The last four weeks have been a zinger. My brother in law had a massive aortic rupture without warning. We were in the ICU in Orange for days.
Open heart surgery that lasted twelve hours. We were brimming to the rim with sadness and anxiety but we couldn’t break.
No sleep, so much grief, heartbreaking decisions, and it all felt like a bad dream. Then he passed on the fourth day. I fell to the ground. “Must get up,” I thought. So I did.
Funeral to plan. Collages to make. Still had to go to work. Every day.
My family shattered. Glass on floor. Husband in pieces and 84 year old mother in law a zombie. Then clothes to bring, photos to copy for montage and a reception to plan and much more. His 13 year old son to comfort. A eulogy to write. I didn’t cry, not even once, that week. I read Joan Didion’s “The Year of Magical Thinking” straight through (not my first time).
Then funeral. More hazy moments. Friends in the seats are the only thing that kept me sane. I felt my family shrinking. I spoke. But felt weightless and floating over myself. Watching it all.
Reception. I couldn’t eat. Beer then more beer. Too many (exemplified by me saying “This is for the homie” with tears in my eyes pouring beer on the grass.)
The worst was the next day.
The sinking in of grief.
My house felt like a tomb.
Panorama of San Bernardino
Tuesday, March 13, 2018
Saturday, February 10, 2018
What I Am
Something is going on with me. It’s why I haven’t written a blog in almost a month. I keep restarting. Maybe I have nothing to say. Or maybe too much to say. And no way to say it.
I am tongue tied. My thoughts are in flummox. My anxiety at an all high. Therapy is helpful but no one but me can really help me.
It may be that I feel aimless. Like a compass whose needle is broken, I am spinning and don’t know where to go from here. My heart (i.e., god, the universe, my intuition, whatever you want to call it) is pulling me toward my art and an artistic free lifestyle. But, life (the idea that one should be pragmatic and practical at forty something) is saying calm down, you have it good. I have a great job I love, but there are days where I watch all of the misery in court and want to break free.
To see my many clients in shackles breaks something in me each day. They shuffle into court and many in our courtroom probably don’t see them for who they are. But for me, their humanity is omnipresent. They are children of God. And by participating in the barbaric process of human confinement, am I perpetuating it? My concerns are real and true. To stay doing what I am doing you have to fortify yourself and I don’t want to be so tough that I become jaded or callous.
So what to do? I’m sitting here in Vegas wide awake at 5 am. It’s our Valentine’s trip and I should be having a blast instead of pondering life’s questions. Or at the very least sleeping.
But instead I just keep asking myself, “why am I here?”
In an effort to alleviate a little of the darkness of this piece, I have to quote from the song that’s been running in my head while writing this blog, “What I Am” by Edie Brickell because it seems fitting (and because I just love this song):
“Shove me in the shallow waters
Before I get too deep
What I am is what I am
Are you what you are or what?
What I am is what I am
Are you what you are, or?
Oh, I'm not aware of too many things
I know what I know, if you know what I mean“...
I am tongue tied. My thoughts are in flummox. My anxiety at an all high. Therapy is helpful but no one but me can really help me.
It may be that I feel aimless. Like a compass whose needle is broken, I am spinning and don’t know where to go from here. My heart (i.e., god, the universe, my intuition, whatever you want to call it) is pulling me toward my art and an artistic free lifestyle. But, life (the idea that one should be pragmatic and practical at forty something) is saying calm down, you have it good. I have a great job I love, but there are days where I watch all of the misery in court and want to break free.
To see my many clients in shackles breaks something in me each day. They shuffle into court and many in our courtroom probably don’t see them for who they are. But for me, their humanity is omnipresent. They are children of God. And by participating in the barbaric process of human confinement, am I perpetuating it? My concerns are real and true. To stay doing what I am doing you have to fortify yourself and I don’t want to be so tough that I become jaded or callous.
So what to do? I’m sitting here in Vegas wide awake at 5 am. It’s our Valentine’s trip and I should be having a blast instead of pondering life’s questions. Or at the very least sleeping.
But instead I just keep asking myself, “why am I here?”
In an effort to alleviate a little of the darkness of this piece, I have to quote from the song that’s been running in my head while writing this blog, “What I Am” by Edie Brickell because it seems fitting (and because I just love this song):
“Shove me in the shallow waters
Before I get too deep
What I am is what I am
Are you what you are or what?
What I am is what I am
Are you what you are, or?
Oh, I'm not aware of too many things
I know what I know, if you know what I mean“...
Saturday, January 13, 2018
New Year Resolutions
This year, I am in an odd place. I have a fulfilling job, a lovely house, and a supportive husband. But, something is missing.
It seems I spent my whole life trying to get here. And now I don’t know where to go. My dreams of having a baby ended with heartache. That dream is closed for now. Still, I have another dream, a writing dream. My book is still in its gestational stage. For years, I have had a rough draft of my book, but in many ways, I am no longer the person who wrote those stories. Yet, I know in my heart that the story needs to be told.
All of the best stories are based on truth. Maybe not a literal truth always, instead, sometimes, a figurative truth. My story is memoir, but there is also an artistic license one must take at times. It is called creative nonfiction for a reason. My goal is to always capture the truth of my childhood. And, as I’ve said before, my dad’s voice echoes in my head at times wanting to be captured on the page.
For many years, I have put off looking at myself in the mirror. To write about oneself truthfully, one must know oneself. And I may know myself, but sometimes, I don’t like what I see.
So this year, I pledge to see myself and to work on myself so that the me I write about, is who I want to be.
It seems I spent my whole life trying to get here. And now I don’t know where to go. My dreams of having a baby ended with heartache. That dream is closed for now. Still, I have another dream, a writing dream. My book is still in its gestational stage. For years, I have had a rough draft of my book, but in many ways, I am no longer the person who wrote those stories. Yet, I know in my heart that the story needs to be told.
All of the best stories are based on truth. Maybe not a literal truth always, instead, sometimes, a figurative truth. My story is memoir, but there is also an artistic license one must take at times. It is called creative nonfiction for a reason. My goal is to always capture the truth of my childhood. And, as I’ve said before, my dad’s voice echoes in my head at times wanting to be captured on the page.
For many years, I have put off looking at myself in the mirror. To write about oneself truthfully, one must know oneself. And I may know myself, but sometimes, I don’t like what I see.
So this year, I pledge to see myself and to work on myself so that the me I write about, is who I want to be.
Saturday, December 30, 2017
Portrait of an artist
I saw two movies the other day, both about coming of age, Ladybird and England is Mine. The genre is called bildungsroman in literature (by far, the best example is Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce) and is when a protagonist comes to age and significant change occurs. Out of the two, the one that stuck with me was England is Mine. Ladybird was a good movie, but the protagonist didn’t really change. She stayed the entitled brat she was, but just moved to a different location.
England is Mine is the opposite. And very different. It is the story of Morrissey before he was the epic Morrissey and before he was part of The Smiths (which anyone who reads this blog knows is my favorite band of all time). In the film, he is no star yet, just Steven, a young man in early adulthood who hates his job and yearns for something more. He is not entitled because he has little, but instead is scared of not fulfilling his destiny. And above all, he, like James Joyce (and Ladybird for that matter) wants to leave the bleakness of his home town.
Manchester is dark, dank and small. At least in the film. As someone who grew up in her own sad town, and couldn’t wait to leave, I related to this plight. Yet I also know, we always end up right back from where we came either literally (me) or figuratively (Joyce through his works centering on Dublin life).
Morrissey, even back then, is going to gig after gig and writing reviews. Everyone knows Morrissey as a singer but above all he is a writer. The film emphasizes this. Young Morrissey is always furiously writing. Everywhere. At home, at shows, at work, and even on the roof. He is a bit shy and awkward, but he loves music, especially the NY Dolls. He loses himself in it. Singing alone in his room at first, and then on stage with Billy Duffy (later of Cult fame).
Now some stuff in the film is disputed. Morrissey says he never played on stage with Duffy. But does it matter? The point is that Morrissey is a star up there. You see the brilliance in one short song. The awkwardness falls away and in place of the sad lonely boy is a superstar.
I think, in the end, that is what made me love the film. For it showed how strong that light was, shining inside, just awaiting to be set free for the world to see.
England is Mine is the opposite. And very different. It is the story of Morrissey before he was the epic Morrissey and before he was part of The Smiths (which anyone who reads this blog knows is my favorite band of all time). In the film, he is no star yet, just Steven, a young man in early adulthood who hates his job and yearns for something more. He is not entitled because he has little, but instead is scared of not fulfilling his destiny. And above all, he, like James Joyce (and Ladybird for that matter) wants to leave the bleakness of his home town.
Manchester is dark, dank and small. At least in the film. As someone who grew up in her own sad town, and couldn’t wait to leave, I related to this plight. Yet I also know, we always end up right back from where we came either literally (me) or figuratively (Joyce through his works centering on Dublin life).
Morrissey, even back then, is going to gig after gig and writing reviews. Everyone knows Morrissey as a singer but above all he is a writer. The film emphasizes this. Young Morrissey is always furiously writing. Everywhere. At home, at shows, at work, and even on the roof. He is a bit shy and awkward, but he loves music, especially the NY Dolls. He loses himself in it. Singing alone in his room at first, and then on stage with Billy Duffy (later of Cult fame).
Now some stuff in the film is disputed. Morrissey says he never played on stage with Duffy. But does it matter? The point is that Morrissey is a star up there. You see the brilliance in one short song. The awkwardness falls away and in place of the sad lonely boy is a superstar.
I think, in the end, that is what made me love the film. For it showed how strong that light was, shining inside, just awaiting to be set free for the world to see.
Monday, December 25, 2017
Christmas past
When I think back about my father, who has been gone more than a decade, Christmas memories are often involved. Writing about the past can be tricky. There are tense issues, idealization and memory issues. But writing about my dad and Christmas is easy. I remember it all in bright technicolor.
Dad loved Christmas. I’ve written about his love of it before. He would decorate the house with huge bulbs. Our tree was a labor of love, made complete with tinsel and a chirping bird.
And the food! Christmas dinner was always a glazed ham, a ham so shiny and pink as if fake. Dessert would be his homemade donuts and fruit pies made in the sandwich maker.
Back then, no one ate out for dinner regularly. Dad cooked every night no matter how tired he was. And on Christmas, he put out a huge spread all by himself: that shiny ham, turkey, homemade mash (that I hated and called lumpy so used to instant from the box which Mom favored), potato salad, rolls, cranberries, stuffing (my dad always made an epic stuffing), the list goes on.
And Dad would wake up early to make us all Christmas breakfast. Dad loved a surprise and would chortle with glee as he made pancakes with peanut butter and jelly inside or carefully crafted a pancake in the shape of a heart.
My father was all heart. Dad would always hug me so tight that I would squirm away. He would always say “I love you”. Even in front of my friends. I would get embarrassed and mumble back “love you too”. Then wave him away.
Thinking about it makes me weep while writing this. Dad was so open. He taught me that the capacity to love is in one’s intent. Give love and you shall receive, albeit the truest affection will come later in memories. And written words.
The hardest part of my infertility is the thought that no one will remember me like I remember my dad. In a way, he is still vividly alive in my head. The only way to translate those images in my mind’s eye is through prose.
I so wish I had a child I could show my father’s pictures to. I would start with how he loved Christmas and that his giving unselfish nature was the personification of the holiday.
Then I would end with a huge hug, and say “I love you” just like Dad would.
Dad loved Christmas. I’ve written about his love of it before. He would decorate the house with huge bulbs. Our tree was a labor of love, made complete with tinsel and a chirping bird.
And the food! Christmas dinner was always a glazed ham, a ham so shiny and pink as if fake. Dessert would be his homemade donuts and fruit pies made in the sandwich maker.
Back then, no one ate out for dinner regularly. Dad cooked every night no matter how tired he was. And on Christmas, he put out a huge spread all by himself: that shiny ham, turkey, homemade mash (that I hated and called lumpy so used to instant from the box which Mom favored), potato salad, rolls, cranberries, stuffing (my dad always made an epic stuffing), the list goes on.
And Dad would wake up early to make us all Christmas breakfast. Dad loved a surprise and would chortle with glee as he made pancakes with peanut butter and jelly inside or carefully crafted a pancake in the shape of a heart.
My father was all heart. Dad would always hug me so tight that I would squirm away. He would always say “I love you”. Even in front of my friends. I would get embarrassed and mumble back “love you too”. Then wave him away.
Thinking about it makes me weep while writing this. Dad was so open. He taught me that the capacity to love is in one’s intent. Give love and you shall receive, albeit the truest affection will come later in memories. And written words.
The hardest part of my infertility is the thought that no one will remember me like I remember my dad. In a way, he is still vividly alive in my head. The only way to translate those images in my mind’s eye is through prose.
I so wish I had a child I could show my father’s pictures to. I would start with how he loved Christmas and that his giving unselfish nature was the personification of the holiday.
Then I would end with a huge hug, and say “I love you” just like Dad would.
Friday, December 22, 2017
These are the days
There is something going on with me. I feel as if the world is so chaotic that I cannot breathe some days. All of the things that make now now, cell phones, computers, the internet, text, email, Snapchat, Facebook, FaceTime, the list goes on and on, are starting to stress me out.
I come upstairs after work and instead of reading, I scroll. Scrolling is the mental equivalent of eating candy. It has no intellectual nutrition. Now, not all scrolling is meaningless. Sometimes, you find doggie photos that make you smile, a worthy find, and sometimes you find gold. Yesterday, I clicked on a beautiful essay by Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s widow about his death and path of addiction. And I read it and wept.
I guess my point is that most of the time, people are missing out on these kind of moments because they don’t even read anymore. They scan headlines. They think they got the gist. But essays take more than one sentence. Essays are fully structured thoughts and conclusions put into prose. People think an essay just gets written but no, it is tweaked then re tweaked and edited and re-edited until it meets final form.
I suppose what I fear is that one day, no one will read full essays much less books. And I am scared that this new generation of would be readers would rather have it in a video or a snap. Writing is an art, and when done right and read fully, writing inspires. Yes, it is taking what’s in our brains and translating it into code. But writing is more than that technical process. Ultimately, great writing (no matter the genre) is about tapping into a subconscious to create that which transcends.
So my friends, next time you come home, scroll if you must. But then, click on the content and read and savor it. And when you see a book that captures your oh so flighty attention for a moment, dare I say, buy it?
I come upstairs after work and instead of reading, I scroll. Scrolling is the mental equivalent of eating candy. It has no intellectual nutrition. Now, not all scrolling is meaningless. Sometimes, you find doggie photos that make you smile, a worthy find, and sometimes you find gold. Yesterday, I clicked on a beautiful essay by Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s widow about his death and path of addiction. And I read it and wept.
I guess my point is that most of the time, people are missing out on these kind of moments because they don’t even read anymore. They scan headlines. They think they got the gist. But essays take more than one sentence. Essays are fully structured thoughts and conclusions put into prose. People think an essay just gets written but no, it is tweaked then re tweaked and edited and re-edited until it meets final form.
I suppose what I fear is that one day, no one will read full essays much less books. And I am scared that this new generation of would be readers would rather have it in a video or a snap. Writing is an art, and when done right and read fully, writing inspires. Yes, it is taking what’s in our brains and translating it into code. But writing is more than that technical process. Ultimately, great writing (no matter the genre) is about tapping into a subconscious to create that which transcends.
So my friends, next time you come home, scroll if you must. But then, click on the content and read and savor it. And when you see a book that captures your oh so flighty attention for a moment, dare I say, buy it?
Saturday, December 16, 2017
Here comes your band
On Wednesday night, my husband and I saw the Pixies. We’ve seen them many times, but despite seeing them so many times, their music never gets stale. For one, I’ve loved them since high school and their album Doolittle was the soundtrack to my catastrophic senior year. And they always play the old favorites like Where Is My Mind, Debaser and Wave of Mutilation. Also, they’ve put out two new albums in the last couple years and their newer music is sublime, songs that capture you with their off kilter melodies. And finally, Frank Black’s voice is perfection. It’s grainy but pure at the same time. If that makes any sense.
We left Riverside at five in the evening. It took us an anxiety inducing almost two hours to get to Hollywood. We parked for a ridiculous price and went to the Bowery, a bar across the street. The bar was tiny with small high tops against the wall and I felt like I was hanging off the edge of the narrow seat. This place was made for small skinny hipsters, not voluptuous forty somethings. But I let my anxiety go and we relaxed and ordered some food. Adrian ordered whiskey and I had one beer then remembered that I’m driving home so quickly switched to Diet Coke. After we ate (this isn’t a food blog, but just for texture, I ate the chicken sliders with spinach sans fries and husband had a burger with fries), we paid and walked back across the street to the Hollywood Palladium.
As we crossed the street, I felt the adrenaline and it was like I was sixteen again.
Inside, it was time for our mandatory "merch" (hello short for merchandise). In line, a girl with a Smurfette bag and a huge skirt with dolls on it cut in front of me in line. Her Smurfette bag kept hitting me while I waited. I said aloud (I couldn’t help myself), "Everyone, beware the Smurfette bag". The girl made a face at me after she finished her slower than snail order.
My hubby opted for the hoodie and I chose the Pixies cat girl tee but visibly shuddered when they said large only. It’s a girl tee and I knew my boobs would be squished so I asked, “no extra large?” The merch dude answered my reasonable question with a monosyllabic annoyed "no" and I winced and bought the shirt anyway and said, “Guess I will stretch it out then." A girl with cool rockabilly hair replied, “Cut the sides and add in some leopard fabric.” “Great idea,” I responded (knowing I can’t sew a stitch).
The opening band, Eagles of Death Metal, were on stage playing so after I changed my shirt from one Pixies tee to another (cat shirt did fit, yeah!), we walked inside the auditorium. We were on the floor, and being five foot three, I couldn't see anything standing next to six foot plus tall Adrian on the floor. I shook my head and walked around to the middle and got shooed to the side by a guy with a flashlight. But the side I get shooed to was perfect.
There was a white line you were not supposed to cross, but other than that, there was only one person in front of me on the banister. I had an unobstructed view and I knew, I couldn’t leave so I got comfortable and placed my tote with Adrian's hoodie on the floor. Adrian walked over and we hunkered down.
Eagles of Death Metal, despite their name, were an old fashioned garage style rock band and I was in heaven. There was a little blues in there too and they reminded me a bit of one of my favorite 1970s bands The New York Dolls. When they did a Bowie song (Moonage Daydream) I was hooked.
After EODM, the stage hands came out and checked the mikes and instruments and next on were the Pixies. The Pixies started their set with three ferocious classics, Gouge Away, U Mass and Wave of Mutilation, and I sang and danced along. Then they played two newer tunes which I loved. Head Carrier, the title track of the new album and another track off the latest album, Um Chagga Lagga. It went on and on for 34 songs. The Pixies played all of my favorites, including Where Is My Mind, Here Comes Your Man, Hey, Nimrod's Son and others. And they added in newer stuff too. Songs like Classic Masher, Tenement Song and Bel Esprit. The songs got in my head and I knew that the next day, I would listen to them on repeat with the new bad ass bassist Paz’s rythmic bass lines dancing in my head.
By the end of the night, it was almost midnight and Adrian was exhausted. We had both worked all day and yet, somehow, I was still pumped. I literally pogo danced to the last couple of songs, fist in the air, singing and dancing along with the twenty somethings that made up most of the crowd. It was my band dammit. And I was there. In the moment.
We left right before the last encore song (sigh, of course, it was my favorite song Debaser), but it was OK because I had to work early in the morning and we needed to get on the road. Adrian nodded off and I drove the whole way home singing along to the Pixies on Pandora.
My point of this essay is not that these moments mean anything in particular. My point is that these moments are everything. Life is about going to a concert and singing along. Life is about crying when you hear a Bowie song. And even, having a girl in a doll skirt hit you with their Smurfette bag.
The details of life matter and so do the moments. So savor them my friends. And write them down to remember. And please sing along and dance.
We left Riverside at five in the evening. It took us an anxiety inducing almost two hours to get to Hollywood. We parked for a ridiculous price and went to the Bowery, a bar across the street. The bar was tiny with small high tops against the wall and I felt like I was hanging off the edge of the narrow seat. This place was made for small skinny hipsters, not voluptuous forty somethings. But I let my anxiety go and we relaxed and ordered some food. Adrian ordered whiskey and I had one beer then remembered that I’m driving home so quickly switched to Diet Coke. After we ate (this isn’t a food blog, but just for texture, I ate the chicken sliders with spinach sans fries and husband had a burger with fries), we paid and walked back across the street to the Hollywood Palladium.
As we crossed the street, I felt the adrenaline and it was like I was sixteen again.
Inside, it was time for our mandatory "merch" (hello short for merchandise). In line, a girl with a Smurfette bag and a huge skirt with dolls on it cut in front of me in line. Her Smurfette bag kept hitting me while I waited. I said aloud (I couldn’t help myself), "Everyone, beware the Smurfette bag". The girl made a face at me after she finished her slower than snail order.
My hubby opted for the hoodie and I chose the Pixies cat girl tee but visibly shuddered when they said large only. It’s a girl tee and I knew my boobs would be squished so I asked, “no extra large?” The merch dude answered my reasonable question with a monosyllabic annoyed "no" and I winced and bought the shirt anyway and said, “Guess I will stretch it out then." A girl with cool rockabilly hair replied, “Cut the sides and add in some leopard fabric.” “Great idea,” I responded (knowing I can’t sew a stitch).
The opening band, Eagles of Death Metal, were on stage playing so after I changed my shirt from one Pixies tee to another (cat shirt did fit, yeah!), we walked inside the auditorium. We were on the floor, and being five foot three, I couldn't see anything standing next to six foot plus tall Adrian on the floor. I shook my head and walked around to the middle and got shooed to the side by a guy with a flashlight. But the side I get shooed to was perfect.
There was a white line you were not supposed to cross, but other than that, there was only one person in front of me on the banister. I had an unobstructed view and I knew, I couldn’t leave so I got comfortable and placed my tote with Adrian's hoodie on the floor. Adrian walked over and we hunkered down.
Eagles of Death Metal, despite their name, were an old fashioned garage style rock band and I was in heaven. There was a little blues in there too and they reminded me a bit of one of my favorite 1970s bands The New York Dolls. When they did a Bowie song (Moonage Daydream) I was hooked.
After EODM, the stage hands came out and checked the mikes and instruments and next on were the Pixies. The Pixies started their set with three ferocious classics, Gouge Away, U Mass and Wave of Mutilation, and I sang and danced along. Then they played two newer tunes which I loved. Head Carrier, the title track of the new album and another track off the latest album, Um Chagga Lagga. It went on and on for 34 songs. The Pixies played all of my favorites, including Where Is My Mind, Here Comes Your Man, Hey, Nimrod's Son and others. And they added in newer stuff too. Songs like Classic Masher, Tenement Song and Bel Esprit. The songs got in my head and I knew that the next day, I would listen to them on repeat with the new bad ass bassist Paz’s rythmic bass lines dancing in my head.
By the end of the night, it was almost midnight and Adrian was exhausted. We had both worked all day and yet, somehow, I was still pumped. I literally pogo danced to the last couple of songs, fist in the air, singing and dancing along with the twenty somethings that made up most of the crowd. It was my band dammit. And I was there. In the moment.
We left right before the last encore song (sigh, of course, it was my favorite song Debaser), but it was OK because I had to work early in the morning and we needed to get on the road. Adrian nodded off and I drove the whole way home singing along to the Pixies on Pandora.
My point of this essay is not that these moments mean anything in particular. My point is that these moments are everything. Life is about going to a concert and singing along. Life is about crying when you hear a Bowie song. And even, having a girl in a doll skirt hit you with their Smurfette bag.
The details of life matter and so do the moments. So savor them my friends. And write them down to remember. And please sing along and dance.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)