On Reflection

I find myself staring at the sky a lot lately.

I'm so grateful that I know what it feels like, falling through clouds at a scary-as-hell velocity.

I look up, and all I can think of is: how soon before I can get back? After the helluva adrenaline rush, I felt alive and tranquil. The earth was safely tucked away in its miniature proportions of fields & roads. For a few minutes, I didn't have to deal with any of that. Sadness. Car rides. The whole logistics of my new life. 

Was this what birds feel constantly? The peace of in-between? I wanted to stay there forever.

When I landed, I couldn't stop smiling. I felt serenely happy, but joltish too, the way I feel after a really long tattoo session. All those endorphins swimming around, bumping into my insides ... 

And then my jump instructor kissed my hand, and I felt goofishly happy about that too. It's nice to be acknowledged in that red-blooded way. 

I wrote a poem about the whole experience and workshopped it for class last night. My fellow poetesses used words like "sensual" and "awakening." They encouraged me to go deeper, pull the physicality and eroticism through the images, like a bright red yarn pulled through a pale-hued sweater.

More goofy smiling. And then this morning, a co-worker pulled out her iphone and said: Look. Half off skydiving. Do you want me to send you the link?

I was just ending my hellish shift of midnight to eight (stretching on to nine), but the glassy surface of her iphone made me break into an impromptu dance.

Oh my God, how much I love the sky.

What Happens Now

So next week, J is moving out. He signed a year's lease for a studio apartment. Coincidentally, my birthday is also next week.

There's a lot to think about. Every since late February, my brain has been working overtime, trying to process what has happened to me, and by extension, to us. To the me+him part that used to be such a central part of my life. 

Last year, I never went out with J. It was simply unthinkable. The only things I did alone was go to the gym and the grocery store. Every time we hung out with friends, or saw a movie, or went to a concert, we went together.

Now I'm learning who I am without the him. I admit, sometimes it is a bit of a steep learning curve. Other times, it feels revelatory. Even freeing. There are some people I know socially who has not yet met J. They have no concept of the me+him part, just the me. 

Girl awakens from life coma, and finds out that she does have feet to stand on. A mouth to speak up with. An opinion that matters. Her body occupies a space that belongs rightfully to her. There is no shame in owning that space.

It's just saddens me that there has to be collateral damage.

Part Two

White flag: in drawer. 

I'm coming to the realization that the things that I would love to do if they didn't scare me a lot (but *probably* won't physically injure me or others), are exactly the sort of activities I should be doing. 

So -- I will be skydiving in two weeks. And less impressive, yet equally frightening (at least for me), I challenged myself in a social situation that, a year or even four months ago, I would have never pushed myself to do. When I mentioned it to my co-worker today, she was impressed. :) Sorry that is vague. But let's just say, it ended up being a bit awkward (as expected), but I left feeling so goddamned proud of myself. 

Tonight I went to a book club meeting. Yesterday I vigorously played board games at a coffee shop for four and a half hours. Every day I'm going out and meeting people. It's starting to get, let's dare say ... fun. 

For a self-proclaimed shy person, this is gigantic. 

And I've signed up for a poetry workshop in the fall. I think it'll be good to keep connected with fellow writers, even if I did swear for years I'd never take a formal poetry class ... ahh, the way things change.

To review: 

- If I want to do something, I'm going to try not to let fear get in my way.  Case in points: tattoos, skydiving, awkward social events. 

- Book clubs are lovely, but don't sign up for too many, because then you'll end up reading books while walking down the street, cooking, and walking the dog. I have four books to read in the next month. When writing regularly, going to work, and trying to be social, this is a bit of a feat.

- Listening to really loud rap music is like putting on a bunch of clothes and feeling invulnerable. Not actually a review item, just something I'd like to point out. I'm discovering rap music, cause all my indie rock/folk/Tori Amos/PJ Harvey/Bright Eyes stuff makes me weepy.

That about wraps it up.

?

Do I wave the white flag? It's in my hand. Next month will be autumn. Fall is a really nice time to burrow away, watch a lot of TV, try not to think or create or learn or grow. I can do this very easily. Fade away from the people/places/scenes/mindset I'm trying to be a part of. Step backwards into invisible girl land. Stay there indefinitely.

I'm just so tired. So very tired.

I keep getting out of bed. Making an effort. Interacting with people in genuine ways, even if it leaves me vulnerable. Staying connected to the world. Writing. But it's exhausting, and this morning I'm wondering: how much good is it actually doing? Crazy is not the same as good. Neither is complicated, stressful, or confusing. There used to a healthy sprinkling of bedazzlement, but I'm not feeling it anymore. 

I was talking to a friend at work about my tattoo, the Enda Walsh quote (newly souped up with Disneyesque Van Gogh stars):

the woods no more and only this mountain to climb

And her comment was, "Yeah, but ever notice how sometimes you think you're out of the woods, and then you end up right back there again?"

Or perhaps it's more like this: you're out of the woods, but the open space is just so immense and overwhelming, you head straight back for the shelter of the trees. Knowing fully that you're only hurting yourself in the long run.

You're lost there, but it's a good kind of lost. And so you decide to stay.  

I could do a lot of things in the great open bewildering space of the world. Watch the worst/best movie at the theatre, eat cheesecake, see a punk band, write until I bleed words. And that's just today. 

Or I could just sleep, white flag waving from my bed post. 

 

My choice. 

What I've Learned

Life is complicated. The more folks I meet, the more complicated my life becomes. (Un)fortunately(?), I find that I actually like people. It's the strangest thing, especially for a recovering shy girl. It's also a bit dizzying, because a writer by nature needs to have a certain amount of solitude. I need a few hours every night at the kitchen table with just my ipod and a notepad, or my laptop. Staring off in space. Writing a sentence. And then off I go. 

How did the writers of yore balance themselves? The Henry Millers and Virginia Woolfs and F. Scott Fitzgeralds. Okay, I realize that at least two of those examples had tragic lives that ended early, and F. Scott, at least, had a significant problem balancing the social with the writing life. Not to mention Zelda. Poor Zelda! But you get my gist. 

Even when I am at home, there is no solitude. It is like being adrift in a vast and terrible sea. On a hostile pirate ship. Without a sword, or even a parrot. It's not actually funny, but I find myself unable to talk about "the home situation" without making some kind of joke, or smiling in a wry way. 

It's actually pretty tragic. 

To tell you the truth, there's not one aspect of my life that isn't completely f%cked up right now. The 8:30 to 5 job is the least torturous. In 2011, I would have told you the reverse. In 2011, everything was cats and Doctor Who and endless hypnotic evenings spent knitting cardigans/hats/socks. With some Etsy splurges mixed in. I certainly wasn't exorcising/traumatizing myself by writing. 

Writing saves and drowns at the same time. It's like peeling layers of myself open, examining myself, and thinking simultaneously: oh Jesus/how pretty.

So that's the current state of my world.

How pretty.

Oh Jesus. 

But That Christian Bale Is Kinda Sexy, Yeah?

One Batman-theme potluck ('Bane of my existence' pasta salad, anyone?) and the second viewing of The Dark Knight Rises later, and I feel a bit overindulgent. I do want to revisit The Dark Knight at some point, and start reading the Detective Comic series. Anyone out there with pointers about where to start? Pre or post the New 52? Also, I wonder if there are any non-skeezy archs with Catwoman out there. I read all the complaints about the New 52 reboot. Hmm, I suppose I should take these questions to the nice men and women behind the counter at the Phantom of the Attic ...

It was nice to geek out tonight, though. Good to know there are folks out there who care passionately about comic books and sci-fi and anime, and even that scary board game business, of which I was briefly exposed to, and might want to learn more about. He he. 

It's also nice to hang out with people whose paths don't usually cross mine. No writers in the bunch, or MFA-ers, or anyone with advanced degrees in the creative arts. I love my writerly, teacherly friends, but sometimes it feels good to break away for a bit. I wonder what other little subsets of Pittsburgh culture I can discover? I have no interest in sports-fanaticism, and am frightened of the hipsters ... is there some fringe crafty community out there? People who are a bit out of the demographic for yarn store culture, but who still knit/crochet cowls like speed fiends? Hmm, I wonder. 

There is a scene in TDKR that brings tears to my eyes. Both times I watched the movie. I don't want to spoil it for anyone who hasn't seen it yet, but let's just say: it seems especially apt right now. Searing cinematography, simple, beautiful. I felt it on a very personal level. It resonated in my bones. 

Anyway. There's cookie baking, hair cuts, thrift store rummaging, running, writing, agent-searching, and more generalized socializing on the horizon for tomorrow. If I can scrounge the time, I may even break out the mason jars and can a few bottles of cherry-strawberry preserves. Anything's possible at this point. Right? 

Respite

I overheard a conversation I wasn't supposed to hear today, having to do with myself. Overheard gossip is normally cringe-worthy, but this one was nice. Really nice. 

Basically, it was about how I had made a total 180 in my attitude, appearance, and personality, and started embracing life. The women having this conversation agreed that it was great that I had done this. Am continuing to do this. How it's fear that holds most people back. 

It was the best compliment I've received in a long time. 

And they're absolutely right. Fear is what holds people back. Fear is what held me back for as many years that I was cognitive.

Fear still has an insidious way of creeping in, now and then. It's that little voice, telling me I'm not good enough/smart enough/pretty enough, so I shouldn't even try. The same voice encouraging me to stay at home and watch TV. Why bother going out, meeting new people, strengthening the relationships I already have, experiencing new things? I can shop on Etsy instead. Or just lie in bed and read. And every time I hear it, I have to make a conscious effort to blast it back out. 

So it frightens me, being physically too sick to go out tonight. Yesterday, I pushed myself despite my low-grade fever and scratchy throat. I went out, attended a meeting, had a late dinner in good company. And I'm glad I did. But today, all I could manage was a brief trip to the store for girly supplies (face mask, shampoo, mascara). I almost thought I was going to pass out in the middle of the shiny-floored store. 

So -- apartment bound. I've decided to give it a nice spin. It's a home spa night. I'm dyeing my hair a cheerful color, painting my nails a pink that might not survive the week (we'll see how nauseating it becomes by Monday), watching ridiculous movies, and reading short stories in my pajamas. I may even pop some popcorn. Because I have a crapload of interesting things to do tomorrow. And staying at home does not mean that I'm waving the white flag, giving up, or burrowing myself in.

In Which the Body Says: Cool It

Woke up with a sore throat today. Achy. I drank a lot of hot tea and water, and then did what my body wants as opposed to my mind (which yearns for greasy french fries, preferably waffle fries smothered in daiya cheese and jalapeno peppers and vegan ranch dressing, and god, do I ever miss REAL bacon), which was to go to Whole Foods after work, buy a shitload of beets, carrots, and apples, juice them, and then make a rather macrobiotic dinner of mashed yams, brown rice and roasted brussel sprouts. With chia seed chocolate pudding for dessert, and a few crumbles of buckwheat groats with white chocolate peanut butter/raspberry agave nectar.  Maybe this food diatribe belongs in the other blog. But I feel like writing about it here.

Walked through the graveyard instead of ran, and will forgo my new grueling sit-up regime for tonight. No writing of my 1) new short story, 2) last few chapters of my new novel or 3) my new cycle of poetry. No looking for agents. I'm going to lie down and read, and hope for the best in the morning.

It's been so long since I've been sick, sick enough that my body runs out of juice before my mind does. It feels infuriating somehow. Like progress is being stopped, all my forward motions temporarily halted. 

So yeah. I do this every night while running. I make lists of what I'm grateful for, whizzing past gravestones and gazing up at the sky. It's important to include gratitude in one's life, I feel. Just as long as it doesn't slip into complacency.

I'm in a sharing mood today, so here it is. Off the top of my head.

1) Reading three good short stories in a row (in the Ray Bradbury-inspired collection I recently bought. This is supposed to be spontaneous, so I can't get up to find the title).

2) Cats hiding in Whole Food grocery bags, with just their ears poking out.

3) Raspberry flavored agave nectar. 

4) There is no part of my body currently flaking, oozing, or requires shielding from the sun. Healed tattoos are lovely.

5) Passing the weirdly demonic elderly woman (think: Rosemary's Baby) in the graveyard, who is always carrying a giant tape recorder/cassette player, wanders in at dusk, and says something to me that sounds remarkably like curses  (it's hard to tell, my ipod is always on really loud). But with a lovely smile on her face. There's a short story, right there.

6) Catwoman played by an actress channeling Audrey Hepburn. Audrey Hepburn Catwomans are sexy! Smart catwomans are sexy!

7) That I get to see DKR again this weekend. :) 

8) It no longer freaks me out to meet new people. 

9)  I joined a book club. I've never joined a book club before. Much less one discussing sci-fi at seafood restaurants. Sci-fi and seafood go remarkably well together.

10) Every day. Really. I'm grateful for every day I get to breathe and wake up and be who I'm supposed to be.

No Need for My Own Words Today

You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book (Lady Chatterley, for instance), or you take a trip, or you talk with Richard, and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily delectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children. And then some shock treatment take place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death.

Anais Nin's Diary, Volume One (1931-1934)

Strength

Hello, you.

The you you denied yourself when you were seventeen and listening to "Crucify" on your Walkman, and thinking complicated thoughts that remained on infinite lockdown.

The you wanting to leap with five young deer over crumbling gravestones into the twinkling night.

The you yearning to decorate your body in the lights of the universe and the bright gleaming hope of the solar systems, all of them, real & imagined.

The you who wants to live dangerously/hard/fully, and then have the tenacity & cold steel will to sit down and write it all down, and write it well.

The you pounding your fist, demanding to live beyond the ether of thoughts & dreams.

Salt in My Mouth

Tumultuous. When I was a kid, I'd wade waist-deep into the ocean and face the approaching waves. It seemed necessary that I do this, that I let myself ride alongside the cresting sea foam, to give in to the rhythmic pull of nature. But sometimes a wave would rush in, too large for my skinny little-kid body, and I would tumble feet over head into the current, salt rushing into my nose and mouth.

I never learned how to swim. For those few seconds I lost myself in the wave, lost sense of gravity and the sun and the comforting tug of earth, I thought I might drown. Each and every time. It was terrifying. 

Don't ask me why I kept doing this to myself.

I'm tumbling through a gigantic wave as I type these words. My heartbeat caught in my throat.

I want to know where the goddamned ground is. That soft layer of sand, solid under my feet. Right now, life is uncertain, stormy, and scary as hell.

I feel a confession coming on.

There are things that haunt me. I know I intended trying to live without regret. I'm working on it. But I still have some. Old ones, fading thin-white like scars. New ones, crimson and wince-painful.

Everything I didn't say. The courage that slipped out from under me like an unreliable Peter Pan shadow. Walking away when I shouldn't have. Or staying when I should have walked away.

Just. Know that I feel more strongly than I let on. Sometimes feelings rush and burn through me like a brilliant summer day. I'm afraid of getting hurt. I'm afraid of letting other people in. 

I used to like the idea of pretty little vignettes, with a beginning and an end. I wanted to keep my life contained in that way, compartmentalized, without messiness or drama.  To keep people at arm's length. To say definitely to myself: and that's the end of that.

Just. Know that I meant to do things differently. There are so many yous I'm speaking to right now. So many invitations I should have accepted, or extended; eyes I should have looked into; notes/emails I should have written; phone calls I should have made; people I admired who I let walk out of my life without a word. A casual "hey, want to get dinner sometime?" is so hard for me, even in the most innocuous of situations. I don't remember the last time I asked anyone to lunch, or coffee, or just to hang out in a smoky bar.

Just. Know this. Even if you don't read this blog, or know I have a blog, or that blogs even exist in the world, because you no longer exist in this world. Know this somehow, anyway. That I wish we had that lunch/dinner/coffee/drink. That I could have known you better. 

And if once I tumble out of this wave, I will reach out and tell you this. And I will try not to be afraid. 

In the Thick of It

I hate this groggy weather. I wanted to walk down Murray Avenue, for a bagel or a movie or at least a few distracting minutes of people-watching.

Instead I stayed inside. Where it never got cooler than 79 degrees, even with the air conditioner on full blast. My dog is weary with panting. My cats lie on the kitchen floor as if comatose.

There's so many things I want to write right now.   Let's start with what I can write.

Saturn was colored in, along with a bonus surprise of the milky way perched on my shoulder blade. I love my finished robot tattoo. It's colorful and vibrant, and I can't help but smile when I see it (which is every time I look down, hee hee). That said, some part of me mourns the fact that it's finished. I enjoyed my sessions, despite the moments of extraordinary pain. It feels like something good has ended. 

Here's wishing for a lot more color in my life. Not necessarily in the form of tattoos, but that might be okay too, once my life settles down and my skin has had time to heal/forgive me. Wounded and healed three times since the end of the May -- I don't blame it for being pissed.

I haven't written anything except three pithy paragraphs of my novel yesterday morning. This is unforgivable. I have a draft of a poem over a week old that still doesn't have a satisfying ending. Also unforgivable. Instead I have to deal with "life." For over four months, I've been living in the ethereal space of art/exploration/beauty/thought.

Eerily, my novel has become an exploration of my day-to-day existence. Right now, my characters are preparing for an epic battle. This is not a coincidence. Sometimes the momentum drags, just so I can keep working through issues via my characters. I do feel sorry I'm using them this way. My characters should be independent entities that spring up and surprise me with their autonomy, not pawns in my personal psychodrama. I'm going to have to do some serious editing, once I'm done with this first draft. 

Random things I learned today:

Nine hours of Netflix instant and computer searches turns an ordinarily sharp brain into oatmeal-mush. 

Spring mix salads taste superb with low-fat ginger dressing, and nothing else. Sometimes, just sometimes, it tastes better than anything else in the world. 

I wonder what will happen next. My eyes are wide open. In wonder. In disbelief.

Bombs

I keep bombs in the fridge.

My stereotypical weaknesses infuriate me. Food is such a girly weapon of choice. 

One piece of apple pie = 411 calories. I don't know this intrinsically, at least. I googled it.

It wasn't even a good piece of pie. It was Giant Eagle variety, complete with a horrible sugared crust. I ate it anyway.

At least I didn't buy the whole pie.

There's that.

Why punish myself? Is it because of the looming storm of change/the unknown/loneliness/freedom? I had a relatively good night, at first. I went to the movies, and then to the grocery store. A small child made me smile outside the theatre. "Mommy," he said, "Why is the sidewalk sparkling? Is it magic?"

 

I liked his mother's response considerably less: "Don't be stupid," she said.

I wanted to tell him, "It's not stupid. You're right, it's wonderful that the sidewalk sparkles."

Instead, I walked silently to the car. And I found myself shaking. The wave of sadness is overwhelming sometimes. It's exactly things like a sparkling sidewalk that matter right now. Those small things. A pretty girl riding a red bicycle in Shadyside. A kind friend's text message. A poignant line of poetry, which I run through my mind like a strand of jewelry. Solace can come from anywhere.

And that, I suppose, is how I wound up with the pie. I'm a fragile little eggshell. Even a stranger's comment (and not even directed at me!) has the power to make me shatter, just a little.

I need to be stronger. My bones filled with titanium, my skin sealed with diamond. Impervious.

When I look in his eyes, I feel ??

Too much? Too little?

Ten True Things About Today

1) My co-workers are passing around a smutty book (aka erotic fiction). It was recently handed off to me, and I have learned that a) I don't harbor secret fantasies about young CEOs (or CEOs of any age, really) with expensive tastes and b) there are way too many young women tripping over themselves into traffic or in the path of runaway cars. That said, I'm still reading the book.

2) Graveyards are really the best places for running and thinking. Also listening to music really loudly on your ipod. Today was the Black Keys with a short interlude for Rasputina's "Doomsday Averted."

3) I pissed off a waiter at a Korean restaurant today for redeeming a gift certificate. Normally I might have felt slightly upset/offended by this. Today, not so much. There are bigger things to worry about. Anyway, if a restaurant doesn't want you to redeem gift certificates, maybe they ought to stop offering them for sale. Just a thought.

4) Waterproof mascara is really the way to go. Also, waterproof eyeliner. And what the hell is in mascara anyway, to burn your eyes so much when you're crying? Horrible, evil chemicals.

5) I got a haircut. It was painful, as usual. Not physically painful. Just socially awkward. I had to endure some "robot" comments. My bag, tattoo, and earring appear to attract a lot of attention. Also, I want to know why the guy next to me was allowed to swivel his chair around to stare at me the entire time he was getting his buzz cut or whatever. His stylist just shifted around to accommodate him without a word. Isn't it proper protocol to stare straight at the mirror, not at other customers?

6) I don't know how to move forward with my novel. I have no idea what happens next. I keep writing, and hoping something will come to me, but so far -- nothing.

7) I ate way too many peanut products today. Peanut butter, beyond my normal oatmeal quota. Some salted peanuts too. This is nervous eating, which just makes me even more nervous, so it's got to stop. 

8) I don't have any inkling how my life will be six months from now. Yesterday, I heard a coworker say that Christmas was exactly six months away. It's so weird to think about. My life is morphing so rapidly, day by day, almost hour by hour. It's overwhelming to imagine the future, even six months into the future. I can't even think about August, or the middle of July.

9) I really need to clean this apartment. It is getting critical. 

10) I don't have a number ten.

Tiny Desk Mantras

Gratitude. And no regrets.

Repeat as necessary.

On Being Asian

So here's the thing. I'm Asian. To be specific, I'm Chinese/Japanese/German/Hawaiian/Dutch/Scotch. I grew up in Hawaii, where 90% of all the people around me were either Asian, Hawaiian, or Samoan. So it was a shock to a system when I moved to a small town in Kentucky and faced racial stereotypes for the first time. 

I had spitballs thrown in my hair. The school librarian asked me how the voting system worked "in my country." I saw a refrigerator saleswoman from Sears all but drape herself over my stepfather, gushing that he must have worked in Hawaii as a missionary, bringing the word of God to those "savage people."

Was it a coincidence that I discovered feminism around this time? I was isolated, bored, and bewildered. My brother and I went from seeing our father twice a week to twice a year. My stepfather was abusive, both verbally (to everyone) and physically (to my mother). I used to spend nights locked in my walk-in closet, praying that the screams I heard didn't mean my mother was dying. Once I witnessed him trying to strangle her to death. It still bothers me that I didn't call the police. Afterwards, her speech was jumbled for a week, and my stepbrothers laughed at her.

Later, we went to the police together, my mother and I. We filed police reports, a restraining order. I helped her get a divorce, to escape. My brother and I rallied around her. We survived.

But before that, I read riot grrl zines, listened to Bikini Kill and Hole. I realized that the world was a cruel, vicious place. I didn't think any man could be trusted. I learned to sleep with a knife under my pillow.

And then I found out about the Asian fetish. This is where guys (typically white men) date Asian women exclusively. They date Asian women because of their Asian-ness. Because of their long black hair, almond eyes, sleek bodies. They assume Asian women are submissive to their men. Except in bed, of course, because that's where Asian women are ANIMALS! 

For years, I fought against this stereotype. All Asian stereotypes, really. No, I'm not good at Math. No, I don't speak any other language except English. My parents aren't immigrants. I can't go back to wherever I came from, because where I'm from is America, goddamnit. And no, I'm not sexy. I'm not remotely sexy. So leave me alone.

I was so concerned about becoming an Asian stereotype that I loped off parts of myself. I didn't wear anything that might be construed as sexy. I didn't smile at strange men. Ever. I tried to disappear into the stratosphere. I almost succeeded.

Now I tell myself: Okay, so you're a woman. And an Asian. And yeah, on the right day you're even kind of sexy. But that isn't all you are. And it doesn't mean you're playing into any Asian fetish stereotypes. So just relax. 

And finally, finally -- I'm allowing myself to be me. 

 

A few interesting articles I found about the Asian fetish:

1) What is Exotic Beauty? Part II: The Case of the Asian Fetish by Goal Auzeen Saedi.
2) Yellow Fellow: Dating as An Asian Woman by Lauren sMash

In the End

There is nothing more I want than to return to this.

There is nothing that terrifies me more than to return to this.

Where I Am Today

In the fading of the constellations, I am growing strong

                                              "Pink Light," Laura Veirs

In Which I Go To My First Meetup

And don't meet a single person! Sigh. You can read more about this on my veghead blog here. Don't worry about the super-cheerful tone of my writing -- I'm always chirpier in that space.

These days, my life has been tumultuous. It's like I'm a tornado, sweeping through the plains of day-night-day-night. Every time the sun rises, it brings a new challenge. And I have to say to myself: do I rise to face it, or fall back into old ways of not dealing? I felt some amount of solace when I read this Anais Nin quote

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. 

I've always admired Nin. She did what felt right to her, even when it looked bat shit crazy to other people (or sometimes illegal, in the case of the affair with her own father). She regretted some of her decisions later, but she always made a point to live fully, to be present in every situation. 

I have trouble with that. Living fully. Half of my brain is musing about the future, the other half lost in the past. Maybe ten percent processes what's going on in real time. Which is actually a lot better than what it used to be. Still, there's progress to be made. 

So yes to blossoming! To doing what makes me uncomfortable if I believe that it's important, if I can feel the truth of it jangling about in my bones.

Courage. Maybe I should write a note to myself on my arm: For God's sake, don't forget to be brave. In permanent marker. 

Of course, I already have a note of courage on my arm. In the most permanent of markers ever. The mountain in the quote, that's the rest of my life. I got through the metaphorical woods. Now there's a freaking mountain to climb. And I'm not going to let myself sit at the bottom and cry instead. 

I went to Barnes and Noble after the Meetup disaster to console myself. I picked up a copy of the latest VegNews as well as a tattoo magazine. Amelia Nightmare is my new heroine. Why do I heart her? Because she's whismical and sexy, her tattoos have a specific color scheme (and are all beautiful), and she's Asian. I'm planning a whopping big blog post on this in the future: the whole Asian thing. But for now, let's just say: yay for sexy Asian girls! 

Sometimes I Love You Just a Little, Pittsburgh

For your blue skies and pretty graveyards
For lovely vegetarian coffee shops
For outdoor concerts and just popped kettle corn
For Jamaican tacos and tattooed waitresses and bars filled with starry artificial trees