Sorcery. Sympathy. Connectivity. and mark wahlberg?

i stood at the foot of her bed and stared. fear mixed with achy sadness before i could get my bearings. then tears came and i had to turn away. i had never been in a hospital room with glass walls. it felt so exposed. like everyone was looking at me staring at her.

it was a head-on collision at the front corner of the vehicle, then the car rolled. in the passenger seat, she took the full brunt of both impacts. her husband is standing by the bed, holding her hand. he walked away with little more than a deep gash on his elbow and some bruises. the same for her son, who was in the backseat.

i watched her chest rise and fall with the swoosh of the ventilator. her hair laid straight up on her pillow, as if it was windblown. tubing from her mouth. her arms. her skull. she lay twisted and seemingly uncomfortable with both legs in casts and an arm lifted in traction. her swollen face gave no indication that the woman i knew was present. talk to her, husband said, tell her you're here. she might be able to hear us. i think she can hear me, he says. i'm not so sure, i think silently. is she in there?

what makes us who we are? when does the source of our soul expire? does it just move on? can it leave our fleshy shell for a while, then come back? if so, can we--on this side of consciousness--influence the time and speed with which it chooses to return? i wonder. we start at nowhere and for a while we are now here, then we go back to no where. is her source still viable inside her.

t-vak was with me. among the three of us we had over 17 of friendship. and we were at a loss for what to do. we prayed. we annointed her hands, feet and head with crosses drawn in holy water. we annointed her with our tears. and we summoned the source of life, the unmitigating light of love, creativity and hope to return to her. we begged that all the powers of sorcery in the goodness of the universe would come into that glass-walled room and fill up her shell with laughter again.

at the very moment the sperm snuggles into the egg, a cataclysmic miracle explodes and in an instant all you will ever be, from your hair color to your nail biting, to your gorgeous blue eyes and jiggly forearms--everything is in that particle of dna. you are a speck. like a peach seed in soil, our potential is completely present at the very moment of the cataclysmic miracle that turns your dad's spooge into you.

and if that source remains in her; as she lay twisted, bruised, incoherent. if we, on this side, try by means of prayer and holy water and positive thoughts and verbal affirmations to cooerce her spirit back to this side--to manipulate her source. are we not engaged in sorcery? i am okay with that, by the way. but... just thinking out loud.
walking with her kids out to the parking garage i was just about knocked down with feeling sorry for them. the image of my old friend twisted and mangled in that bed haunted me. hounded me. burned onto the inside of my eyelids and glowed in my brain when i shut them. tall and thin, her just-teenage son and daughter seemed almost uneffected by the scene we'd just left. daughter skipped a little. son smiled. sat in the backseat quietly like most boys his age. and as i sat with them at lunch, i welled up with pride for them, and for what great people they were becoming. i admired their strength in the face of such sadness. i embraced my own sympathy for them, while still nodding to their faith in the source to make it all right again.

nothing is solid. in a microscope, magnified to a molecular level, everything is made up particles that are vibrating wildly. there is space between the particles. what holds us together? the source of all life and creativity and beauty flows between us, holding us together and also connecting us to everything and everyone. we are seemless with each other, with nature, with sunlight, with darkness. it's the blanket theory (see i <3>Huckabees).

mark wahlberg was on the today show about a week ago promoting the new M.Night Shyamalan movie, The Happening. i'm not much into celebrities; so i don't know much about mark wahlberg. he loooked good in boogie nights. his brother was a new kid. i think. anyway, mark was there on the plaza making nice-nice with Meredith Matt and Ann. yawn. but as they were going to commercial and thanked him, mark said, "my life is good. my faith is strong and i have true happiness." i thought that was really cool, and not just something you pop off to throw it to commercial.

we're all connected. we're all connected to the source. as we embrace the source, live by the law of love, creativity, beauty, as the source does, we become sorcerers (of the source). as we are of the source, we can beckon the source to create what we want out of this life. i'm comforted to know that i'm connected to a woman in a hospital bed in austin; that i'm able to tap into the source of everything that is good and hopeful and true and clear and to know that even bloated up celebrities can sometimes be cool humans.

just thinking out loud. you may now resume your regularly scheduled life.

Sometimes singleness Rocks

One thing I love about getting old is having a longer memory. I didn't know if I might actually DIE the first time I rode Texas Cyclone at Astroworld. But I didn't. I loved it. Once I'd taken the ride, I knew I could survive it. Life's like that. it takes a few long lines at the roller coaster before you start to figure it out.
You get older … and nothing kills you.
A longer memory gives you the benefit of knowing you've come out of other stuff alive.. even when you weren't sure you would. Ergo, you'll probably come out of whatever you're in now.
So don't let it stress you out.
As I get older, I have richer memories, I have increasingly richer friendships. Friendships wrapped around years of inside jokes and drunken tears tied by a string of jobs lost, raises, divorces, births, remarriages and reconciliation. friends who over our years of yellowing memory books have become my family. They are gold flecks in the air that surrounds me. they make me sparkle inside. I am grateful to have their glitz.

Now, onto the blog.

Saturday I was kid-less and hungover. I slept late, showered, then went to my buddy's house. We've been friends for like 13 years. Very casual—I didn't even wear makeup. he and his wife were going to barbecue; I'd bring potato salad. There was talk of margaritas. Easy.

I'd been there about 15 minutes when I realized that the two of them were having one of those days. I remember those days—magnetic mood days.You and your man are like two wrong sides of a magnet – he's in a good mood when you-- for no apparent reason—just get bitchy... A little wriggling, snipping at each other, something happens and you laugh. your mood shifts, your magnet flips—now you're good mood side up. About that time he curses the furniture you rearranged last week. He's got cranky surface showing. your moods are repellent. you're not going to merge properly today. In any way.

At least that's how I remember the days of magnet mood—ah, marriage. there I was with potato salad and no mascara.

Any quirky thing can turn a mediocre magnet-mood day into a full fledged 'do not touch me' evening. In the case of my beautiful friends, that quirky thing was the VCR remote. First she wanted it, but couldn't find it. Then she gave up on it. Which of course made him bound and determined to find it. After 20 minutes of admirable verbal jousting from both sides, complete with ottoman lifting and couch cushion searching: the elusive remote was found. I rolled my eyes. By now, I didn't give a shit about the movie anyway.

Sometimes being single rocks.

Sunday I had a flat tire. Now if i was married, along with a flat tire on the hottest day I've ever spent in a dress, I'd have ALSO to deal with a male ego—because lord knows I've never been with a man who would change a tire. But regardless of his handy--index, dealing with a sweaty chick in heels AND a flat tire, under any circumstance can throw a couples' day into chaos.

I was actually grateful to be alone… sitting there in my car, waiting for help. Knowing and cherishing (yes, i promise!) that I didn't have to deal with the man I loved.
He doesn't exist. Sweet.

After the flat tire, I needed a drink. I met my friends at La Strada, enjoyed a drive through the westheimer curve, peeked through some old neighborhoods, then picked up frosty's for the girls who would be dropped off soon after I got home.

How long was I gone? Don't know. Luckily, I didn't have anyone who needs to get back to watch Tiger on the 18th hole. I'm solo. Me-o

Every morning, I sleep until the last, bitter, absolute final minute before I have to race into the shower, smear makeup in all the right spots and sprint out the door. My ex used to hate that. He was a coffee in the morning before you shower kind of guy. He'd be asleep before stupid human tricks had started, but awake before willard scott. There were other areas in which we were incompatible… I just thought of this one first.

Sometimes singleness rocks.

The next morning I indulged in a little late morning lounging. I had plucked out a show from the tivo lineup and had it cued up. I arranged pillows, got the kroger flyer situated and had a book ready on the bedstand. I crawled in and reached for the remote to start my "Top Chef" marathon…and … I couldn't find it.
I walked around the bed, looked at the desk, even on my sink counter… nowhere. did I take it to the living room? Refrigerator? Where? I just had it.
I knew who lost it; I knew who had it last. It was definitely me.

Singleness deletes negative mood slinging; simply because there's nobody around to sling it at.

Being single keeps me humble. I'm forced to admit that I am a dumb ass.

I lose things.

I procrastinate.

I know who forgot to take my black dress to the cleaners.
It's the same person who will have to dab the spot off of it with a cotton ball so she can wear it tonight: it's me.

I know who drank the last beer.

I know who was supposed to get the car washed.

I know who paid the card late so there's a fee next month.

I can't get pissed off at my husband --- i don't have one.

It's bittersweet clarity, people: you have to look deep.

But once you get a nice long string of days without having your mood magnet flipped … you'll see: Sometimes singleness rocks.

Sometimes singleness sucks...

Sometimes I hate being single…. is that so wrong?

if I am to have the ultimate experience, then I am convinced I am to have it with another. I can see that all experience is heightened in importance and weight by sharing it with people….but most especially, by sharing it with A Person.

And so brings us to my dilemma: sometimes I hate being single.

I am not one of those cat-hair fleckeled divorcees – with children in therapy and my ex-husband's wife as my "best friend". I am a real woman, here. Yes I get an inordinate amount of child support but I went out and got it straight from him. And I earn it.

But then again, I am your typical unhappily single divorcee; looking for love. or whatever. At least I was.

I've come to know that I'll never find the ultimate experience by looking for it—I would have found it by now… believe me. I've got no choice but to follow God's path laid out before me. My treasure awaits. Or maybe not. Regardless, …….. I know God has a plan for all of this.

i'm just not confident in my ability to wait on the Lord. You know what I mean?
I get so dang jealous. It's pathetic. I get jealous of BAD relationships.

Sometimes I think I'd rather be tangled up with a dysfunctional dude in distress than sit here in the bed alone another night. Come on people. I'm too much fun and just too damn cute to still be alone. And that's just the big ole baby inside of me getting out to cry a while.

At morning's light… and the end of even a long day, I am so grateful for my own independence and solitude. I love being me. And I'm really good at it. Being with someone would be good too.

Especially someone I thought was as cool as I am. Is that possible?

But to focus on the issue, as to pluck it out and get rid of it for now: sometimes I hate being so utterly alone. I hate being single tonight. And I'm not apologizing for being pissed off about it. I'm not gloria steinem. I'm okay with needing a man………

Once in a while.

I hate being single tonight. Tomorrow… I'm believing……will be better in the light.

Trust Me ... random notes from my journey

I lie. i guestimate about 17% of my words and thoughts are lies.

I can coddle them as truth, but somewhere between you and I or just me, myself and I—it's still lies. Milk is not green. No matter how many times I tell you it is. A lie's a lie. and 17% is too high.

Here's what I'm thinking: if I don't believe the shit I say, it's only logic that I won't believe what you say. even when you are telling me the truth. and that causes problems in my relationships. {cue trust issues here, please}.

Now it's not like I tell big lies. Think about it: you lie too.

Was traffic really so bad yesterday that you were late to work? are you really allergic to shellfish?
Did you read DaVinci code? really? Yeah. I've met you.

It's the source of it, as usual, that I'm trying to uncover and take a look at. I have to figure out why I'm lying to myself so that I can trust you—and have a more kick-ass existance. while marbled veins of lie may inevitably mingle through the steaks of everyday speech; I want to dig through the dirt of my lies and uncover my big ugly truth. it can't be that bad. i might even learn to accept myself a little more.

ultimately, the rewards are twofold: I get stronger, healthier relationships —plus— I take a leap forward in my self-journey.
life leaps rock. Slides suck.
So, why lie to people; to myself? Hmmm. according to me, I'm putting a nice dent in my debt, I've lost five pounds and I'm really starting to love my job. Sounds pretty good. I like that me.

Now let's tap into some truth: every couple of months I might add fifty bucks to my credit card minimum payment. I've actually been overspending on fast food and dollar store junk. I think I gained a pound last week and if I don't get out of this job, I'll be back in therapy before I'm 40.
Ew. That sounds un-fun. I no like that me. Lie sounds better.
I lie to make me sound better than I am. Like when someone asks me how old I am and I trim off a few years. It's in my best interest. The lies are working for me, not against me… right. Keep telling yourself that one.

Purity is found only in truth. There is no value in the untruth. Ever.

Besides, real women don't rationalize.

Here's the plan. live a life where I am comfortable with my own truth. There are going to be spike strips that get thrown under my wheels and deflate my self-esteem now and then. The finesse is in acknowledging that I'm driving around with a flat tire for a while.

Sometimes life isn't all happy meals and pool toys—I've got debt that I need to take care. It's time to get a handle on my career, if I'm to have one. There's no shame in pulling the car over, changing the tire (which might take a while depending on how deep the spikes are buried), getting back on the road and confessing the whole pit stop to the world.

Here's the thing : I want stellar relationships. nothing is more important about my time here than to build connection between me and everybody else. If I only get that, i get a lot. but I can't build an exceptional connection when I constantly doubt you. or when i don't like me. I've got to be willing to let you lie to me. Maybe your lie will hurt me. Point is: the connection is worth it.

I admit it: I've got issues—I don't trust you. I don't believe you. what if I don't trust you because I don't trust me. My truth should be good enough for you. it would be, if it was good enough for me--

I lie sometimes. i'm striving for a less than 8% median.

At least I never said I read DiVici code.

It's just me. Go about your regular lives…

There are some things that I am really good at. Some things, in fact, that I might even say I am the best at of anyone I know. Like writing a card; I can touch you with few words. Like singing a beatles lullaby to my daughter. In the small hours of chronic coughs and temperatures: I'm the mom you want in your ear. My chicken and dumplings are—let's face it—legendary. There are things I do well.

However.

I am inept at one thing: I'm not good with boyfriends. Not really that I'm not good with them, just that I'm not good at getting them; my procurement skills leave something to be desired. What I am good at is attracting them, then unintentionally making them think I'm psychotic. Which I find pretty funny and basically pathetic. And which they just about never find funny but do stop calling. Immediately.

I'm starting to think it's not them: it might even be me.

I'm naturally curious. I'll tell you right out about it: I'm going to google you. From that I may get a map to your house, I might find out where you work, I might even find out your wife's name. But I'm not stalking you. I'm just naturally curious. I'm interested in you. I like you.

And all that might be well and good except for my basic weakness: talk. I cannot keep my mouth closed. Even now in the middle of the night, I have to tell you what I'm thinking. And so! When I tell you I googled you: guess what? Yes, I am good at making them think I'm psychotic. And no matter how hilarious I think it is when other chicks stalk you….let's face it: I am not crazy. just a little unwell.

It's my dang boundaries, folks. I've got brick walls up where there should be shrubbery and I've got little tufts of monkey grass around my vulnerability. I would love to be able to sit here and think it through then stand up and point my finger at the reason why I'm that way. Lord knows it's not my fault. Right?

No, no. it's his fault..

He made me believe we were building on concrete then one day thought it'd be funny to tell me it was really a pool. Then he filled it up with water. and I thought I really might drown in that freaking thing. Unti I re-learned how to swim.
Yes, Everything is his fault

No, no. It's mom's fault. If she would've taken her divorce better, then I would have had a role model. I would've seen how to date after divorce. I'd never have made all these mistakes if she had done it differently. See. It was her.

No, no. it's dad's fault. No. his wife's. Whichever. Equating drunkeness and wildness with the good life. Celebration was more important than a cause for it. Even if there was cause for sadness. Let's have a drink, we'll all be laughing soon enough. Tin foil wrapped around air. Why would I be able to discern what is honest or a lie; I've never known anyone authentic.

So bring out your boxes. Of kleenex. And please cry in pity for me. I'm nothing more than a product of my experiences. i have become cumbersome. melodramatic in the shallow bits and aloof when the plot thickens. I'm bitter, but cute.

i've had enough therapy. it's just me after all. stick around a while and then you'll see...a different side of me. i'm funny as hell. i'm so smart it scares you, in the good way. and that smile. this is who i am. i'm not gonna stalk you, i just have to find a way to introduce myself so you don't run off screaming.

it took me a long time to perfect my chicken and dumplings. two words: white wine. Eight years ago when my daughter was born, that beatles lullaby wasn't very soothing for anybody. I write out what I want to say on a piece of paper before I write it on the $5 card.

I recognize the need for improvement.

maybe i should put a gate--or two, in this brick wall. i've propped up a couple fence boards around the heart I wear on my sleeve--we'll see how they hold while i put down a post. i might even keep my mouth shut…

I'm thinking not googling you, though, is pretty much out of the question