case, for some odd reason, you don't know my name, it's Am&a Bhuket.

I'll tell you why I say that. The other day, Shannon asked me to change the design of my blog since it was hurting her eyes. I agreed since, as I explained to her, it's only fair that I cede to her request being that she comprises approximately 25% of my readership. So in the process of coming up with something a little less garish, I discovered a little tabby thing called "Stats". Apparently, it tracks the number of page views I get. Cool! But the craziest thing was seeing how many times my little space here has been sprawled across someone else's screen.

Even assuming only 1/10 of that number represents real people who actually stop to read this inanity, it's way higher than I would have ever guessed. So even though the possibility is completely beyond me, if for some reason you're reading this and you don't know me personally, I still expect you to vote. Now.

Incidentally, I'm pleased as punch to announce that one of my favoritest readers and staunchest supporters has valiantly stepped up to the plate and offered to sponsor my participation in the Short Story Challenge. And good golly, am I nervous!

On Being a Would-Be

2011-01-14T13:34:00.000-08:00

For the last few years now, I've fantasized about participating in National Novel Writing Month, mostly as a way of making myself really devote some time to writing. Because if there's one thing that separates would-be writers from published ones, it's probably the fact that the latter group tends to actually write. And, try as I might, I can't seem to come up with a way of getting around that smallest of details.

There's also something about the knowledge that, with NaNoWriMo, you're doing it with a whole community of faceless people going through the same torturous experience as you. That there are guidelines. That there's a deadline. I've never been one to turn her nose up at a little healthy competition either. But sad as this may seem, blogging has been my most consistent form of writing since...well, since pretty much ever. And we all know how prolific I am in that department. [Insert random Monty Python references here: "Nudge, nudge, wink, wink."; "I got better!"]

Trust me, I have berated myself incessantly throughout this long spell of f-unemployment for not using it as an opportunity to just. effing. write. But, for some odd reason, that hasn't worked out very well as a viable source of motivation. Since my most recent sea change though, my creative juices have thawed a bit and started flowing through my veins; the cobwebbed wheels in my noggin have started to creak, and I've found myself jotting down ideas and phrases that pop like bubbles in my mind all day. I've even started a couple blog entries that got so long I decided to store them away to see how far I can actually take them.

Because I'm a word nerd, I have a desktop gadget on my iGoogle homepage that sends me a Merriam-Webster Word of the Day. A couple weeks ago, it happened to be the word 'woolgathering', which I was obviously instantly curious about. And something kind of struck me when I read the definition. I realized that woolgathering is one of the things I'm quite good at actually. A curious if not counter-productive trait admittedly; I found myself considering my 'over-active imagination' as more of an asset than an affliction for maybe the first time.

But there's that rub again, eh? What use is an asset if you don't actually use it for something, right? So of course that got me thinking more about my writing too. And then there's Shannon, who's probably mainly responsible for the fact that I blog at all still since half the time she guilts me into posting just so she'll have something new to read at work while she's surfing the interwebs instead of being productive. ;)

Anyway, several months ago, I found out about a short-story competition that's put on annually by a pretty cool organization called NYC Midnight. By the time I learned about it, I'd missed the deadline, but I joined their Facebook page so I could keep it in mind for the next time round.

Then a few weeks ago they sent out a message promoting registration for their annual flash fiction contest, which I've been curious about since I came across the quintessential example of a micro-story often attributed to Hemingway: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn."

Pure genius. So I jumped at the opportunity to register because, 1) it was free and, 2) it seemed like a lot less pressure than any of the other contests they run. 140 characters long. The length of a tweet. Totally doable. And yesterday at about 4pm, I received my assignment to Group 9. Each writer had the option to submit up to three stories; the only limitations being that each group had an assigned word which its members were required to use at least once in their respective stories and that the stories had to be posted on the website by 8:59 my time. Group 9's word was 'second', which ultimately didn't feel like much of a limitation at all. My mind immediately started racing with all of the various possibilities (second-nature, second-skin, second-base, second-place, second-story, second-prize, wait a second, under a second, split-second...you get the picture).

With about five hours to complete the assignment I first figured I'd just spit out a ton of ideas, take the best ones, and chisel those down to perfection. And I'm sure you can imagine how well that turned out. After the first hour, I had one story I was kind of happy with, two that just weren't working at all, and a new-found appreciation of Papa Hemingway. As if coming up with a compelling story isn't hard enough, I have to try and tell the thing in 140 characters?!? And you expect me to sacrifice six of those precious slots to the word 'second'?? I mean, I've been trying to keep my brain sharp by doing two crossword puzzles every day since I got to Portland and doing my best to abuse my library privileges of late, but this was exhausting brain work! And also? SO MUCH FUN.

Story 1: Freeing his grip from the first chair’s neck, he realized he’d probably lost his only chance to say, “I don’t play second fiddle to anyone.”

Over the next couple of hours I tried to salvage the other stories, bending them this way and that, until I finally discarded one of them entirely. Deciding the other was better, though not quite there, I decided to start with some new ideas for the third and come back to number two later. But by the time hour four of five rolled around, the deadline didn't pose as much of a threat to producing three well-crafted pieces as the fact that the hours of mental acrobatics were starting to take their toll. I never did go back and do any more tinkering on that second story.

Story 2: She knew there was no room for second thoughts once the flashing lights joined the wailing sirens below. But, falling, she had them anyway.

With an hour left I realized I was just ready to be done with it. It was a great exercise. One I should probably do more regularly. But I was done having fun with this particular endeavor, so I clicked onto the site and uploaded three stories, none of which I was completely happy with.

Story 3: He’d never had second thoughts about marrying or leaving a woman; a trait he examined deeply as his blood soaked slowly into the new carpet.

Yeah, number 3 still feels like a throw-away. I feel it would be remiss of me not to mention that, for some reason, all of the stories turned out to be completely morbid. Not sure what that's about. More evidence of just how sick and twisted I am in the head, I suppose.

I don't expect to advance to the next round. They take the best 25 stories from each group which, assuming the 50 people in my group submitted three stories each, is a field of 150 stories. But I've already gotten out of it way more than I expected, and I suspect there will be a lot more attempts at flash fiction writing in my future. In fact, if you have a word you'd like me to take a stab at, send it my way and I'll send you something back. In the meantime, perhaps I'll revisit those extended blog entries I've got started and see if I can't do something fun with them.

P.S. Registration's already open for the Short Story Challenge and there's a registration fee of $49 this time. Any patrons out there just dying to sponsor my participation?

Shelter From the Storm

2011-01-07T13:59:00.000-08:00

I think it was a little over a year ago when Shannon offered to let me come live with her in Portland. Jokingly, I said the idea was tempting but wondered how long she'd be willing to cover my room and board. And without missing a beat she responded, "I'd say two to three months at least."

Over the course of the year, I considered it off and on pretty seriously. I wanted so much to stay in the Bay Area, or to find a job that would take me overseas. But there were moments when I'd be sure moving to Portland was the best option and I'd tell her so. "I think I'm really coming this time. I'll probably be there in a month." A month would pass. She'd catch me on gchat and ask if I was really coming, and I'd say, "Not yet. I think I've got things worked out here for now." Then a month or so later I'd ask her if the offer still stood, and each and every time she'd assure me that it did.

At some point long past the time when any other open invitation would have expired, and after one of my epic 180º's, Shannon informed me that she would believe I was moving to Portland when I was standing on her front porch. No deadlines. No expectations. And shit-howdy was that a blessing. Being cursed as I am with the worst case of indecisiveness, she allowed me to take my sweet-as-molasses time to figure out what my next step needed to be...for me.

I should point out that the Dutch Assassin provided me with the same offer on the Austin end. Good God, I've got some amazing friends. And I know that if I had decided to head southwest instead of northeast, I'd be equally blessed right about now. But like I've said before, Portland offered something new and undiscovered. A book whose cover had yet to be opened.

Why then have I become, for all intents and purposes, a complete and total recluse since getting here? Sure, the weather doesn't help. Yeah, money's always an issue. But when have those things ever stopped me from exploring the crap out of a new city?

Combine with that the fact that my overall mood has improved remarkably. I hadn't paid particular attention to this fact or really noticed it at all, until Shannon brought it to my attention the other day. In reference to a quote from a previous post, Shannon informed me that, after I had rolled up to Portland and started getting settled in, she noticed that I indeed had changed; and she wasn't so sure she liked the new Amanda either. I believe "dark cloud" and "solemn" were some of the words she used to describe me. Maybe she started having second thoughts about that open-ended offer after all.

But slowly and almost imperceptibly, like the spring bulbs that have begun popping their heads out of the frozen earth around here, signs of dormant life began to emerge. I'm happier. I'm calmer. I'm stronger. I'm not there yet, but there are shoots of hope promising renewed life.

Perhaps, like a perennial bloomer, I needed a cold winter frost before I could start crawling toward the surface. Personally, I don't think that's it. If you want to know the truth, I think it has everything to do with the relief that's come with having my basic needs accounted for. It's one thing to talk about it, or to think about it -- but I now know first hand that there's nothing quite as all-consuming as worrying about how you're going to feed yourself or get and keep a roof over your head. And for the first time in awhile, I don't have to. So yeah, I'm happier, and calmer, and stronger. I've got emotional reserves after all, and I'm in a stable enough place to finally draw from them. And like an obstinate bulb, I'll be back. But right now I'm just going to let myself enjoy the fact that there's food in the fridge, a roof over my head, and friends like Shannon that didn't give up on me during the cold winter frost.

Moving Into the Light

2010-12-26T14:52:00.000-08:00

I hope everyone had a very merry Christmas. It seems no matter how removed you are from family and festivities, it's impossible not to be affected by the significance of the day somehow. I've been in a sort of internal mode lately and decided to mark the occasion in my own quiet way since there was no going home for the holidays in the cards this year.

For me, this has undoubtedly been the darkest winter I've ever been through. I never would have guessed that 500 miles north of SF would make quite this much of a difference in daylight hours. It's been a time of reflection and, like the Maccabees in Jerusalem, of tending the sacred light that burns through the long winter nights. Over the last month or so, I've looked forward to the solstice -- longing for the turning point when we in the northern hemisphere would pass through that darkest night of the year, and start moving steadily into the light.

And have we talked about the whole 2012 thing yet? Seriously, wait. Hear me out. I'm not gonna start proselytizing, I'm just trying to put my head space in context. So anyhoo, for those of you that are still with us, the first time I heard anything about it was when I got my chart read by that witchy woman in Mendocino. And the way she put it to me was this: that according to a whole bunch of theories and different cultures, 2012 will be a big turning point in human history. She went on to talk about how the astrological changes might affect me (e.g. "I mean, you might kill somebody"), but that's another story.

What's important here is that my curiosity was piqued. Since then I've paid a lot more attention to who's predicting this whole 'end of times' and what they're saying. And I've done my own casual research on the subject. I confirmed for myself that it's not just the Mayan Calendar, and it's not just the astrologists, and it's not about some Hollywood apocalypse movie version either. Anyways, everyone's gonna think what they're gonna think, right? But the point of all this is to talk about the darkness.

I was reading about the theory that at some point during that shift, the world will descend into darkness for thirty hours (or 3 days according to the Christian Armageddon version). I'm not saying I think that will or won't happen, but it got me to wondering what it would be like. What would happen? People would freak the fuck out! That's what would happen. Hell, the whole animal kingdom probably would.

There's a primal fear of the dark that makes a lot of evolutionary sense. And then there's a more intangible psychological fear of the darkness it seems. I'll bet sitting in the darkness for three days would force us to confront both. And that's pretty scary. So to make a long story a little less long, I decided that I'd be mindful of that over the long weekend, to welcome and observe whatever kinds of psychological discomfort might arise. To just practice being alone with myself.

The hardest part was allowing myself to try and just relax. To not worry. Because as anyone who's ever been unemployed for a long period of time will understand, what looks like permanent vacation to others is actually pure and unadulterated constant anguish. There's no such thing as a day off because every second of every day is clouded by the stress over the need to secure an income. But I decided I would just sort of release myself from all that and try and allow myself to find something more peaceful and honest in this solstice retreat.

I spent most of Christmas Day cuddled up in bed with the animals, listening to the sounds of the rain pattering against my window and the horns of the ships navigating their way down the Willamette River. I thought of my family, spread out across Texas passing the day in different ways. I pictured them coming together around their holiday feasts, and exchanging gifts in acknowledgment of the gift they are to one another. And I thought about Ebenezer Scrooge. Scrooge himself is the embodiment of winter, and, just as winter is followed by spring and the renewal of life, so too is Scrooge's cold, pinched heart restored to the innocent goodwill he knew in his youth by leaving his icy solitude to join the warm fellowship of the Cratchits' home.

And it occurred to me that ultimately, that's the key to moving through this darkness. Together. By recognizing and cultivating that which binds us. By basking in gratitude for the bonds we share, the people we love, and the warmth we provide for each other. So I got on the honker and I called my Daddy. And then I called Joy. Then I called Uncle Pann, and talked to both of Arni and Robyn (my sibling/cousins) too. And then I called Abbie. There was even a text exchange with Tuffy. And though I was alone that day, I wrapped myself in the warm blanket of connectedness and was touched by the spirit of Christmas.

"What greater thing is there for human souls than to feel that they are joined for life - to be with each other in silent unspeakable memories."
- George Eliot

The Good Days

2010-12-18T16:09:00.000-08:00

Well it's officially legal for me to drive my car in the state of Oregon now. It feels good. I've rarely used my car since my registration and car insurance expired in July. I towed it up here behind the moving truck just so it wouldn't get impounded heading north, and half-suspecting that I'd end up selling it here. Of course, that may still be the case. But I definitely wasn't expecting to get a ticket and a tow-away notice after a couple weeks of living here forcing me to immediately decide what to do with it.

And so, using most of the remaining cash in my bank account, I now have an insured and registered vehicle. And it feels good.

This week I also got three packages in the mail. None of them were from creditors. And that feels good too.

OMG. And?? I literally just got today's mail and there was a check in it from my ex-husband for the entire amount that he just took me for. Um...I guess somebody's feeling the holiday spirit! Or maybe it's remorse. Whatever. It'll definitely help to make my season bright slash provide me with something to live off of for the next couple of months.

And speaking of the holidays...oh boy, here they come. This year will officially mark my second Christmas spent entirely alone, and I have to admit I'm a little apprehensive. The last time was in 2006, which was such a dark time I don't really want to think about it. Suffice it to say that in January 2007 I finally decided to get on anti-depressants and start seeing a therapist on a weekly basis. Of course, last time I was in a fight with pretty much my whole family and my marriage, after falling apart and then dragging itself through the mud for a long long time, was over for reals. Like I said, it was a dark time.

I'm going to be all bah mahself again this year, but that's about the only thing it'll have in common with '06. Well that and the fact that I'll have the Tofu kitty to hang out with. First of all, I'm gonna get to the grocery store and buy the hell outta some food with my EBT card before it closes for the holidays. So I will be fed. I will also have the funtastic company of Leon, Shannon's pimptastic dog. I'm in Portland, which is shiny and new. I'm well-medicated, for which we should all be very thankful. I'm in good graces with all, correction most of my family. And I am very happily single.

Year in Review

2010-12-08T16:12:00.000-08:00

Got dumped by my boyfriend of a year just two days before our anniversary, which happened to be on Valentine's Day (I know. Total cheese.); found out a friend sabotaged my chances of returning to my job after I took a hiatus to study for the Bar Exam; failed the Bar Exam for the third time; was extorted for money by said friend while providing a source of major support for a sister who was fired from her surgical residency, a sister who went blind and required three eye surgeries, a brother who got arrested climbing onto the Bay Bridge after his wife left him, filed for divorce, and kidnapped their child; was kicked out of my other brother's house; was homeless for two months to the point of sleeping in my car; had an emergency visit to the vet after my 19-yr-old cat was severely neglected by my sub-letters; was almost hospitalized by my psychiatrist against my will; cleaned up my brother's life after he had a psychotic break and left town, abandoning his dog and all of his belongings in his 16th story high-rise and his car on the side of the road with a smashed-out windshield; was betrayed and abandoned by my sister-in-law after helping recover the dog and everything of value from the apartment; was forced to sell my mom's jewelry in order to survive; and once more, for old time's sake, was screwed out of a substantial amount of money by my ex-husband. Good times!

I, for one, couldn't be happier to be bidding adieu to 2010. It's certainly been one of the most challenging years I've ever faced. And while it's true that I couldn't have gotten through it without a little help from friends and family, here are some choice quotes that other friends and family members have added to the mix:

"You've changed, and I don't like the person you've become."

"You're not a very good member of this family."

"Fuck you. You're not even my sister. Only half!"

"I'm thankfully past the point of allowing the drama going on in your life to compromise what's fair to me...I'm too good of a friend."

"Not everything has to be a crisis, Amanda."

Disavowal

2010-12-01T11:26:00.000-08:00

Yesterday a friend shared this quote by author Thomas Chandler with me: "To love a person is to learn the song that is in their heart, and sing it to them when they have forgotten." It struck me as a bittersweet reminder of how few of the people I love have been able to do just that over the course of the last year's difficulties.

Instead, I've faced a barrage of get over it-s, try harder-s, you just need to get your shit together-s, and just stay positive-s. And in the midst of all the hardships that I'm just trying to survive and cope with, those voices of criticism and judgment have left me feeling isolated, misunderstood, and alone. I recently had a long talk with a good friend and spiritual advisor in which I lamented the fact that, at a time when all I need is the compassion and understanding of loved ones, instead I've gotten a lot of condescension and blame. And I'll never forget what she told me because it was both surprising and enlightening. To paraphrase, she said that when times are tough, people ultimately have to convince themselves that it's because of something you're doing (or not doing) because otherwise they're faced with the notion that it could just as easily happen to them. And that's a scary thought.

Fortunately, there are things like this to remind me that I'm not alone, but it hardly makes up for the lack of emotional support. I was talking to a friend in a very similar situation yesterday though, and he was telling me that he has made a conscious effort to stay away from the negativity of others, even though that has included many of those who used to be his closest friends. And for the the first time I realized that I have too. I wasn't put on this island, I chose to be here. Because it's better than the alternative of subjecting myself to the conceit of those around me who believe that they actually know better, or that they could do better under the same circumstances. It's lonely, yes. But it's better than listening to the songs that they're singing back to me. Songs that have very little to do with me.

I know that disavowal is an unusual form of betrayal. From the outside it is impossible to tell if you are disowning someone or simply exercising discretion, being considerate, avoiding embarrassments and sources of irritation. But you, who are doing the disowning, you know what you're doing. And disavowal pulls the underpinnings away from a relationship just as surely as other more flamboyant types of betrayal. - The Reader, Bernard Schlink

Ultimately, it was empowering to realize that I get to choose the company I keep. I don't have to prove myself to those who love and support me. And I don't have to waste my time and energy on those who don't. And like getting rid of almost everything I owned to start this new chapter in the Pacific Northwest, it feels good to be traveling light. I've created space in my life. Space that I get to fill with whatever it is that's going to benefit me, and whomever I can trust to remember the song that's in my heart.

The Valley of Love and Delight

2010-11-27T14:29:00.000-08:00

Shortly after returning home with my shiny new EBT Card, I climbed into the 70's Volvo station wagon of one of Shannon's friends here and headed South to Oregon's Yamhill Valley for the Thanksgiving weekend. Armed with little more than my sleeping bag and immense gratitude for the opportunity to avoid a solo undertaking of the first of the holiday season heavy hitters, I didn't know what to expect and didn't expect much.
The drive was wintry and serene. Having left on the tail of the first winter snowstorm, sable skies gently blanketed rolling hills of deep green fir stands and powder-dusted fields. Over the river and through the woods we did go until, shortly after crossing the ferry over a narrow stretch of the Willamette River, we rounded a bend and turned into a driveway lined with poplar trees, arriving at "The Farm" at Gopher Valley.

After sliding across the icy footbridge and removing our boots and coats to dry in front of the wood-burning stove in the Mud Room, we settled into a weekend of what would turn out to be one of my favorite Thanksgivings EVER. And there was A LOT to be thankful for. The company, the food, the chickens, and kittens, and dogs...the velvety quiet of the valley, the crunch of the snow under my boots, the endless booze, and herb, and the movie marathon that ensued after the turkey was devoured, the dining table was removed, and the living room was converted into a giant bed for everyone to sink into. What struck me the most was the instant ease and comfort I felt in such newfound company. There was such a natural sense of kinship that felt so new and strange.

I've spent a lot of time pondering what it was that was missing in San Francisco. Why had I spent almost as much time there as I had in Austin and still not developed any sort of tribe? Yet there I was among complete strangers in The Middle of Nowhere, Oregon relating to each other like something akin to family. Is it the fact that San Franciscans are so transient? Was it that several among the group were from the South and spoke some shared cultural language? Was it that I was finally playing with children my own age? Ultimately, I don't know what it was, but I think I know why. San Franciscans are a very guarded lot. It takes so much work to establish some common ground upon which you can plant the seeds of friendship. And without the willingness to cultivate the land with acceptance, trust, or vulnerability, many of those seeds never amount to much in that salty Bay Area soil.

So among all the things I had to be thankful for on Thursday as the 18 lbs. turkey was carved and served to a table that had been carefully set to squeeze in room for twelve, I think I was most grateful for the company. For not feeling quite so alone.

And for the feeling that maybe I've finally landed where I ought to be.

'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free,
'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
'Twill be in the valley of love and delight...
- Simple Gifts, Elder Joseph Brackett

Gobble Gobble

2010-11-24T11:21:00.001-08:00

Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was the unwillingness to accept just how bad things have truly gotten. Maybe it was the distant memory of the job I had helping newly resettled refugees get a foothold in American society by helping them apply for public assistance, and not believing that I could possibly have as much need as they did. I don't exactly know.

But this morning, at the appointed time, I presented myself at my local Department of Human Services office and finally applied for food stamps. Just in time for Thanksgiving too. This year I'll probably be almost as grateful for the food on my plate as those pilgrims were. And I can honestly say that the knowledge that I will have enough food to get me through this cold hard winter is plenty to be thankful for.

Winter Wonderland

2010-11-22T12:12:00.000-08:00

In all of my wisdom I chose winter in the Pacific Northwest over summer in the South. Unfortunately, I failed to take into account the fact that I own one pair of pants. Yeah, that's right. It's what happens when you haven't had the luxury of clothes shopping in several years. And people, it's effing COLD up in this bitch! It's supposed to snow tonight. It's November. And it occurs to me that I am totally screwed.

Shannon says that, much like the Texas heat, complaining about it only makes it worse. Which is why I removed my gloves to type this one formal complaint. Because I'm gonna make a good faith effort not to be such a wuss about the fact that the HIGH for tomorrow is 29˚, that winter hasn't even officially started yet, and that I cannot currently feel my toes.

Despite my thin San Franciscan blood, I did manage to become the newest card carrying member of the Multnomah County Library system this weekend. It's a good thing too, because considering my aversion to going outdoors of late, I've already burned through two of the three books I checked out. And immersing myself in a good story, armed with a cup of coffee, a blanket, and Leon (the cuddliest Rottweiler/Lab mix of all time) goes a long way toward easing this wintry chill in my clattering bones.

Choosing the Bolder

2010-11-16T13:44:00.000-08:00

So here I am in Portland, Oregon. A choice I made decisively at the 11th hour. Because after all the back and forth, all the pros and cons, all the shoulds and woulds and coulds, I stopped listening to my head and started checking in with my gut. And I finally got honest with myself about the fact that every time I thought about moving back to Austin, I started to get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I realized that, for some reason, moving back to Texas would have required me to re-write something fundamental about my view of my identity. That instead of the person I have always believed myself to be, I am not the person that chooses adventure and new experiences when the going gets rough. And the practical, broken, and broke me considered maybe that was okay. But last week, as I was wandering through the aisles of Green Apple Books, waiting for the book buyers to go through the 100 lbs. or so of books I had brought in to sell, I realized something. While perusing the new nonfiction section, checking out the biographies of various individuals most of whom I'd never heard, it occurred to me that it's pretty unlikely anyone will ever write one about me. And yet in spite of that probability, deep in my core, there's a stubborn individual that demands I live a life worth reading about...whatever that may mean.

You see, I'm not done yet. Perhaps the shores of Malaysia and Thailand aren't beckoning. Perhaps I don't have the means to take off on another backpacking excursion across South America. Perhaps the $300 I have to my name will slip away and leave me hungry and helpless again. But perhaps not. And besides, I still have a car to sell if I need to.

Joy came to SF to help me finish up the process of downsizing and packing and moving. My dad generously paid for her ticket out here and she generously put the cost of the moving truck on her credit card. And I was unbelievably grateful to have the help. It seemed ironic to me for the longest time that after a year or so of rushing to the help of various siblings in their times of need, I found myself alone during mine. And the truth is, she probably wouldn't have come if my psychiatrist hadn't scared the shit out of her with a phone call. But that's another story.

So Sunday morning we loaded my car onto the back of the truck, and Joy, Tofu, and I made the 12-hour journey north. I'll never forget that drive eastward over the Bay Bridge as we left the city. The bright morning sun radiating off of Coit Tower, Alcatraz and the TransAmerica Building over my left shoulder, and glistening off of the water and loading docks on my right. The drive north is through beautiful country, and I found myself actually getting excited about this new beginning in spite of how effing exhausted the last couple of years have left me. Fortunately, I had a welcoming place to land - at the home of Shannon, an old friend from back home in Austin.

After Shannon and Joy left for the airport the next morning, I got in the truck to start unloading my stuff when the song "Blackbird" by the Beatles came floating across the radio. And go figure, I started to cry. Something about the sheer magnitude of learning to fly with broken wings really struck me. How in the hell is that even possible? I honestly have no clue. But I'll tell you what, I'm sure as hell gonna find out.

"When you cannot make up your mind which of two evenly balanced courses of action you should take - choose the bolder." - Ezra Pound

Upper Haighters

2010-10-27T09:42:00.000-07:00

It's not every day that you get to edge your way around police cars and shuffle through a crime scene investigation in order to tip-toe past the chalk-encircled bullet casings littered around your front door. And all this after witnessing an unexplained yet amazing fireworks show over Golden Gate Park. Good golly, I'm gonna miss this town!

X

2010-10-25T15:51:00.000-07:00

So I didn't get the job I interviewed for and will not, as it turns out, be relocating to Bangkok. I actually cried. Have you ever actually cried over a job you didn't get? Apparently all my desperate efforts not to get my hopes up again were for naught. When will I ever learn, eh?

Combine that disappointing wrench in my subconscious plans with the seasonal depression I'm somehow never prepared for, and this wretched chest cold I've recently developed, and voilà! You have the most ineffective attempt to project manage a major move, quite possibly, of all time. Great. And then there's the question of deciding on a destination, which is getting more and more difficult to avoid doing by the day.

But today's not for planning, or packing, or decision-making - though that was my intention. Because after a night of hacking, and cold-sweats, and tossing and turning, today hit me like a ton of bricks.

You see, my mom was murdered ten years ago today. TEN YEARS. 3,650 days. Time is such a funny thing. It certainly doesn't feel like it was that long ago that I received the fateful phone call from my brother relaying a message to me that, despite my angry and violent protests, would change my life forever. Surprisingly, my reaction was in stark contrast to Joy's calm and wordless hanging up of the phone.

It struck me the other day that thirty-six years ago today, my mom was well into her final trimester with me, her second child. Almost exactly the age I am now, she was the owner of an extremely successful medical practice. She and my dad were getting ready to take a trip to Austria, where they would attend a concert by the Vienna Boys Choir; she would buy a hand-painted glass ring that, chipped and faded, I cherish to this day; and they would have a legendary fight that probably spelled the beginning of the end of their marriage. I'll spare you the details of the fight mostly because, like all legends, it's impossible to separate fact from fiction. But I have often wondered what went through my mom's head that night in Vienna after the maelstrom had subsided. What hopes and fears did she have for the life that was blossoming stubbornly in her belly.

I'd like to think it was something akin to the sentiment she expressed in her last rushed e-mail to me on October 1, 2000 when she was preparing for her fateful trip to Chumphon. I was living in Houston, deeply entrenched in my first semester of law school and, to her disappointment, had failed to bring my Chitosan and Noni with me from Dallas. At the end of a long string of admonitions about taking my vitamins, and the promise that she would write again when she got back to Bangkok in a few days, she reminded me "I love you as my own life." And the truth is, I believe she did. Maybe that's the hardest part of this endless void of grief and longing that I'm forced to acknowledge on this day every year: no one will ever love me that much again.

Progress

2010-10-19T18:52:00.000-07:00

It took me over half of the day to realize that the reason I was in such a shitty mood was because today is my wedding anniversary. Well, at least when I finally remembered it was my wedding anniversary this afternoon I felt a little justified for being in such a shitty mood.

Hoping for Providence

2010-10-07T08:08:00.000-07:00

"Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too.

A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favor all manner of unforeseen incidents, meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamt would have come his way. I learned a deep respect for one of Goethe’s couplets:

Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it.
Boldness has genius, power and magic in it!"

- W. H. Murray, from The Scottish Himalayan Expedition (1951)

Notice

2010-10-04T17:54:00.000-07:00

I turned in my 30-day notice today and I've been having one long panic attack about it for the last 24 hours. Thank goodness Joy called and talked me down from the ledge. Being the indecisive freak of nature that I am, I had been having pangs of self-doubt that threatened to undermine the whole operation.

But Joy assured me, and she has it on the good authority of her pastor, that when you take the biggest risks in life, God sends an army of angels to help you out. Or something like that. She recently told me that she's been doing some much-needed checking in with her "Godhead" and that I should do the same. Because although we don't always look for guidance in the same places, we both tend to do a lot of looking, my sister and I. And when she mentioned the idea of having 'faith' that everything's gonna be okay I realized that maybe that's a big chunk of what's been missing around these parts. It seems like it's been so long since anything really good happened to me, that I'm starting to doubt the possibility that it ever will. Maybe I really DO need to do some checking in with my Godhead.

I've always felt connected to the divine when I'm traveling. You see, I am totally in awe of this here planet we call Earth. I have hungered to explore all of its wonders for as long as I can remember. And from the mists of Angel Falls to sunrise over the Aegean, I have communed with my Creator. I just took a road trip from San Francisco to Austin in a classic BMW Roadster convertible that a dear friend was driving cross-country to sell. We kept the top down most of the way and it was a TOTAL BLAST. I've done that drive a few times in my life, but this was hands down the best road trip I've ever taken. Maybe it was the company. Maybe it was the car. Maybe it was that I've been absolutely dying to take a trip for awhile. I don't know. But it did me a world of good and there were a couple of moments that bordered on 'religious' for me.

On Day 2 we drove from Mojave, CA to Las Cruces, NM. Stunning desert. The last few hours across the wide open plains of southwest New Mexico were after sundown. The moon rose late that night. And once darkness fell, all of a sudden it was like we were driving through a snow globe. The stars...I have never in my life seen so many stars. The milky way streaked across the sky like the chalk on a 50-yard line. And since we were in the plains you could see all the way to the horizon in every freaking direction. 360˚ of heartbreaking luminosity. I practically twisted my neck off craning my head around just trying to take it all in.

I got this familiar feeling that I sometimes get when I'm traveling. It's hard to explain but it's in those moments, when I'm totally awestruck by the beauty of what's in front of me, that I feel the most at home...the most connected. So there I am, flying through the desert night with the top down, wind whipping my hair, Sigur Rós floating through the air, head turned directly upward, and the next thing you know, tears are just streaming down my face in little rivulets of ecstasy. It felt free. It felt momentous. In that moment I felt faith that everything is going to be okay.

And I felt a different kind of faith the next day, most of which was spent passing through the other-worldly rugged beauty of West Texas. It was unseasonably green and far more enchanting than I remembered it. The rolling landscape dotted with cacti in fractured poses and mesquite bushes, whose population far outnumbers the human one in those parts, was severe and exquisite. Rocky outcroppings jutting and twisting cumbersomely toward the expansive Texas sky. I half expected a tumbleweed to roll across the I-10 at any minute. Arid and inhospitable, it's hard to imagine anything other than scorpions living out there.

So there I am, cruising through the desert, top up to afford some protection from the blazing mid-day sun, when the interstate passes teasingly close to a rocky outcrop. And that's when I saw it. At first, it caught my eye because it looked like a particularly twisted form of desert vegetation. But I realized in an instant that what I was looking at was actually a mountain goat. Pausing at the height of its ascent, miles of scenery stretched out before it. With long horns arching gracefully over its back, it looked both elegant and powerful.

And don't laugh, but for some reason I identified with the goat. Yes, the goat. It was as if the goat's hard climb to the apex of the rock was a metaphor for the difficulties I've faced in the last couple of years. But its strength and determination saw it to the summit. It's in its tenacious nature to reach new heights by overcoming the hardships involved with the climb. And I'm a goat. Well, a Capricorn actually, so a sea-goat to be precise. I certainly feel like I've spent some time plumbing the depths of the ocean, emotionally at least. And now it's time to pull myself out of the abyss and get to a place where I can find a little safety and perspective. In that moment I found faith...in myself. Faith that I can take whatever challenges life throws in front of me and still keep climbing.

So I'm going to take those two moments and I'm going to use them as a meditation tool to remind myself what it feels like to trust in myself and my Godhead. Whenever I start to have an anxiety attack about the realization that I'm going to be homeless again in a month, I'm going to remind myself to have faith that everything's going to be okay. And I'm going to get to the top of this mountain one vertiginous step at a time.

Giddyup!

2010-09-23T15:37:00.000-07:00

When I dropped out of law school in Houston, I wasn't sure I would ever go back. I mean, law school is really hard. And it kinda sucks. And in a sick and twisted sort of way, I felt like maybe I had been handed a 'get out of jail free' card. But over the course of the next several years, as I became more and more convinced that I wanted to work in international human rights, the idea of re-applying started sounding appealing again. I started noticing the education requirements of all of the dream jobs I'd see posted on the various list-serves I trolled regularly. And inevitably, J-D would often be listed among all of the other acceptable letters. I reasoned with myself that 1) there was far less of a chance that I would end up waiting tables with a JD rather than, say, an MA in International Development; 2) as opposed to the GRE, the LSAT doesn't test for math (major plus), and God forbid I should end up in a program that actually required math skills; 3) considering the paucity of jobs in the int'l human rights field, I could always practice law domestically while waiting for the right job to come around. I mean, immigration law includes a lot of really meaty human rights issues, does it not?

But I think we're all pretty familiar with how things have turned out thus far. In spite of a couple of glimmers of hope, I have neither found a job which makes use of my education, nor even found employment as a waitress! It's been demoralizing, to say the least. So the other day I had a job interview. Just getting an interview these days is cause for excitement, but this interview also happened to be for a job that I would really, really like to have. And though my first instinct was to get on the phone and call everyone I know, or to blog about every detail of the job and the interview, my superstitious, cynical, and bruised side made me think better of it. The last thing I want to do is paint the devil on the wall.

So that's not what this post is about. At. All. In fact, I'm not supposed to hear back for several weeks, so just put it out of your mind completely. Because the last thing I can afford to do right now is get my hopes up and jinx myself. No. This post is actually about the decision I made after having the interview.

You see, getting the job would involve a move. A big one. And when the interviewer asked me where I saw myself in three to five years, I was surprised to hear myself say, and mean, that I saw myself still working there. All of a sudden, the thought of not only wanting, but needing, to minimize my life to the size of a small storage unit seemed a little bit more real. I've spent so much time over the last month pondering the where, instead of the why. But I guess the possibility of ending up somewhere I hadn't even been considering made me realize that maybe I don't have to know where the trail is going to end up in order to get started on the journey.

I can just go ahead and start the preparations and kind of figure everything else out along the way, right? There's been this rumbling in my belly that's waiting anxiously for the next chapter to begin. And it's been stagnating while my brain tries to work out the complete itinerary of every possible destination before it's gonna commit to anything, thank you very much. My noggin's getting pretty tired though. If taking the Bar Exam three times weren't enough to get it nice and tuckered out, it's been on overdrive trying to come up with new and creative ways of making rent and bills every nail-biting month of f-unemployment. So I think maybe it's time I went with my gut for a little while. It's already got its running shoes all laced-up and has positioned itself firmly in the blocks at the starting line, impatiently awaiting the crack of the starter gun. Meanwhile my brain -- who clearly needs a vacay based on the distant look in its eyes, underscored by the deep dark circles threatening to move into cheekbone territory -- sits idly by in the back of the stands limply waving a tiny flag on a stick back and forth that's emblazoned with the word, "Rah".

Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that I'm just going to do it. I'm gonna turn in my 30-day notice, sell everything I can stand to part with, load Tofu up in her kitty crate, and I'm gonna hit the road. I don't know exactly where I'm going to end up, or for how long. But I am ready to say farewell to San Francisco...for now. It's time for this Monkey to be gettin' on. Heya!

Of Mice and Monkeys

2010-08-19T16:37:00.000-07:00

Seven years and almost exactly two weeks ago, I moved to San Francisco from Austin. Armed with as many reasons to move as the car was packed with belongings, I was brimming with hopes and dreams about the new life that awaited my fiancé, my cat, and me. I'll never forget our first time driving over the Bay Bridge as the sunset painted a golden glow over our new city. Nor will I forget the emotional wave that overwhelmed me. Feeling both exhilaration and liberation, I literally broke down in tears.

But Robert Burns was right when he warned the mouse:

But little Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often askew,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!

And if anything, the last seven years and two weeks have proven that little gem of wisdom to be true. In some ways it feels like I've been in an abusive relationship with the city. I love it so incredibly much that, no matter how battered and bruised it may leave me -- no matter what the cost -- I keep coming back for more. I have tried desperately to stick it out because I've harbored the sincerest belief that things would get better eventually. However, for some time now I've been starting to suspect that if the universe truly conspires to help you along your path, then I may have gotten off track somewhere along the way. Because in almost all of my efforts here it's felt a lot more like resistance.

And the thing is, I think that maybe I'm done. I'm long overdue for a new adventure. For the longest time, I've thought that maybe it would come to me in the form of a new job. This time last year, I was preparing for an imminent move to Kuala Lumpur. And yet, nothing has materialized. Which got me to thinking that maybe it's up to me to go looking for it. Maybe it's time to shake things up and hope that they settle in a place that's a little gentler on me.

So what if I got rid of everything but my most prized possessions? My soul stirs just considering the possibilities. Then again, where would I go? Of course my mind immediately wanders to foreign lands and my heart starts racing and aching for the freedom of it. But I'm not fooling myself that unless that kind of relocation is accompanied by some kind of job with decent pay, it ain't gonna happen. Logistically speaking, I need to move somewhere more affordable. I've been toying with the idea of moving to Portland or back to Austin for months.

Austin means friends, family, and familiarity. It also means heat, roaches, and republicans. But regardless of all the pros and cons, I think the truth of the matter is you can never go home. Yes, I could go back. And I'm sure I would revel in all of the awesomeness that Austin has to offer. The temptation is always in the back of my mind, luring me back with promises of deep friendships, breakfast tacos, and lazy weekends at Barton Springs. Then again, I'm almost as certain as I was when I left that it wouldn't be long before I was longing to leave again.

Portland has a lot to recommend it too. And I've been weighing the option to move there for just as long as Austin. But for some reason, I haven't felt really serious about it until right now. Maybe it's because I'm finally settled back at my apartment and have been able to shift my focus back onto myself for the first time in a long while. Of course, I had imagined moving back under different circumstances; namely, that I'd have a job and an income. Instead, I find myself back in the exact same situation I was in a year ago, with no job or income -- but also with a lot fewer friends and options, and a lot more wear and tear.

The other night I was joking with Earl and my neighbor, Beci, about how much everyone's willing to suffer in order to live where we do. Hundreds of people from all over the world line the Haight every day, making some sort of pop culture pilgrimage and posing in front of the murals painted on the side of my building. Golden Gate Park is my backyard. It's a magical place, this city. And it's heartbreaking to think of leaving.

But really, how much more suffering am I willing to, or even capable of taking. Does saying enough is enough mean I'm giving up? Does it make me a failure? Have I already failed? I guess it depends on whose criteria you're using. And I generally tend to come up short when I'm using any conventional criteria for what makes for a successful 35-year old woman.

So rather than judge myself according to a standard that will always lean against my favor, I think I'll look at it as turning the page on this chapter of my life and, without regret, move into the next.

"Try not to become a man of success, but rather try to become a man of value." - Albert Einstein

Warning

2010-08-13T20:16:00.002-07:00

The next time you see me I will probably weigh 200 lbs.*

I just discovered that the Ben & Jerry's on the corner of Haight and Ashbury -- a mere three blocks from my apartment -- sells hand-packed pints of ice cream for $5.50. That's cheaper than almost any meal I can find in the Upper Haight (with the limited exceptions of a slice of Escape From New York Pizza or a veggie taco from La Zona Rosa.) But not only that. I've discovered that a hand-packed pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream from the corner of Haight and Ashbury -- a mere three blocks from my apartment -- consists of four scoops of ice cream...four scoops of your choosing.

So yeah, as we speak I'm sitting here eating a pint of Strawberry, Milk & Cookies, Butter Pecan, Coconut Seven Layer Bar.

It's good to be home.

*And I'm okay with that.

Happy Birthday

2010-07-29T16:27:00.000-07:00

Today is what would have been my mom's 71st birthday. I can't even imagine what she would look like if she were still alive. I can't imagine what my life would look like either, but I can't help but suspect it would look a whole lot different. In a way, I'm glad she's not here to see me in the position I find myself in these days. In another, I would give anything to hear the words that I know with complete certainty I would hear her say: "Come stay with Mama."

It's been almost a year since I moved out of my apartment. For most of that time, I lived with my brother and his family...until I realized I had overstayed my welcome. Since then I've bounced around like a ball marking the lyrics to a sing-a-long song. And by the time I move back into my apartment in a couple of days, I will have moved eight times over the course of the last two months.

I can't say I've been searching for anything in particular over the last year (with the exception of a stable job). But one thing I've become well-acquainted with during this 335-or-so days is the gaping absence of a sense of belonging. A few months ago, I heard Isabel Allende talking about her newest book, My Invented Country, on the radio. She described what she thinks made her suited to be a writer as her perpetual sense of being an outsider: “I never fit in anywhere, not into my family, my social class, or the religion fate bestowed on me.” And something about that statement has haunted me since I heard it -- as if, in hearing her describe something I have always felt, I didn't feel so alone.

Maybe it's why I've always loved to travel so much. I think I'm at my most comfortable when my role as the stranger is delineated and defined. Because you're supposed to feel like an outsider when you're in a new land. Because there's an explanation for why you feel like you don't belong. It's because you don't. And maybe some part of it is in the hope that someday you'll stumble across a place where you finally do.

That sense of wanderlust is one of the few discernible qualities I share with my mom. And today, a part of me started to wonder if she felt a little of that same insatiable desire to belong. I guess I'll never know for sure. But I wish, I wish, I wish right now, that I had a birthday cake with 71 flaming candles that I could blow out and get one last chance to go stay with mama.

Today's Skinny

2010-07-22T14:23:00.000-07:00

So my brother was finally diagnosed with bipolar disorder, with a side of psychosis and paranoia. I've been talking about how difficult it's been to be his sole support system for months to just about anyone that would listen to me, but this kind of put it all in perspective.

My dad, on the other hand, was diagnosed with myeloma. It's apparently some rare variety of the "c" word. No, I can't bring myself to say it. I can hardly bring myself to think about it without wanting to vomit.

These days it seems that I can't close my eyes at night without having the most gut-wrenching nightmares imaginable. Ironic considering I also cannot seem to sleep for less than 12-hours at a time, though I can't even remember what it's like to feel rested.

The other night I finally got a good cuddle from a friend. It's funny how much good some cuddling will do. And while the friends and acquaintances in my life seem to be dropping like flies from the sheer exhaustion of being in my general vicinity, just the warmth of another person's body...sustained hugging, is just about the only thing I think I actually need.

Hierarchy of Needs

2010-07-03T16:50:00.000-07:00

Insurmountable debt. Check.
Unemployment. Check.
Hunger. Check.
100% depletion of funds. Check.
Homelessness. Check.
Alienation from family and friends. Check and check.
Complete loss of self-worth. Um, can't even remember the last time I had any.

I've spent the last two weeks trying to clean up the mess my brother left when he, quite literally, went crazy and abandoned his dog in his 16th-story apartment; trying to coordinate the details of getting my own car fixed after it broke down on what was supposed to be my first day of work (for a babysitting job that's 45 minutes away from the friend's place I'm currently overstaying my welcome at); trying to get over being miserably sick; trying to get my insane brother's car out of impound and repaired after he abandoned it on the side of the road with a smashed out window; trying to find a place to park said car since the person who is currently squatting in my parking space has been refusing to move her car...oh forget it, I'm too tired to even finish. Like I told my therapist the last time I saw her and told her I didn't see the point of scheduling another appointment: Even I'm over hearing myself talk about how miserable my life is right now. Better to just not talk about it at all.

At My Worst

2010-06-30T20:42:00.001-07:00

"I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best."
- Marilyn Monroe

Wild Geese

2010-06-20T14:17:00.000-07:00

by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
...You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
===

Here's to your new blog, Charlie.

Juneteenth

2010-06-19T12:11:00.000-07:00

Lately, the list of things I've been feeling guilty about has included my negligence about updating this here blog. Which has led my pathological propensity for introspection to inquire into the possible causes of my (for lack of a better word) writer's block. Which leads me to the following --

A semi-sober, self-assessment of the reasons for my silence:
a. I don't have an iPad (which I desperately crave with every fiber of my being) so that I can capture every brilliant thought at each moment that I have it. ;)
b. Life is going by so quickly, I don't have time to process it and/or translate it into writing.
c. The things going on are things I kinda want to keep private from the internets and I haven't figured out how to write about them in a non-revealing but emotionally honest way.
d. Life is kind of sucking and I shy away from writing about it because I'm worried I'm starting to sound a little too Bell Jar for even my own taste.

It's usually e. some combination of all of the above. (Though lately I think it's been leaning a little heavier toward the second half of that list.) The truth is, in spite of my spotty record in the updating department, I'm almost always thinking about what might make for a good entry or how I would try to describe something in writing, if I were being totally honest that is -- if I weren't filtering my thoughts in order to somehow protect...well actually you , my dear reader.

Because even if I don't know every single person who reads this thing, and even if no one reads it at all anymore (which is more likely considering the aforementioned record); I definitely know of at least a few people who have been known to click over here from time to time. And I know that handful of people have checked in for years, if for no other reason than to keep tabs on me. Because for the most part, those people love me and they want to know what's going on with me.

And sometimes they worry. And I really don't like to make the people that love me worry. So, you see? There's the rub.

Because what happens when I'm worried that what I'm going to write is going to make people worry, is inevitably that I just don't write at all. And then I'm not using this little space here to speak my truth -- to vent, rant, rave, process, create, or just whatever. And isn't that kind of the whole point?

And then I had sort of an aha! moment when I said to myself, "Self, the truth is if anyone reading your blog doesn't like what they see, then they can just turn around and not read your blog anymore, can't they?! There are plenty of other blogs in the sea!" Trust me. It was way more earth-shatteringly epiphanic at the time. And I remembered that I'm not trying to do anything here but write about pretty much whatever the hell comes into my head! So why should I be worried about how it's going to make anyone else feel about what or how I feel? Because if people don't like it, well then they just don't have to read it, right?

In case you haven't noticed, my life has been a little challenging for me these last couple o' years...maybe a wee bit longer. If you've been following my life, or my blog, for any extended period of time then you know it's pretty much par for the course. And many, if not most, have arrived at their own conclusions about why I am where I am, what I should do to improve my lot, and what they would do if they were, themselves, in my situation .

But I swear by all that is good and holy, dear reader, that if I do nothing else, it is to try and face the adversity in my life with courage, humility, and a profound sense of humor; and hopefully to find and learn whatever lessons are available, wherever they may be and however difficult to swallow. I'm simply doing my best. It may not be the best, and it may not be your best. But my best it is.

This is just me. I'm just playing the hand I'm dealt in the very best way I know how. And if for some reason you feel like coming along for the ride, then by all means I hope you do. I could use the company.

So I'm hereby renewing my commitment to this blog. To use it as my own personal space, whatever that may mean. And if you don't like it, you can shove it up your monkey. Dig?

Gung Hay Fat Choy, Indeed.

2010-02-19T08:58:00.000-08:00

The stress levels have reached heights that even I'm surprised at. Of course, it doesn't help that my boyfriend broke up with me a week ago...two days before our first anniversary. And no, I didn't see it coming. As matter of fact, I don't think he did either.

But it's the second time we've had conflict and he's reacted by throwing in the towel. And I can only be a glutton for punishment for so long. Besides, the Bar Exam feels like punishment enough.

Which doesn't mean dealing with the break-up has been any easier. I have never had the capacity that others do to compartmentalize my feelings until I'm ready to deal with them. When the wave hits, it hits. I'll claw the sand like hell to keep from getting pulled out to sea, but it sure takes a whole lot of effort. And between the Bar Exam, the break-up, and a few other things that I'd prefer not to mention, it's hard not to come up short on all fronts.

Nevertheless, like it or not, the test is a few short days away. So I'm off to the library to try and focus on restrictive covenants, the Erie Doctrine, and Congressional powers instead of my newly broken heart.

So Much Things to Say

2010-02-07T12:24:00.000-08:00

Not that I have time to be blogging right now or anything. Because, you see...I should be studying for the Bar Exam...again. Because, you see...I failed it...again.

I would like to say that I've gotten to the point where I don't even think I care about passing anymore. But I think the real problem here is that I never really did. In other words, you see...as usual...I am the problem.

But there you have it. I'm still unemployed. Still desperately poor. Still lost, confused, and angry. And yet I still have a problem understanding how being licensed to practice law in the state of California is going to make me any happier.

In fact, if there's anything the last two years have done for me, it's to confirm the fact that going to law school was a big, fat mistake. Don't get me wrong, I don't normally believe in the idea of regret. Everything's supposed to just work out the way it's supposed to or some such bullshit, right?

Well, somehow I don't think the people peddling that crap are $200k in debt with a degree that, as it turns out, appears to be completely useless unless you pass this ridiculously stupid test that for some unknown reason I cannot pass. No, I'm sorry. You must make 1440 to pass. Neither 1428, nor 1425 shall be sufficient. Apparently those fifteen points or so really, really matter. They're worth thousands of dollars, hundreds of study hours, a complete loss of self-worth, the pity (or schadenfreude) of those around you, and so much more.

Nevermind the fact that you have NEVER wanted to practice as an attorney. Nevermind the fact that many of your license-holding friends can't find a job either. Your life will revolve around taking this meaningless test for years.

You will be forced to move out of your home, which you can no longer afford. You will impose on family to take you in. You will be forced to beg and borrow to survive. You will face hunger for the first time in your life. You will be happy to do work that recent college grads will train you to do just so you can turn around and hand over your entire paycheck to debt collectors.

I have SO much things to say right now. But honestly, I don't think anyone wants to hear them. Because they're all shrouded in a haze of bitterness and resentment that's getting harder and harder to shake. And honestly? I don't want to hear the pep talks. And I don't want to see the concerned looks of others who are also starting to doubt my capabilities.

So instead, I will head back underground to my cave of Bar study materials. I will write practice essays and do multiple choice questions until the words become more meaningless than they already are. And I will pretend to still care.

Also? I miss my mom, and I resent the hell out of anyone who has one. (You better effing appreciate it, asshole.)

Also? My dad's engaged AGAIN. But this time I found out from a mass email of a jpeg photo of the lady's hand and engagement ring. Not that I've ever seen the lady.

SO much things to say. But I think that's enough for today. Don't you?

Being in Love

2010-01-12T23:14:00.000-08:00

by Chungmi Kim

Awakened from a dream, I curl up

and turn. The roses on the dresser

smile and your words bloom.

The red roses for Valentine’s Day.

Like in a film

thoughts of you unfold

moment by moment.

I vaguely hear

the sound of your spoon scooping cereal

the water stream in the shower

the buzzing noise of your electric razor

like a singing of cicada.

Your footsteps in and out of the bedroom.

Your lips touching my cheek lightly.

And the sound of the door shutting.

In your light

I fall asleep again under the warm quilt

happily like a child.

Upon waking

on the kitchen counter I find a half

grapefruit carefully cut and sectioned.

Such a loving touch is a milestone

for my newly found happiness.

Leaving On a Jet Plane

2009-08-27T10:23:00.000-07:00

Um...tomorrow.

Do as I say and not as I do, folks. Confirm the departure date for your flight before you spend the day frantically packing up your room so your niece can finally start unpacking her boxes. Check your ticket one last time before you throw whatever random pieces of clothing are lying around your room into a bag, so you can race out to the East Bay to celebrate your two-year-old niece's birthday with her (which isn't for two more days) before you leave town.

It wasn't until about 9pm last night when, in preparation for my 6am flight, I decided to check-in online and was flashed with a big ERROR sign owing to the fact that you cannot check-in more than 24 hours before your flight? Yeah, it still took me a few minutes to figure out what was going on.

The sad thing is, this wasn't the first time this has happened.

There was also the time way back in 1997 when I was leaving Austin for a big study abroad summer in Merida, Venezuela. I had packed my bags, said ALL of my goodbyes, and rushed to the airport (late as usual) only to be told that I was not late, but quite early. Twenty-four hours early to be exact. Does this stuff even happen to anyone else? All I know is, in my embarrassment, I went and hid at home watching movies until my flight the following day. No one the wiser to my silly little brain fart. Well, until now that is.

But seriously, twice??

On the bright side, I get to celebrate Nina's birthday twice!

Don't Try This At Home

2009-08-25T15:35:00.001-07:00

The last month has been crazy. First, I broke my foot a mere few hours after posting the last entry while getting krump. That's right. I was krumping. What.

Second, I got two interviews for a job I would be very very lucky to get but that would involve a big move.

Third, I joined my family for a trip to the Grand Canyon, which was exciting, beautiful, and exhausting - especially when punctuated on either end with a tortuously long road trip.

Oh yeah, and I decided to move in with my brother at the end of this month to save on expenses. Thankfully, my niece (who's been living in the South Bay for the last couple of years) also just happened to be looking for a room to sublet for a couple of months. So that worked out nicely.

Also, I'm leaving for Portland in two days to spend a long weekend hanging out with Shannon, Heather, and Kelley. Woot woot!! And I'm going to visit Joy in PA sometime soon (dates TBD).

Then there's the matter of my Dad's latest, ahem...girlfriend(?), whom he may or may not already be married to; but, who is over 20 yrs his junior; who moved from Louisiana to Texas after having met my father face-to-face only a handful of times; and who comes with, among other things, a 13-year-old child! Really, there are no words.

Of course there's also the boy that I've been dating for what doesn't feel like that long but in all actuality has been SIX MONTHS!! And the fact that that fact just downright scares me more than evoking any other particular emotion.

On the upside, I haven't spent more than a few minutes stressing out over the bar exam! Who has the time?

Res Judicata? Are You Effing Kidding Me?!?

2009-07-30T19:19:00.000-07:00

So we all know the circumstances that led me to taking the LSAT. Twice.

And we all know about why I had to drop out of law school. Once.

Which is how I ended up going through the hell of applying to law school. Twice.

And how I almost ended up dropping out of law school. Again.

And some of us know about how certain I was that, in my last semester of law school, my douchenozzle professor who threatened to fail me and keep me from graduating was going to do it just because he could. Yeah, well...I pretty much kept that one under the radar.

Then there were the circumstances that probably had something to do with me failing the Bar Exam by TWELVE POINTS.

And the fact that I chose not to take it again in February because I pretty much just couldn't even deal with all of that. Especially since I couldn't afford it because I was unemployed and deeper in debt than I've ever been in my life.

But then, my dad and my step-mom offered to pay for me to take it again.

So I did. Even though the constant gripping panic that is destitute poverty has taken up permanent residence in my gut.

And as of 4:55pm today, I have officially taken the Effing California Bar Exam. Twice.

So I'm writing this right now because I may take it back come 6pm PST on November 20th:

I'm glad I did.

Quote du Jour

2009-07-07T13:34:00.000-07:00

Me: "Life is so hard..."
Earl: "Oh Amanda, when life gives you lemons...you cut them up and use them as garnish for your cocktail!"

Southern Comfort

2009-06-12T12:56:00.000-07:00

There's nothing like a good Southern thunderstorm.

The rumble and crack of the thunder cutting right to the core of your belly.

The flashes of lightning unravelling like broken bones across the sky.

The heavy, fat raindrops soaking the ground and filling your lungs with the wet, soggy, smell of earth.

I'm sitting in my sister's apartment in Little Rock, Arkansas. Land of my father. Listening to Chopin nocturnes and soaking in the first thunderstorm I've experienced since I left the South almost six years ago.

The last couple of months have been dreadfully rough. I'm not sure how else to put it. It's been isolating and terrifying, and I don't think I'll ever be the same again. But there's nothing like a good Southern thunderstorm to rattle your bones and force some cleansing air into your lungs. One minute you're standing on the balcony taking it all in. And the next, you're a part of it all, adding your own flood of tears to the rising water rushing into the drainage ditch below.

And as I stood there on the balcony feeling the storm rising around and inside of me, it became a sort of ablution. And I found myself murmuring a little prayer:

May this rain wash you clean of sadness.

May this roaring thunder chase away the demons that haunt you.

May this lightning strike like a sword of hope into the dark recesses of your mind.

And may you find a rainbow of peace on the other side.

Famous Last Words

2009-05-20T11:58:00.001-07:00

Heard at REI last night between two sorority girls carrying armfuls of new camping gear:

(Girl1 casually turns to Girl 2)
G1: Do you think we should, like, get a map or something?
G2: Like, I think it'll be pretty self-explanatory...

May already?

2009-05-03T00:52:00.001-07:00

It's been way too long since I wrote. But since I finally have a second I thought I'd check in. There was the week-long visit with my sister. It's been almost a year since I've seen her and I was aching deep in my bones for some quality time with her. It was AWESOME. I also had a few days with Shannon, which overlapped with Joy's stay. ROCK. Then I spent a week out in the East Bay babysitting my niece and nephew. It makes me stutterly speechless to try and describe how much love I have for those two humans. Now Heather's here. And tomorrow we're throwing a little fundraiser for NNAF because, you know, that's how we roll. And seeing Heather two times in less than six months makes me feel like the luckiest girl in the world!

Oh yeah, and I'm dating someone....

I know. Crazy.

It's been a couple of months and it's been fun...and weird. If anything, it's made me realize just how damaged I really am. Which brings me to the big news...

Duh duh duh DUH! As of a couple of weeks ago, I'm officially divorced!!

I'll just pretend for a moment that it wasn't all emotionally complicated and crap. That dating someone new for the first time in three years hasn't made me uncomfortably aware of how emotionally damaged I am. That there wasn't some last shred of hope or romanticism or God knows what, that clung to the hope of resolution and happily ever after until the very. last. second.

But here we are in the now. And as James Baldwin so eloquently put it:

The moment we cease to hold each other
The moment we break faith with one another
The sea engulfs us and the light goes out.

A Bear at Noon

2009-02-24T15:37:00.000-08:00

Things have gotten pretty stressful lately. Everything seems to be up in the air. Where I'm going to live, what kind of job I'm going to end up with, whether I'll make rent next month...

I feel like a grizzly bear at the end of salmon season. Standing quietly upstream - his muscles tense with anticipation, his breath shallow, his tightened nerves temporarily quieting the growing panic in his chest, as his sharp eyes peruse the depths of the rushing water in the desperate hope of spotting a darting pink sign that there's still a chance he will survive through the coming winter. Torn between despair and determination, his motionless body waits rigidly while the ripping hunger within him rises unstoppable as the current.

It's easy to get lost in those moments. To let the day or the hour slip out of focus. My attention drifts. My thoughts and senses lose focus. Days bleed into weeks and the sharp pangs of hunger shift imperceptibly into a dull throb of fear and hopelessness eating its way into the center of my consciousness. My immediate need for fish turns into a constant ache riddled with anxiety and stress. Because the fish is just the beginning of the worries that get caught in the net of my mind while I wait...and watch.

Every Tuesday at Noon, San Francisco tests its Outdoor Warning System by sounding 65 air-raid sirens that can be heard throughout the city. For fifteen seconds each week, the air is filled by a wail of emergency that momentarily grips the listener with fear and confusion. Fear that's immediately washed away with the relief that, after all, it's just the Tuesday Noon Siren marking another week of non-emergency.

In this endless waking nightmare of unemployment, poverty, hunger, and fear, I've developed a strange dependence on this Siren. Like an emotional tether, it brings me back to the awareness that another week has crept by without incident. It's Tuesday at noon and all is well. Something about the indifference of that ritualized system steadily marking the passage of time comforts me. "No need to panic," it assures us. "If there were, we'd let you know."

And that tenacious little ursine survivor who's getting sleepy and indifferent and just wants to curl up in its cave and let the winter come, hears that false alarm blaring and thinks to itself, "Maybe if SF can make it another week without incident, I can too."

R-E-L-I-E-F

2009-01-30T19:34:00.000-08:00

After two weeks of jaw-clenching, white-knuckled anxiety, finding out that my stepmother doesn't, in fact, have cancer. Hooray!!!

Good Riddance

2009-01-07T07:51:00.000-08:00

This is a little what 2008 looked like: I changed my name to my mother's after a lifetime of anxiety over the issue; narrowly graduated law school after being threatened by a professor that he would fail me; suffered through studying for and taking the bar exam; lost my aunt who was more like a mother to me in many ways than my own mom; learned of a serious family betrayal; lost my grandmother/last living grandparent; filed for divorce just before what would have been our fifth anniversary; learned he lives a block away with the whore he was cheating on me with when he left me; failed the bar exam; went from one unrequited crush to another...and all this during intensive cognitive therapy that has me digging up and dealing with old traumas.

In all fairness, I did spend about 65 of those 365 days off. I spent a month on my "Bar Trip" to Europe. (A decision which can now be described as ironic, at best.) Then there were two weeks in Dallas hanging out with my bereaved uncle, and ten days in NYC, mostly to complete the Advanced Course in my ever-pressing quest for meaning and purpose, but also to visit old friends (and make a few new ones).

I've also spent the last two weeks in Mexico and Austin - mostly to be there for a friend in need. But this trip has turned into something else too. This trip to Mexico was my first trip back to Latin America in about 10 years. In that time, I'll admit, I've seen more than my fair share of Europe. But there's something about traveling in a part of the world where you speak the language, where everyone looks at you and assumes you're one of them, where you will more than likely be invited to dinner or a party by the person you're talking to, where the rhythm of the music you hear on the streets stirs something in your soul, where the smells and sounds of daily life reveal something so authentic and vulnerable about the human experience. Something about it all was so real and inviting to me after all these years of enjoying all the comforts of European travel - and, i must admit, a little unsettling.

Heather and I had an amazing time on our first Latin American adventure in over a decade. We went to Xilitla, Queretaro, Mexico City, San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato, and Monterrey. SO MUCH FUN. It was a strange parallel to that first trip we took, so long ago: two young college grads, ready to conquer the world and cover a continent in the course of a year. But after a few months, we veered off course (mostly because of boys) and, aside from meeting up in Ecuador for New Year's, our adventure never made it out of Venezuela. The boys have long since disappeared, but our mutual thirst for adventure and ardent desire to change the world for the better has not.

But there has been something a little unsettling about my trips to NYC and Austin too. Where NYC was full of excitement and new experiences, Austin has been full of nostalgia, favorite haunts, and old friends...friends my age. Neither are cities I particularly want to live in, but I've been feeling compellingly drawn toward them both for different reasons. I love SF. It's one of my favoritest cities on the planet. One that I thought I might settle down in and never leave. But lately I think something's been missing and these trips to NYC and Austin have made that feeling all the more poignant. And that is due only in part to the relief it is not to be constantly looking over my shoulder for fear of running into my husband and his mistress on the streets of my neighborhood. Maybe it's time for another move?

Who knows. But I really think this year is going to be awesome and I'm ready for the ride. I'm also excited to be starting it off with the Self Expression & Leadership Program that I'm starting on Saturday morning. May we all find the answers we seek in 2009.

“I am not an adventurer by choice, but by fate." - Vincent Van Gogh

Life is a Cabaret, Old Chum

2008-12-16T13:58:00.000-08:00

The rest of my time in NYC was, in a word: amazing. Once I remembered I hadn't had any coffee since I arrived and started mainlining caffeine, I was good to go. And once the gauzy veil of my somnambulant stupor dissipated, the spell of the city finally settled over me. This was my third trip to New York and, while I found the city exciting and fun before, I had never truly fallen in love with it.

But I think it was somewhere during the moments I lingered at Grand Central Station. It was rush hour and I happened to be on the Upper East Side, so I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to enjoy Grand Central in all its glory. I hopped a train downtown, armed myself with a cup of coffee and a Santogold soundtrack courtesy of my iPod, and perched myself on some stairs overlooking the main concourse. I looked on, mesmerized, as wide-eyed tourists posed proudly for photos, trundling businessmen stared blankly ahead while listening to the tinny voices sounding through their Bluetooth earpieces, and people of every age, color, and nationality bustled past under the the celestial glow of the four-faced clock standing sentinel at the epicenter of it all, steadily counting the seconds in that fast-ticking metronome of a city, which moves at the mercurial pace of its own heartbeat.

And it was somewhere in that moment, as I took in the majesty of this perennial meeting place, my eyes floating back and forth between the throngs of people who seemed to float across the marble concourse, and the blue and gold painted ceiling of constellations patiently marking their own kind of astronomical progress, that I felt small, and insignificant, and fleeting. I was viscerally aware of the complete transience of this time...and this space we're all sharing...this air we're all breathing, and the hopes and fears we're all experiencing. And I felt so much love for the entire city and all of the people living there, working there, and passing through it that I finally just embraced it all: the pandemonium and the dirt, the stench of the subway, the rats and the endless crowds, the concrete and skyscrapers. The actors and singer-songwriters with hope in their eyes, and the homeless shadows with too few layers on their backs.

Let's just say, I finally get what all the hooplah is about. New York, New York. A city where the possibilities are simply endless. So with a full heart and a little twinkle in my eye, I pushed my way back down into the subway and headed off for the next adventure, of which there were many.* Here's a quick recap...

Trips to Magnolia Bakery: 1

Red velvet cupcake with whipped vanilla icing, half of Bruno's pumpkin cheesecake, and a cup of coffee. Perfection.

Museum visits: 3

The American Museum of Natural History - yowsah that place is the coolest thing ever and their dinosaur collection is INSANE.

The Frick Collection - An incredible private art collection bequeathed to the public and housed in the 5th Avenue mansion of the industrialist-millionaire that bestowed it. All I can say is wow.

The National Design Museum - To be honest, I was not so impressed with the museum. There was an excellent temporary exhibit on mass affordable housing developments in Guangzhou, China though.

Concerts: 3

A Very Balthrop Christmas at Joe's Pub - Michael's band had a fun holiday show at Joe's Pub that was so very merry without being nauseatingly saccharine it would have melted even the grinchiest of hearts. And it was only $15! You can get your very own copy of all the holiday cheer here.

Liza Minelli at the Palace - Let me repeat: Liza Minelli. At the Palace Theater. And let me mention that Bruno and I had second row seats and only paid $25 each to see the living legend who gives new meaning to the words icon and stage presence. I actually cried during the encore. And on a side note, Michael Bloomberg was there too. Several rows behind us! God bless rush tickets!

Lady Rizo and the Assettes at Joe's Pub - This hilariously debauched "caburlesque" show was the perfect way to end my visit. Especially since I got to watch it from the booth (for free) with Miguel and Bruno (two of my very favorite leading men).

Meals/Drinks with old friends: ??

Let's see, there was dinner in the Lower East Side with Kyle, pizza in Little Italy with Jason, irish coffee with Bob in SoHo, martinis with Hung and Enrique in Chelsea, late-night breakfast with Sonnet, all you can drink Sangria with a gaggle of new friends, gourmet vietnamese with a slew of others...in short, more than my fair share of good food, good drinks, and good company.

And here are a few other statistics for good measure:

Times I stood on the corner of 34th and 8th and stared in awe of the Empire State Building at night: 6
Times I stopped for a slice: 3
Times I stopped for a hot dog: 0 (Are you kidding me? As if!)
Times I got lost on the Subway: 3
Times I was worried about where I was or whether I was lost: 0
Times I left my purse in a bathroom stall: 1
Times it was returned to me with all of my possessions intact: 1
New friends made: >10
Hours spent laughing with/at Bruno: Unknown
Number of times Bruno farted and giggled about it: Unknown
Times I was told I need to move to NYC immediately: Unknown
Times I seriously considered making the move to NYC: same as above

*I know what you're thinking and no, I was not high, okay?

I Wanna Wake Up

2008-12-10T14:37:00.000-08:00

Maybe it's slightly ironic that I'm in the city that never sleeps and most of what I've been doing is, well, sleeping. I arrived Thursday night and spent 12-14 hrs per day over the next three days in the Landmark course. (We'll discuss that more later.)

Monday I slept...and slept. I finally dragged myself out of the apartment at about 4:30 so I could get a little Vitamin D before the day was out. I decided to walk down to Riverbank State Park, which Bryan duly informed me is the only State Park in New York City. Inspired by urban rooftop designs in Japan, it was apparently built on top of a sewage treatment plant! Once there, I walked along the Promenade to the Hudson River and took in some amazing views of the George Washington Bridge at sunset and communed with a flock of Canadian Geese making a short stop on their south-bound winter migration. I probably would have stayed longer and taken some photos to post, but I discovered to my dismay that the shutter on my camera won't open! Foiled again!

So instead of dallying, I hopped on the A-Train and headed to Brooklyn to meet up with Miguel for the first time in what must be a couple of years. Of course, we were instantly hugging and kissing and chatting non-stop as if no time had passed whatsoever. Two words: Love him. After catching up for awhile we moseyed down to the local pub for trivia night where we met up with some of Miguel's tribe and one of my new friends from the Landmark course, Maria. It was lots of rowdy fun but alas The Carpetbaggers (our team) came in 6th place, something we would probably have been more proud of if the team hadn't been the reigning champions of the previous month. Miguel and I stayed up chatting into the wee hours of the morning until I practically fell asleep mid-sentence.

So Tuesday, I slept...and slept. I think it was about 4:45 when I finally bundled up and prepared to make the long trek back to Bruno's apartment in Harlem. Last night was the final evening of the Landmark course and Bruno joined me. Then we went for a late-night snack before heading home.

Today? Well today I've been busy...uh, sleeping. At this point I'm convinced I a) have mono, b) am undergoing some deeply rooted psychological transformation as a result of the course that is leaving me emotionally (and hence physically) exhausted, or c) am depressed.

I haven't let it stop me from having a full social calendar though. Between now and Monday when I leave I've made plans to hang out with more people than you can shake a stick at. There's the Very Balthrop Christmas Show at Joe's Pub, skating at Bryant Park and/or Rockefeller center with Hung (the former competitive ice dancer), dinner or drinks with Kyle, Arun, Jason, Bob, Enzennio, Gabe, Sonnet, and whoever else I can get in touch with.

And these goings on will all obviously have to be built around several pilgrimages to Magnolia Bakery. In fact, it just occurred to me that this state of hibernation may be my body's way of rebelling until it's offered the sugary gift of a yellow cupcake with Magnolia's orgasmic icing...and maybe some sprinkles.

To be continued...

Baseball Practice

2008-12-02T19:15:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I failed the Bar by 12 of the 1440 minimum points required to pass.

Devastating.

And I allowed myself several days to wallow in feelings of self-pity and defeat.

Naturally.

But never fear, my dear internets. I have since scraped myself off the floor, washed my tear-stained face, and gotten good old-fashioned pissed off.

Twelve points?? Seriously?? This has GOT to be somebody's lame idea of a joke. Because for reals ya'll, the whole story of the girl who dropped out of law school when her mom was murdered, then returned after years of soul searching only to have her "true love" leave her six days before her first exam after a semester of emotional torture...who clawed her way through three years of socratic agony, grading curves, and Type A overload, only to lose her favorite aunt just two weeks before the last obstacle between herself and her license to practice law...yeah, no that story is definitely not supposed to end with her failing the Bar Exam by 12 points.

Which got me to thinking...if that isn't how the story's supposed to end, there's only one reason why it could have happened that way. Because the story is not over.

Obviously.

This is just another, in a long line of curve balls, that life has thrown my way. I have until December 10th to register for the February Bar and honestly? I'm giving myself until then to make that decision. Because the truth is, we all know I never went to law school with the idea of becoming an actual lawyer. The J.D. was a means to another end. Don't get me wrong, I really really wanted to pass. But I've gone from devastated to disappointed and, somewhere in that space, I've allowed myself to consider other possibilities. We'll see.

In the meantime, I'm hitting the road again. This time I'm off to NYC for a week and a half to spend some quality time with Bruno, take the Advanced Course, and maybe apply for a few jobs while I'm out there. Who knows? Maybe this door closing is actually the beginning of a new adventure! I may be down, but don't count me out just yet. Because if there's one thing this chica knows how to do, it's make lemonade.

Elina sent me this poem the other day, which I haven't read in a long time. It was a good reminder of what has, perhaps more by force than choice, become a bit of a metaphor for my life.

The Road Not Taken - Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

The other day I was pondering the fact that we, as individuals, face so many choices that determine who we are, what we stand for, and how we live our lives. Some we recognize as the pivotal moments they are, and others we don't. The important thing, I think, is to make the best choices we can in those moments we do recognize. Which actually reminds me of another quote. One I have taped to the mirror in my bedroom:

"When you cannot make up your mind which of two evenly balanced courses of action you should take - choose the bolder." - Ezra Pound

And since we're on the topic, these are the other quotes on my mirror:

"It is only in adventure that some people succeed in knowing themselves - in finding themselves." - Andre Gide

"Do not go where the path may lead. Go instead where there is no path and leave a trail." - Ralph Waldo Emerson

"Prefiero morir de pie que vivir siempre arrodillado." - Emiliano Zapata

Words to live by, indeed.

November Has Come

2008-11-17T20:19:00.000-08:00

I'm still here. Sort of. The limbo of the last month has left me feeling like my brain is full of jelly. So many many things swirling around in there I get exhausted negotiating the gelatinous mess that is my mind. I've been seeing my therapist regularly. Last week I consulted a tarot card reader. Tomorrow I'm going to a day-long meditation retreat at Spirit Rock. I'm even considering doing the Landmark Advanced Course...

I guess I'm just looking for some answers. Maybe some direction. I'm trying to make sense of everything swirling around up there, and it's a strange and not entirely comfortable process. It's probably a really good time to be writing, but I can't seem to make enough sense of it to describe what it's been like in my head. Maybe that's why my therapist told me she was worried about me the other day...Of course, with the question of bar results still hanging over my head it's hard to focus on anything else right now. Well, that and protesting against the passage of Prop. 8. There's been a lot of that too.

"Something's starting today.
Where did he go? Why you want it to be?
Well you know November has come,
when it's gone away."
- Gorillaz

Chrysanthemum Days

2008-11-04T12:42:00.000-08:00

the costumes are put away
the clocks set back
indian summer has reluctantly yielded it's languid afternoons
to the velvet blanket of long hushed nights kept indoors

a world on the precipice of possibility
the frost-bitten air swirls tauntingly in gusts
of excitement and anticipation

grief gives way to hope
like dark clouds parting after an eight-year storm
fear and blame quietly tucked away for another season

my sights turn inward to the secret
hidden within the golden flower
whose center holds the path
to hope, and change, and peace

Monster Malaise

2008-10-30T10:22:00.000-07:00

Ugh.

Can that one word constitute the entirety of a blog post? Because that pretty much sums it up. October has been brutal. I feel like I've been swimming through mud and it will just never end! Last weekend I went up to Mendocino with Elina to break up the monotony. It was good to get out of the city and into nature. Good to see the fall colors, the milky way, and the morning sun on the mountains. Good to smell the clean mountain air, eat Moorea's homemade cookies, play with the puppies, and have some physical and mental space to think about mom on the eighth anniversary of her death.

But I'm back in the city now. And back to the reality of my dwindling bank balance, my lack of job prospects, my constantly rising stress levels, and the fact that I am so uncomfortable in my own skin right now it feels like that itchy sweater your grandma made you ten Christmases ago.

Even Halloween isn't bringing me the joy it usually does. I've got most of the makings of a Harajuku Girl costume for Friday night, but I just haven't been revelling in the excitement of the holiday. In fact, there's not a lot I've been actually enjoying lately. Well, maybe reading. I just read a great book about Rwanda and I'm almost finished with a novel I've been leafing through. I have a biography of Catherine the Great and a copy of The White Man's Burden just desperate for attention. I take that back, the election has me pretty excited too...and nervous. Maybe we'll all be able to take a big deep breath after November 4th, but until then I remain cautiously optimistic.

The job front sucks. Enough said.

On a positive note, I'm slowly but surely getting my car road ready again. It's been completely out of commission for months. Between not having a driver's license, insurance, or current registration, having several unpaid parking tickets, and that mysterious problem that made the rpm shoot sky high whenever I put the car into reverse, I decided it was for the best if I park it behind my house and just leave it for awhile until I was ready to deal with all of that. After I've paid all of the expenses associated with everything I'll be about $1,000 more in the hole. But at least I'll have wheels, right?

This is Ground Control to Mandolinx

2008-10-22T13:40:00.000-07:00

I'm in a very weird space right now. I've been wanting to write about it, but just haven't been able to find the words. Maybe just a list of the things that are on my mind lately will suffice: I'm unemployed, quickly depleting the last of my loan money, desperately hoping I pass the bar (which I won't know until the end of November), wanting so badly to pick up the phone and call Aunt Sharon and realizing she's really really gone, having my annual depression around my mom's anniversary and my wedding anniversary. I finally got the divorce paperwork started, which was already accompanied by an unexpected wave of emotions without the revelation that he lives just down the street from me. And of course, all of that has me wondering if I am EVER going to be in a relationship again, or if I even want to. And all of this when I have way too much time on my hands and am consequently in my own head all. of. the. time. It's a dangerous place to tarry.

"And I'm floating in the most peculiar way..."

Back to Cali

2008-10-01T21:15:00.000-07:00

It's so good to be home. No matter how far away I travel, or how long I stay away, SF is always waiting at the end of the journey; and between you and me, that might just be the best part. As always, I'm enchanted by the sights and sounds of the City. I love falling back into the lazy routine of morning coffee in the neighborhood, brisk walks through the park, the welcome home "meows" that chime from Tofu every time I walk in, and watching the fog creep like a blanket over the city each night.

Lately I've been toying with the idea of trying to take my writing a little bit more seriously and reading Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird has gotten me pretty inspired. Then again, so has being back in San Francisco. I think William Saroyan got it right when he said:

"San Francisco itself is art, above all literary art. Every block is a short story, every hill a novel. Every home a poem, every dweller within immortal. That is the whole truth."

And speaking of homes, I've been settling back into mine quite nicely. Rediscovering that comfy don't-dare-sit-in-it-or-you-WILL-fall-asleep spot on the couch, the smell of fresh dew on eucalyptus leaves in the Panhandle, snuggling in bed with Earl first thing in the morning, and the sounds of Haight Street nightlife. I've also been extra-appreciative of my place lately since I LOVE my apartment and am paying WAAAAY too little for it in this ridonculously tight rental market. Thank God for rent control!

So, in light of all this love and appreciation business, I've embarked on a new project: the Clean The Shiznit Out of These Digs Project. This place hasn't received nearly enough attention in the sanitation department in...ohhh, I'd say about three years which, in case you're calculating, is exactly when I moved in. So far I've spent two days in the kitchen and I'm not nearly finished. That's right. I'm getting OCD on its ass!

And yes, I realize this is the oldest procrastination technique in the book. I'll admit, the job search is more than a little daunting. But I'm doing little bits each day, ya see? A couple hours of this, a couple hours of that. Maybe if I keep up the pace I'll be able to tackle several areas of my life that need some immediate positive change right now? Right?

At the end of the day, I'm just trying to keep moving forward as patiently and sanely as I can and to have faith that this is all going to work out just fine in the end. All this stress and all this worry...all the bills, and paperwork, and un-checked lists.

On another note, I can't believe September came and went. It's October already?! The month I both look forward to and dread every year. My grandmother died last week at the ripe old age of ninety-nine. She was my last living grandparent and I hadn't seen her in eight years since I went to Thailand for my mom's funeral. And it's only been two-and-a-half months since Aunt Sharon passed away. Harsh. I'm not sure what else to say about that, except that it's got me pondering my belly button again.

Oh, listen to me going on and on, being all mopey and emo. You'd think I hadn't just gotten back from the most amazing vacation ever in Greece and Croatia! ("I swear, sometimes that girl gets so dramatic!")

I'll change the subject to something that's got me all excited then: the presidential election. Oh. My. God. People, is this not nail-bitingly, hair-pullingly, jaw-droppingly exciting? Again, I try not to get overly dramatic about the whole thing, but I really do think the future of our country, nay the planet, kind of depends on Obama taking this one. Wouldn't you agree? And although Carlos and I have elaborate plans to abscond to Argentina if it all doesn't work out just like it should, I would rather things go the other way. You know, for the planet's sake.

So if you haven't yet, you can check whether or where you're registered or REGISTER TO VOTE online here. No shame if you haven't yet. Just do it. Now. Oh, and watch the debates! I'm personally jump-up-and-down-excited to see the Biden-Palin debate tomorrow night. Really, there are no words. I think I may even make popcorn for the occasion.

Note to self: Don't forget to breathe...that's right, breathe.

It's Alive!

2008-09-14T16:28:00.000-07:00

Okay, yes. I realize it's not June anymore...and that it hasn't been for quite some time. And I know the phone calls and the emails and the snarky asides informing me of this fact are all very well-intentioned. And that I should be flattered really that anyone actually keeps coming to check and see if I've written anything new in the last three-or-so months. But don't I get a little slack, people?

I mean, you all know I just took the most important test of my life, right? And that I spent the summer holed up in the library in preparation for said exam?

Well, if that's not enough to earn myself a slight reprieve from sitting back down at a computer and having to think and write, I'll also have you know that one of the most important people in my life died exactly two months ago today (a mere two weeks before the Bar exam). Not that I had the time or the emotional capacity to deal with a loss of that magnitude. And as soon as the nightmarish three-day marathon of a test ended, I fled to Europe, where I spent a month swimming in the Aegean, Black, and Adriatic Seas. My own form of mental and spiritual ablution.

So now I'm back...from outer space. With $12 to my name and no job prospects to speak of. I've been in Dallas for the last week visiting with friends and family. And that, per usual, entails its own bottomless crevasse of emotional trauma.

Nonetheless I promise you, dear reader, that henceforth I shall make a concerted effort not to neglect this here blog or take for granted the fact that so many of you are itching to read something new from time to time. All I ask of you in return is this one simple favor: can someone please find me a job??

In the meantime, check out this short that I've simply come to adore:

Is It June? Already?

2008-06-24T18:13:00.001-07:00

Has it really been a month since I posted? Pathetic. In my defense, I've been studying for the bar which, just in case you were wondering, BLOWS. I officially graduated though! Found out a week or so ago. That was a huge relief. Now I can continue to invest the same endless hours of studying in the library, but with the security of knowing it is not all for naught.

Unfortunately, that means my life is completely lame right now so I don't have much to talk about. Other than the fact that I've gotten to sneak away to the East Bay to hang out with the family a few times, which has totally saved my sanity. Oh yeah, and Mel came to visit! That was awesome. I sure wish she and Heder would just move out here already. I miss my girls!

I've also become completely obsessed with the new IPod Nano that my brother and sister-in-law gave me for graduation. Um, how did I live without one for so long? I'm not exaggerating when I say it has completely changed my life. And another thing, do you people know about podcasts?? How did I not know about these? They're only pretty much the coolest most amazing invention ever.

Earl thinks I've been living in the Dark Ages since I didn't know what one was until he showed me last week. And he probably thinks my obsession with all things NPR or PBS borders on unhealthy. But I'm telling you, there is nothing better than being able to listen to Terry Gross or Bill Moyers whenever I want to. (God, I love that man.)

Hmm...not much else to report. I pretty much spend most of my time trying not to be petrified about the vast amount of material I need to memorize and understand before July 29th which, to tell you the truth, has not been easy.

Sartre Ain't Got Nothin' On Me.

2008-05-24T18:10:00.000-07:00

Well, I did it. I graduated...I think. I'm hoping those last two projects I was working on until the 11th hour were enough to get me over the line. One was a paper on human trafficking and the other was a research project where I prepared the curriculum for an undergraduate course on world poverty. Heavy stuff. I won't know for certain until I get my transcript for the semester, but I'm trying to relax and just assume everything will turn out all right.

The funny thing is, I had a real existential crisis in the midst of trying to get all this crap done. As if I didn't have enough on my plate. It's hard to talk about, but I had all this stuff to do and I just...wasn't doing it. I was berating myself mentally, making intricate plans to get it all done, and then: nothing. I finally became convinced that deep-down, subconsciously, I didn't want to graduate...or I didn't think I could, or I didn't think I deserved it. I don't know. I don't think I'll ever be sure about what was going on. And believe me, my therapist doesn't know either, because I begged her to explain what the hell I was doing NOT doing the things I needed to do to get this nightmare over with.

Was it something to do with what the completion of law school means to me? Was it tied up with my mom's death or my separation from Chris? Was it something more deeply subconscious? Like a fundamental belief that good things can't happen to me? Or that I'm not competent enough to achieve something so big? Who knows what it was? I ultimately got to the point where I realized it really didn't matter. I didn't need to understand the why in order to graduate, I needed to get my crap done! And I finally did. The morning before commencement I turned in the huge collection of materials I had amassed for the poverty course.

Want to know what finally got me through it though? What it was that finally, after three years of ass-grinding work got me to finish the last few projects I needed to graduate? I'll tell you what it was: The shame of thinking that my family would come to my graduation not realizing it was a complete farce. That everyone in my life would believe that I had it in me to do something great and that I disappointed every single one of them. To tell you the truth...between you and me? Somehow, in order to get it done, I had to tell several people to call me every two days and ask me whether I was done with any of my FOUR projects yet. I had to be accountable to others. I couldn't do it just for myself.

Yeah. Deep.

While my friends were celebrating being done with their last class ever, their last exam, their last day at work, etc. I was pulling my hair out/foregoing personal hygiene/mentally flagellating myself for being such a loser/congratulating my friends on being done/pretending to be equally optimistic/fearing the apocalypse.

Graduation was great though. Family, friends, flowers, an amazing keynote speaker. And it was the first time I've truly allowed myself to experience what an accomplishment the last three grueling years has been in so many ways. And to top it all off, it came a mere two days after my final name-change hearing. Symbolic, indeed. Seeing my name in print and hearing them read it aloud while I walked across the stage to claim my fake-diploma was deep. Reclaiming my personal narrative and all that rot.

It's funny though. During my very first semester of law school, I started seeing a counselor at the USF Mental Health Clinic. Mostly because I thought I was going insane. Turns out it was because my husband was cheating on me and I knew it subconsciously, but was only starting to uncover the truth by turning into a prying, untrustworthy, deceptive, unscrupulous bitch that I didn't even recognize. And when I would wake up each morning saying "I had the most terrible dream that you didn't love me anymore and that you were cheating on me", he would say, "you're crazy." So eventually, I started to believe I was.

Aaaaaaanyway. At some point during the few months that I was seeing her, my therapist gave me a kitchen magnet. I know, weird. It said: "Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly." I've reflected a lot on that over the last few years. And somehow, the very end of my law school career became a metaphor for shaking off that last bit of cocoon. And I wasn't sure if I could. To be honest, I wasn't sure if I wanted to.

But eventually I did. Somehow I put my nose to the grindstone and made it happen. And the last week since graduation has been pretty sweet. Not having anything important to do for the first time in three years has felt both strange and liberating. And I've felt like a newly emerged butterfly, perched atop its cocoon, fanning its wings in the fresh morning sunlight. In awe of what it has emerged from, and in awe of the possibilities. Just soaking it all in.

BarBri starts on Tuesday and I feel like I'm getting ready to go to war. They say that the average student is supposed to clock around 600 hours studying for the bar. That means 300 hours a month. That's about 75 hours/week. Yikes. How I am going to learn Evidence in 3 days? I do not know. Because God knows I certainly didn't learn it in law school from the worst professor known to humankind...

Today has been one of those weird ones where you don't say a single word for about eight hours. Do you ever have those? I've read, watched movies, listened to my new IPod, assed around on Facebook, searched the internet for fellowships, played guitar, and reveled in being a recluse. Tonight I'm supposed to go to a friend's housewarming party in the East Bay, but I don't know. I'm feeling introspective and philosophical. Maybe I just need to make myself a martini.

Anyway, here's to moving onward and upward. Or at least forward.
And armed with the new knowledge that I am at last a butterfly.

"Heaven is a place that looks rather like San Francisco."

2008-04-26T16:19:00.000-07:00

I had my last class of law school last Wednesday. Knock on wood. I'm shivering with anticipation, but I'm also wracked with anxiety and stress over the last few major projects I have to finish before I'm officially done. Something I've realized about myself over the last few years is that I never allow myself to celebrate an accomplishment until I have crossed the finish line. So here's hoping I don't trip in those last few feet of the race.

I've been so busy finishing up the semester, I've hardly had time to pay attention to the fact that I've had $15 dollars in the bank for the last month as I've been waiting for my bar loans to come in. But I got a check in the mail yesterday and I swear it was the first time I could remember exhaling in the last 30 days.

I've been busy seeing the Gilbert & George, Discarded to Divine, and Chim exhibits at the de Young, and the Annie Liebowitz exhibit at the Legion of Honor. I've been hanging out with out-of-towners like Dan, Siobhan, Scottish Mike, Mary Ann, Bruno, Papa Mike, and Georjean; planning an amazing trip to Greece and Croatia; picking up my cap and gown; changing my last name; going to the international rounds of the Jessup competition and arguing against Ethiopia, Mexico and France; taking a lover; writing papers; taking endless trips to the library that's a block from my house; and falling more and more in love with music than I've ever been before.

Right now I'm waiting for Byn to pick me up so we can go have family time in the East Bay. I've decided to resort to all-out bribery to ensure my status as the favorite aunt, and have just purchased my customary gift for each of the kids. This visit includes a toy train, a monkey finger-puppet, and a copy of Good Night San Francisco.

Life is good...as long as I can remember to breathe.

Pass the Xanax

2008-04-03T08:12:00.001-07:00

This has become a sort-of ritual for me over the past couple of weeks: I sit down to write a post; I watch the cursor blink for a few minutes while I think about all the things I could write about; I then get overwhelmed and paralyzed by the stress of those things that I should be doing anyway instead of trying to write a blog entry; I close the window. But I realized last night when I started bawling at a group of photos a law school pal sent me of his new baby girl and proceeded to bawl for half an hour over the most random things (ahem, like American Idol) that the stress is definitely getting to me.

I'm leaving for D.C. on Saturday night for the International Rounds of the Jessup Competition. Turns out my team has been invited to participate in the Showcase rounds as the only U.S. representative. It's all very exciting, but it means that I'm going to be gone for a week and focusing on Jessup again when I have WAY bigger fish to fry. Like the 25-page paper on global poverty, or mock-murder trial that Elina and I are the prosecution for next weekend. The team would have blown off preparing for D.C., but considering that some of the other teams invited to showcase include France, Brazil, Iraq, Mexico, Ethiopia, Sri Lanka, Nigeria, and Russia, our egos are too big not to try and represent. ("USA! USA!")

Then there was the pregnancy scare. But that's all it was: a scare. I have the freshly-tested E.P.T. to prove it. THANK GOD. Of course, my emotional breakdown last night had me convinced that the incredibly sore boobs I've been suffering from over the past-week, the ravenous appetite, and the mood-swings were more than a severe case of PMS. So I made an emergency call to Elsinore who, like a true girlfriend, picked me up a test on the way home from work. Anyway. Enough about that. No lectures, please. I've already administered enough of them to myself.

I'm finally registered for the Bar and the BARBRI review course. All for the low, low cost of about $4,000. I still haven't done my moral character application ($400). But never fear, just a few clicks and I am now $20K more in debt than I was last week. At this point, who's counting? Hooray for Bar loans, right? At least I got to exchange the immediate stress over my complete destitution for the delayed stress over the obscene amount of money I owe the government and various private lenders.

Okay, I could go on about the major stressors in my life, but I have a negotiation simulation to prepare. I'm playing the role of the lawyer whose client is totally unethical and who has me between the rock of my own moral and professional responsibilities and the hard place of client confidentiality. Should be interesting.

Desultory Homily Du Jour

2008-03-22T14:01:00.000-07:00

Happy Easter, everybunny! If you click on the picture you can actually see the strand of drool that's hanging out of little Milo's mouth. It's about a foot long. No joke. And it makes me laugh out loud every time I look at it. The kids in my family got drool, yo.

Have you ever wondered how to combine your love of words with your desire to end world hunger? Well, look no further. Because the FreeRice program is here to help you build your vocabulary word by word - twenty grains of rice at a time.

Also, you should check out Michael's cool-ass new video here. Like I told him, "This is the way your art was meant to be seen." It's also a pretty damn good song.

I've had a lot of weird male energy in my life in the last week. For example, I had a fight with a Sri Lankan, a fling with a Russian, and I developed a wee crush on a Scot. But it's all just left me wondering if I even believe a love like this exists anymore:

Then again, I don't know if that's something I'm even looking for right now. Life is really good. I've been enjoying focusing all of my energies on myself, my family, and my friends. I now have TWO guerrilla art projects in the works and Carlos wants to collaborate on one together. Unfortunately, one requires a camera...which I don't have anymore (grrrr). I'm thinking about dusting off the old school 35-mm Nikon that my mom bought decades ago and getting some black and white film. Remember film? Do they even make that stuff anymore? The other project involves some hyper-enlarged panels from Little Nemo in Slumberland, some wheat paste, markers, and a lot of string.

Earl and I finally started our "Re-decorate the sun-room so that it's a space we actually want to spend time in" project. It's like my apartment just grew by a whole room!

This afternoon I'm taking the family to the awesome new and improved playground that just re-opened in Golden Gate Park: Koret Children's Quarter. It's probably the only place in the city where adults aren't allowed unless accompanied by a child. But we'll have all three in tow so we're in the clear. It's only about a 5-minute walk from my house and it's a gorgeous day. I can't wait to play on the rope pyramid with Rohan, push Milo on the baby swings, and throw a frisbee around with my sibs. Good times. Speaking of which, I need to clean my house before they all get here, so I'm out. Peace.

The Ides

2008-03-15T15:49:00.001-07:00

Well, the natives are growing restless so I'm here to update. I can't believe it's been over a month since I last posted! I really am sorry about that. I do wish I had something interesting to write about to make up for it, but I'm in a funny mood today. Nonetheless, I owe you a post. Publish or die, right?

I spent the last month-and-a-half hanging out with the crush. Long story short: we're just going to be friends. So I guess I'm going to start referring to him as Baba instead. Because, you know, it just makes more sense. Even though there's no romance in the cards for us, I had a really great time getting to know him better and helping him get ready for his South America trip Part Deux. This time he's visiting all the countries I went to while I was there. In fact, I realized the other day that I was making my own preparations for my South America trip exactly ten years ago. No wonder pouring over maps, making trips to REI, and giving him tips on places he has to go has gotten me feeling so nostalgic lately. And, we hung out and talked on the phone pretty much every day he was here. Then he was gone and there was this big void where he had been. So that's got me feeling a little on the lonely side these days. Maybe those things sort of explain why I've been missing C so much too...or, at least the idea of him. I'm not even sure which anymore.

In other news:

I'm pretty convinced I have Dermatographic Urticaria. Case and point: I still have a heart on my belly that I scratched there several hours ago. Weird, huh?
We had the Jessup competition a couple of weeks ago. We didn't advance and were pretty disappointed about it, but at least I get my life back now. And I bought myself a stuffed Doraemon doll as a consolation prize. We used to watch episodes of Doraemon as kids during our endless summers in Thailand. So it gives me the warm fuzzies to cuddle up with him.
Tofu is 17-years-old and is the most ridiculously cute creature on the planet. She recently decided that she is only eating wet food from now on and has been taking much delight in my torturous quest to locate the limited number of brands and flavors that she will deign to eat, like the human grade Ahi Tuna by Tiki Cat, but not the Sardine Cutlets in Lobster Consommé or any of their other gourmet offerings.
Elsinore and I just celebrated our first whole year of living together with the exchange of small gifts. He got me a book about guerrilla art that has rocked my world and I'm already planning my first "drop". More details on that later.
I'm graduating really soon, but I'm not ready to talk about that yet.
I'm changing my name again, but I'm not ready to talk about that either.
Oh yeah, and C and I are finally moving things forward with the divorce, and I'm definitely not ready to talk about that one.
Do those last three sound like the makings of an existential crisis or what?

Okay, well I just spent a couple of hours browsing at Amoeba and I'm feeling a lot better, now that I'm armed with some brand spanking used copies of the Beastie Boys "To the 5 Burroughs" and The Raconteurs' "Broken Boy Soldiers" that is. But considering it is Saturday night and it is the Ides of March I think a martini might be just the thing to assuage that nagging sense of impending doom.

One last thing. I just found this poem and it really spoke to me. So maybe we can call this an Ides of March slash belated Lunar New Year Post then? Enjoy.

Stupid Happy

2008-01-26T20:05:00.000-08:00

I was talking with Bruno this morning who was, once again, gracing SF with his presence by spreading joy, merriment, and a highly contagious disease. (Seriously BK, we don't want your nasty NYC germs out here on the lovely west coast anymore. Go spread that ick elsewhere. And next time, don't come back without a clean bill of health, mmkay?)

Anyway, we were discussing how much I'm loving therapy now that I've found a relatively sane and competent mental health care provider. I try to explain the benefit to people by explaining how worth it it is to pay someone a minimal amount of money who will spend an hour a week listening to me talk all about myself and my issues while just asking really insightful questions, making interesting commentary, and drawing connections between things that I never ever would have made myself. Even when it's difficult, which it usually is, I love exploring the recurring themes and patterns in my life, the feelings I've never admitted to anyone, and the different relationships I have with people, events and most importantly, with myself.

But the point of the story is that somewhere in the mix of the therapy, the medication, and my own damn gumption, I've gotten to a really good place over the course of the last year since making the daring resolution to "get happy". That is to say, I've gotten back to a place or to a part of me that I haven't recognized in a looong time. I'm talking years, people. And I think Bruno noticed it too. I know others have. I'm not always happy, and I'm definitely not numbed to the world. I still get sad, angry, anxious, and I definitely still cry. But in the midst of all that, I'm just...centered I guess. It's not to say that life has been all shits and giggles either. There have been a couple of events lately that could have toppled my boat entirely. But, even in spite of all that, I can still recognize how much goodness there is in my life and be grateful for it.

I was going to start this blog with a list of all the things I love about my life right now but decided to strike it, lest I start sounding a little too manic. But I still just wanted to put how I'm feeling out there. I know there are a lot of people in my life that worry about me; that take the time to check in here just to see how I'm doing and make sure I'm okay. I choose to believe that it's because I've had more than my fair share of bad luck and not because they think I'm less than capable of handling anything life throws my way. So I wanted to share. Because it's nice to wake up and realize you can't wait to start the day. And it's nice to realize that your life is actually perfect at this very moment and you wouldn't want to change a single thing (except for maybe having a maid and a personal assistant...oh, and an end to the writers' strike would be peachy too!)

I went to see a film at the Red Vic with a friend this afternoon. It was called Lars and the Real Girl and it was real good. Maybe that's what all this warm and fuzzy business is about. Or maybe it's because the crush called again from Rio and he's getting back on Tuesday. Or maybe it's because I finally decided to start taking dance classes again. Or maybe it's because it's Saturday night and I am so excited to spend it at home in my pajamas reading Shaw's St. Joan for my Law & Literature Class. This, of course, after just having read Hamlet, King Lear, and Oedipus Rex for homework too. Does it get any better than that? Indeed!

From Good to Great in 2008.

2008-01-20T21:43:00.000-08:00

SOOO much has been happening since I last checked in. Let's see, the Jessup brief got turned in after several all nighters, and lots of blood, sweat, and tears. I had a major emotional crisis and a bout of severe withdrawal after I ran out of my meds and couldn't, for the life of me, get my scrip filled. I found out that I am going to graduate after months of anxiety over something that I told almost no one about. I secured my schedule for the semester and not only is it awesome, but I'm going to be the research assistant for a professor I truly admire.

And then I had my birthday, which was amazing. It's been a long time since my birthday felt like a big deal. When I was a kid my mom used to throw huge pool parties for me in the dead of winter...parties that people who knew me then still talk about. Like my second grade pool party where we also premiered the full-length 45 minute Thriller video. I know. Awesome.

But at some point my birthday just stopped being about bringing cupcakes for my entire grade, and presents, and balloons. At some point it became just another day. One that I usually would have marked by having dinner with a few friends or inviting people over for drinks. Having had several friends who celebrate a birthday week, or even month I have felt like a bit of an anomoly in this department. But this year that all changed. It helps to have friends that, weeks in advance, start mentioning that "your birthday is in two weeks" or "so and so wants to know what we're doing for your birthday!"

Suddenly other people were getting excited about it and it was so infectious, that eventually I did too. Texts were sent, phone calls were made, and the next thing I know I have dinner reservations for twelve at Kan Zaman, pre-game margaritas at my house, and plans to meet up with several others that night. Well then of course the perfect outfit had to be found. And then the search for the perfect pump to go with it. So there I was downtown on Friday afternoon with Elina and Earl, having just picked out the perfect (as Elina deemed them) "fuck-me-heels" when I look up and see Heather staring me in the face. Heather. Who lives in Austin. Maybe I'm in Austin? But no, Elina and Earl are here. And this is definitely the DSW on Union Square. WTF? Is there any more awesome friend than the one who flies across the country just to be with you on your birthday and somehow manages to keep it from you, the hardest person to keep things from on the face of the planet? I think not.

And then there were the calls, and the texts, and the emails, and the myspace messages (one of which suggested that my birthday should be honored as a national holiday.) Is anyone more loved than I? In a word: no. Because after the amazing dinner, and the bellydancing, and the endless supply of Patron, and the hip-hop dancing, and the Castro dancing, and the after party at my place, there was the Guitar Hero and pizza recovery party the next day, and the flowers from my niece, and the phone call from the crush in Rio de Janeiro, and the sightseeing with Heather, and the nephew's birthday at the Exploratorium...No. The answer is no. No one is more loved than I. And I must say, I don't think there's any better way to kick off your 27th year! ;)

Happy New Year!

2008-01-06T21:22:00.000-08:00

School starts tomorrow. But being the busy little bee that I am, I got a jump start on the action early. In fact, I was so excited about the prospect of starting a new semester I spent all day yesterday writing a brief. I know, right? You're so jealous. And? When Saturday night rolled around, I just couldn't stand the thought of leaving my books behind. So instead of celebrating my last weekend of freedom the predictable way, I rocked out with my laptop and a mountain of research until about 5am this morning. But when I finally got into bed I just couldn't stay that way for long. So around 10am, I hopped out of bed like it was Christmas morning, and I got up to the library as fast as I my little legs would carry me, which is where I spent my entire day just reveling in my last day of freedom before my last semester of law school begins.
And. Lucky me! Tomorrow morning I'm gonna wake up and do it all over again! In fact, the entire Jessup team agreed today that we should probably just wait to buy all of our law school books for the semester until next week. Because it's not like we're going to be doing anything as ridiculous as reading for our classes the week before the Jessup brief is due. We're obviously going to be spending every. waking. hour. of the day camped up in the basement of the library so that we can be as close as possible to all of the international law resources. Duh!
Long story short. Life ROCKS right now. I hope yours is half as exciting.

Zen and the Art of Monkey Maintenance

2007-12-31T13:36:00.001-08:00

The year is finally drawing to a close and I, for one, couldn't be happier. The break has been a mixed bag of uber-traumatic family drama, lots of much-needed sleep, a new addiction to Guitar Hero, and plenty of time feeding my unquenchable thirst for good fiction. Don't get me wrong. I still have a long list of mundane and boring tasks I need to take care of: like writing two 20-page papers, cleaning the hell out of my apartment, replacing all the stuff that was in my purse when it was stolen (I'm going on 3 weeks with no cell phone, people)... But nevermind all that now. Back to the books.

So far I've managed to devour a couple of great novels in the spare moments I've stolen between perusing various human rights instruments and ICJ decisions. First of all, Claire Messud's The Emporer's Children. Whenever I do find time for fiction, I'm always torn between picking up a classic or diving into something contemporary. This work did not treat me wrong. The story was compelling. The characters intriguing. And it was a deeply philosophical exploration of the existential crisis my generation faces in the 21st century as we try to find originality in the world we've been handed by our forefathers; and fill the void of meaning that literally seeing the world crumble in front of our eyes has left, while simultaneously trying to maintain our sanity and assert our own identities in the midst all the rigid rules and stereoptypes we so long to fill and reject at the same time.* I immediately pushed it onto Heather and I DO hope she reads it.

Next I turned to an unread classic. One that Mr. Degener suggested I read in the 8th grade (and we all know how seriously I would have taken that commendation). But he issued it with a warning which somehow turned the novel into something intimidating that, for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to turn to until now: Robert M. Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. When he told me I should read it way back when, he also suggested I wait a few years until I was mature enough to understand it. I remember being slightly offended at the time. However now, having read it, I realize it was one of the nicest compliments he could have paid a 13-year old English student. I realize he somehow knew the kinds of ideas and thoughts I was struggling with at the time. And he also knew I didn't have the intellectual maturity or vocabulary to fully grasp the philosophical world of ideas whose boundary I was skirting or handle the deeper inquiries it would set me off on.

So reading it now, although for the first time, has been strangely nostalgic. It's hard to explain. And in the strangest ways, it goes hand in hand with why I think I was so in love with my 8th grade English teacher in the first place. Most people wrote it off as a silly schoolgirl crush. And I don't blame them. I probably would too and, in fact, I have many times when I've talked about it since. But let me try and explain...

I was thirteen-years-old at the time and so many of the structures and institutions that most kids that age take for granted had shattered. The notions of family stability...personal safety...unconditional love...the predictability of everyday life. (I know that sounds ridiculously dramatic, but if you know anything about my life then, you know I'm not exaggerating here.) So picture our hero, a 13-year old girl who, whether you chalk it up to nature or nurture, is different from most. A kid who's entire field of knowledge is that which has been fed to her since she started down the long road of formal education. Rote memorization. Formulas. Rules. But the formulas and rules of her own world have failed her. All of a sudden the whole is not the sum of its parts.

Needless to say this has a pretty deep impact on our hero. Living alone with her younger sister in a house that could have accommodated twenty, she withdraws from the world to the point where the other kids at school almost all stop talking to her entirely. She gets sent to the school counselor because her teachers are worried she may be suicidal. She holes up in her room from the moment she gets home at night to the moment she has to leave for school in the morning. She stops making eye contact with people. She stops smiling. She spends hours thinking about the Holocaust and whether she wants to be part of a species that is capable of committing that kind of horror upon itself. I know. Dark. Teen angst is a bitch, right? Anyhoo...

One day our hero enters a classroom that looks very much like every other classroom she's ever sat in. She prepares to spend the hour, as usual, doodling away in her notebook or scratching off some new poem she will quickly hide from view when called upon to speak. But this time it's different. This teacher isn't just filling his students' heads with what they need to know to pass the exam. This one is is teaching something new. He's teaching them how to think. He's challenging his students to think for themselves and giving them the tools to do so. Deductive vs. inductive reasoning...absolute vs. relative truth...the elements of rhetoric, etc. This one actually listens to their answers and truly considers them - sometimes even changing his own approach to the inquiry in response to their thoughts.

All of a sudden everyone is engaged. Everyone in the classroom is doing the impossible - they're thinking. And unexpectedly, our hero wakes up out of her hermetic daze. She finds a space in her life (one hour a day) where she feels awake...alive! Where the debates and thoughts that take up her entire day are put on the table and hashed out before her eyes. Where all of the students' ideas are encouraged and valued! And somehow, in the midst of everything, this teacher sees something in our hero that's special. He recommends books to her, seeks her out to explore a comment she made earlier in class, urges her to think more deeply, to examine more closely the thoughts he somehow knows she's grappling with. And it doesn't stop there. Even years after she's left his classroom he keeps an eye on her. He sends her poetry, comments on decisions she's made in her educational journey, sets her up with mentors, stops her in the library to give her little pieces of advice.

In a world where she has all too often felt abandoned, alone, and misunderstood, this teacher somehow lets her know that she is not. So who knows? Maybe it was love. Maybe it was gratitude. But our hero would not be the person she is today without having sat in that classroom. In all fairness, few of his students probably would.

So when I finally turned to Zen after all these years, all of those ideas that were flooding through my mind at the time when my mind was just learning how to think for itself - to push the boundaries of formal education - came rushing back to the surface. Also, I remembered how truly scary that time was and how, thankfully, there was someone there to provide a light through the darkness, whether he knew it or not.

So if you haven't read it, you're probably wondering what the hell kind of book this is anyway. Here's what the Amazon review had to say about it:

Arguably one of the most profoundly important essays ever written on the nature and significance of "quality" and definitely a necessary anodyne to the consequences of a modern world pathologically obsessed with quantity. Although set as a story of a cross-country trip on a motorcycle by a father and son, it is more nearly a journey through 2,000 years of Western philosophy. For some people, this has been a truly life-changing book.

So yeah, a strapping good read. Anyways, I have no idea how this post got to this point. I was going to write something short and sweet about my thoughts on the new year. I guess we'll have to get back to that one another time, eh? Now I'm turning to Chogyam Trungpa's Shambhala: The Sacred Path of the Warrior. And I bet you're just dying to know what sorts of nonsense I'll have to say about that one.

*Don't you just love indulging me in my pretentious Faulknerian run-ons?

Home for the Holidays

2007-12-22T20:43:00.000-08:00

I'm back in Big D for the holidays for the first time in two years. The last time I was here my car was stolen with pretty much everything I owned in it a mere two days after Christmas. This time, my purse was stolen with all of my essentials the week before I got here. But like I told my sister, "It just wouldn't feel like the holidays if I wasn't ripped off."

I've managed to keep my chin up though. How down can the girl who just finished her second to last semester of law school be after all? I've also gotten to spend lots of quality time with loved ones. I've eaten at the Great Outdoors TWICE since I've been here. The cute boy I have a crush on has been emailing me pretty regularly from South America since he left. And my annual 25th birthday is right around the corner.

Of course, being back hasn't been all shits and giggles either. As Mateo said the other day, "What is it about being home that makes me want to revert to being an angry teenager?" I've definitely been reminded of all the reasons why I left here in such a hurry almost 15 years ago and never looked back. There were things about growing up here that I don't like remembering. Things that made me who I am for better or, more often, for worse. And today, when I was cuddled up on the couch with my niece and youngest sister watching old home movies, I swear I could see a tinge of sadness in my eight-year-old eyes. A quietness and a melancholy that set me apart from the kind of effusive energy, excitement, and wide-eyed innocence that I observe now in my eight-year-old niece.

But it's good to be reminded of where I came from. It gives me a greater appreciation of how far the emotional territory I've crossed over the years has been. And in a week, when I'm giving my last hugs and boarding the airplane that will take me back to the place I now claim as my home, it won't be without a some sadness. Because every time I come back, the place I once called home becomes a little less familiar; a little less...mine.

At the end of the day, love it or hate it, it's nice to know there's somewhere you can return to and feel the comfort and familiarity of the memories and loved ones that contributed in their own unique way to who you are. Because without those things, how can you truly know who you've become? And how can you really have a true understanding of where you're going?

There's a cold front moving through the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex. There's a crispness in the air that I don't think I've ever felt in the Bay Area. It smells like a mixture of snow and warm fires. Maybe it's stirring something dormant that has been waiting, deep in my bones, and making me feel nostalgic for the happiness AND the pain of my youth. Because, after all, it's those things together that add up to Me.

The stark contrast between my little sister and me discussing our broken hearts while her perfect little girl dreams of sugar plum fairies and a Nintendo DS; home movie images flit across the TV screen of me cradling that same baby sister in my arms the day she came home from the hospital -- just 13 months before her mother, my stepmom would die of cancer. Bitter sweet. Perfect. Home.

Three is a Magic Number

2007-12-02T12:58:00.000-08:00

For the last couple of months Elsinore and I have been entertaining a house guest. And not just any old house guest mind you. This one happens to be a muse; a Danny Muse, in fact. I must admit I was a little worried about having another roommate staying long-term on the futon in the living room. Then again, I hadn't fully considered the fact that I was taking in a muse. Instead of leaving me feeling cramped and crowded, this one always leaves me feeling inspired. Instead of gritting my teeth and muttering how much I wish he would leave, I find myself wishing we had a proper third bedroom so he could stay forever.

Of course, you might be asking what exactly it is about this muse that makes him so...so welcome, so....special. Was it the new Christmas tree he bought that you came home to find in the living room yesterday? Maybe it was the delectable egg-white scramble accompanied with toast and juice that he brought you in bed this morning to celebrate your first entire week as a non-smoker? Or perhaps the fact that on those days when you just can't take one more minute of the major annoyances the world keeps throwing at you, somehow he knows to have a cocktail waiting for you when you walk through the door.

But honestly, as fan-fucking-tastic as those things are, I'll let you in on a little secret. It's really a lot more blasé than any of those things. Really, it's just about how much we are always laughing together (and at each other); about the feeling that every night the three of us are here it's like our own little slumber party; about the fact that he really gets me in spite of all the facades I put on for other people ("Oh Amanda, you're not straight! Everyone knows you're just a gay man trapped in a woman's body!")

Elsinore has this great book called The Secret Language of Relationships that, very generally, gives a relationship profile of two individuals based on their birthdates. Sometimes it's right on, sometimes not so much. But the one for Danny and me is by far the most hilarious (and frighteningly accurate) one I've come across. Here are some highlights:

When the relationship is a personal one, the danger, of course, is that the partners get so wrapped up in personal fantasy that they forget about mundane but stabilizing everyday demands. Keeping at least one of their four feet on the ground may be an achievement for them.

Love it.

'Tis the Season

2007-11-09T13:27:00.000-08:00

The other day as I was surfing the internet to alleviate the suffocating boredom of my International Human Rights class it occurred to me that we, as a nation, are already deeply entrenched in the build-up to the next presidential election. And I, shamefully, have yet to see a single debate, educate myself on where the candidates stand on the issues that are most important to me, or even ask very many people what they think about the candidates. Now I'll admit that I have never once even considered for a moment voting for a Republican candidate. And that includes the mock-elections we held in Mrs. Roberts's 4th grade Social Studies class (Mondale), the one in Mr. Schmidthauser's 8th grade History class (Dukakis), and the one we held in the fall of my senior year of high school (Clinton). All this despite the fact that my family was staunchly Republican.

Some may assume that my voting record makes me a die-hard yellow dog Democrat when, in fact, I often think I sit a little too far to the left for the comfort of even the most liberal Democrat. (But that's for another discussion.) In comparing the candidates' positions and voting records, I often find my head nodding most vigorously in agreement with Dennis Kucinich* and Bill Richardson. However, I assure you that this does not of me a Commie make. I am very aware of the realities of today's world and of the U.S.'s unique position in it; the real threats to our national security; and the infinitely complex implications of the mess we've made in Iraq.

But, and that's a very big BUT, that does not mean I think it's okay for anyone to start chipping away at my civil liberties; to start pointing fingers and calling everyone and their Aunt Flossie a terrorist; to use flawed and immoral legal machinations to justify torture; or to stay in a war that the American public clearly does not support.

And for the most part, that's why I will be happy to cast my vote for any of the Democratic presidential candidates come next November. Admittedly, there are some I'd be happier to vote for than others. Some who have already started compromising to win more votes. Some who have misrepresented their positions based on their voting records. Some who are a lot of nice talk and very little action. But at the end of the day, a Democrat is a Democrat. Something I've identified with since long before I even knew what the word meant. And you sir, you are no Democrat.

*How can you not love a guy whose campaign slogan is Strength through Peace?