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damn, do i ever need to go to the ocean. i need to go to the city, to boston. i want to go to new york, even, to see the crushing blow without the aid of video footage, and attempt, somehow, to get my head around a tiny part of it. going out into the public, i think, may be the only way to begin moving forward. and that's what i'm doing: moving a little at a time, working and playing. praying. part of me feels guilty for having a good time of any sort, as if we have a duty as citizens and a responsibility to the lost to keep the situation at the forefront of our minds. my mother described the scene at mass this morning, where a photograph of a local girl my age hung in front of the altar, as the pastor wove god into the tragedy, offering hope, condolances, and joining the parish in renewed faith. my mother told me that her mother was there, sobbing. i feel guilty that i am not sobbing. i've cried during the past week, in small unexpected moments, but those moments do not capture everything. perhaps i'm not satisfied moving my own life forward - i want to move the nation forward, the victims' families forward. donating blood and money doesn't feel like enough. i should be rebuilding, with my hands. daily, there is singing and laughing. i missed you too. |
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we do what we have to do. that is all i keep thinking in the back of my mind. this afternoon, my mom called me up and said: "christine, i just wanted to tell you that" -- in her most serious of serious tones of voice -- "we are going to las vegas this weekend." she proceeded to give me instructions, who to call, where to go, in case something happens. to me. to them. to los angeles. to the world. and then she pleaded with me: "but don't go anywhere public, okay?" because if i go out in public i am at a greater risk of getting hurt than she and my dad and their friends who are going to vegas. somehow. how ridiculous, i thought, until i realized that they are not much different than i. last night, my friends and i went to the ocean. we sat under the plane-free sky and lit a fire and sang songs, and i think we all felt a little guilty for feeling the peace and comfort that we did. but it was just what we needed. my parents' vegas trip is my jaunt to the beach. there is no right way to cope or grieve or live. we do what we have to do. i told my mom i would be safe but i made no other promises, because i am not going to stay indoors, lock myself up in my bedroom and glue myself to screens. i need to feel the air on my skin and hear voices in my ears and see life before my eyes. and this. this helps. communion and community is more comforting and beautiful and cherished than ever. i missed you, too, but i am glad you're (we're) back. |
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i missed this, and i'm so sorry that it's been so long, that i've lost touch. to take a whole summer off for drink and sport and sleep, and plug back up for the country's worst disaster. i need this now, to talk. so many wonderful things happened during these warm months. beautiful months. i've been working as a cook, reading so much, relaxing so often, trying to decide what to do in the coming months, and now all these little plans and stories seem so empty, small. and i feel small. i had my head full of big ideas, thanks to books... ideas and ideals still possible, but overshadowed by loss of life, so many horrible stories. i am glad you are okay, that all my friends and family are healthy. yesterday, alison wrote, "we are all made of paper". i know only slight loss, gentle loneliness. i want to feel more pain that i have been experiencing, i want to internalize all of the events, the loss, the uncertainty, and stew in it all until it hurts so much that i can look at anyone and know what they have felt, tell their stories as my own, want something or someone so badly. writing helps and writing hurts. i want to talk to and hold everyone i know at once, take nothing for granted and stay in that moment, dodging the routine daily crap that keeps people apart. humans are meant to live together, among others constantly, as one entity, a community. not only after tragedy, but always, so the hurt does not hit so hard. to let communication disappear is to let disrespect appear, is to box oneself into a shallow solidarity, and i'm sorry, and i hope to hear from you. |
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i know, it's been a while. i know. i don't know if i can explain it, but i got the strangest sense of stagefright -- just with this site. here we were, talking about inspiration and creativity and getting things done, and all i could do was watch the same words pop up on the screen. i would click over to my text editor, type a few sentences and backspace it clean again. it wasn't that i was at a loss for words, really. i just didn't know how to proceed. i still don't, but i missed this and i could not let myself let it go. hi. the past month i've been grappling with a case of i-bit-more-than-i-can-chew. there's that spell that i think artists of any kind go through: a drought, a block, a void of any creativity. but there's also that burst of creativity, an attack of intense inspiration and the desire to do everything at once. in both cases, the outcome can be a paralysis of sorts, an inability to move forward or accomplish anything. when this happens to me, i just have to let it go. i have to do everything else. otherwise, my head feels like it's going to implode. after doing a lot of nothing, and then sitting down and making a list of priorities, i feel i've got a better grasp of the things i want and need to do. and i'm here, now, ready to talk some more. ready for some big questions and deep answers. are you still with me? |
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during my senior year of college, i had all kinds of creative projects going on in addition to a heavy load of english courses. i spent my free time working on my first website, taking pictures, building 3D video game levels, writing songs and poems. i remember studying in the library one night during finals, swamped with work because i had put off papers and essays for so long. and with all of that work piled in front of me, all i could think about were song lyrics, game level layouts, and site designs. it's always when i'm overwhelemed with tasks that i become the most creative, if not productive. when i'm overwhelmed with free time, i have trouble disciplining myself. so i wonder if a leave of absence would do me good. it would certainly give me a chance to record that seminal hip-hop album i've been planning. but i would probably end up taking it easy, and not attacking the pile of projects i have waiting uncooked on the back burner. i'm always busy, but my work life blends into my personal life, and the structure of it all keeps me going. most of the time. twenty-four hours after we left, i began missing austin and all of the friends we made there. classic summer camp syndrome. it was incredible to be surrounded by people who understand this part of my life, the "so you just stay up all night staring at your monitor?" part, the webby part that's devoted to community and creative expression. it was all so fun, intelligent, comfortable, and inspiring. it hurts a little to know that we're all spread out across the globe, and only rarely will groups of us get to spend time together. but at least we're all wired and connected through the web. good enough for brainstorming and sharing big plans and important ideas. |
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a week since i've been back from austin, and i already miss everyone. i miss the friendly faces and intimate conversation and hearty food and beverage. i miss being surrounded by talented and brilliant and hardworking and inspiring and understanding people, and feeling like together we could actually make a dent in the world. it doesn't help that i've come back to a quiet, cold, fluorescent-lit cubicle maze where people would rather hand-deliver a jpeg on disk than e-mail me the attachment and the silent consensus is that the internet is killing print and being the web producer i am an accessory to that murder. with that said, i know i am lucky to have a job at all, especially one that is not going to be eliminated anytime soon. sometimes, i dream about taking off. i think about quitting my job and getting a waitressing gig, writing poetry on napkins by day and novels in microsoft word by night, living on top ramen and the 99 cents menu at taco bell. or i wonder what i could accomplish if i just took off one month. a leave of absence. a sabbatical. i like to think that i would finish all those projects i began a year ago, that my to-do list would be crossed out entirely, that the slate would be wiped clean and i'd be ready to tackle even more. but then again, maybe not. i suppose there's always going to be more that i could do with my writing, with my art, with my life, and maybe that's not a bad thing. it gives me something to shoot for. it makes my days worthwhile. |
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i'm not sure what becomes of the "half-full, half-empty" metaphor when you drink all the liquid in the glass. usually i keep an extra jug of orange juice in the fridge, just in case i get really thirsty. also, i have a large ceramic mug with a single flower glazed onto one side that i like to drink out of instead of a glass. my godfather made a set of the mugs in 1972, five years before i was born, as a wedding present for my parents. he works as an artist in ohio. the mug is opaque, so it's hard to tell how full it is without taking a sip. for me, uncertainty leads to the worst kind of emotions: worry about lack of control, concern that i'm going to screw something up, fear that i'm wasting my life. from your post, it seems like there might be other specific problems, people and possibilities that are dragging your chin down. it's hard for me to hear the little voice muttering inside your head from this side of the country. luckily, we'll be meeting each other halfway before the week is through. for the past few weeks, my east-coast life has been very busy with responsibility and routine, but not quite productive enough. i don't think it takes much to keep me content. but to remain Happy and In Control during a period of time, i need to complete tasks, socialize, excercise, converse intimately, maintain economic balance, create, solve problems, learn, relax, entertain, and laugh. sometimes that's a whole lot to cram into a day, a week, or a month. particularly if that month is february, and frequently devoid of sunlight. according to the proverbs and weatherpersons we encounter in new england, march comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. the giant nor'easter blizzard we've been waiting for has finally begun dropping snow on us. everything is white. i wish i could look out the window at a snowstorm the way i did 12 years ago: amazed that the earth had been bleached, hoping the storm would last all night and cause school cancellation, suiting up for sledding and snowball fights. there will always be something about snow. but it's sad to think that there will always be concerns and responsibilites to prevent me from experiencing complete awe. |
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february has been bittersweet for me. there have been a few shiny moments, but mostly the month has been cold and dismal, in most senses of the words. i am hoping for a brighter march and a lighter april. by may, i hope to look out my window (wherever that window may be, as you may well know by now that i am moving, again) and see the springtime sun. but i really don't know what my future holds. it's so easy to say that Everything Happens for a Reason and It All Works Out in the End, but i must admit that there is a nagging voice in the back of my head that keeps muttering, What is Going On and Why The Hell is This Happening. the glass is not half full, it's half empty, damnit, and i am so thirsty i think i am going to pass out. it's hard to keep my chin up when things keep dragging it down. it's hard to forge forward when the road ahead is so dark. i try to focus on the good things: phonecalls from faraway friends, cups of coffee fresh out of the pot, fresh flowers on the dining table, meals that make my mouth happy, songs that say it all. those things make me smile. do not underestimate the power of one smile. it can make all the difference. it certainly has, lately, for me. |
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in my experience, february in massachusetts is rarely a good time, with its windy cold and continuous darkness, but this year i'm enjoying myself. the warm week in houston helped, of course. i returned home to discover birds-a-chirping outside my window in the twenty-five degree dawn, so it looks like spring might be coming to new england at some point. no one ever told my what puxtawney phil had to say on the subject this year. i've been watching episodes of the muppet show, driving around in the cold sunlight with friends listening to the velvet underground, house-sitting and taking care of the cats for a friend's parents who live downtown. spooning up a crock of chowder. driving west, then east, then up and down the coast. fresh coffee at dunkin' donuts is never far off. not every day has been filled to the brim with good conversation, but that's okay, because there's sure to be plenty in the near future. i have a feeling that meeting you and dozens of others for the first time in austin will jump-start my spring. there's nothing better than travelling across the country for friend-meeting, walking, socializing, learning, idea exchanging, eating and sipping. i've been in one pretty comfotable place for so long that i nearly forgot how much i love moving around. |
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good conversation is becoming less common and more precious to me these days. i don't know if it's because i'm getting older, because the world is getting faster, or because i simply do not make the effort. a little of all three, perhaps. saturday night, however, was one of those evenings that i got to share good food and even better company. a bunch of friends, old and new, sat in a fireplace-lit living room, drunk on wine and laughter. and may i add that i was quite wary of attending this dinner party in the first place, because i knew i would be the only single girl there and i hate playing the part of bridget jones. luckily, i had no reason to worry. i'm glad to hear that you, too, had many evenings like that in houston, with your girl and her friends. in the days of rushed hellos and voicemail friendships, such moments are a treasure. i anticipate many more good times in march. only three weeks until we finally meet. can you believe it? |
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i'm not always as open with spoken words as i am with written ones. or at least, not when it comes to the lady at the grocery store. all of my strongest friendships are built upon walking and talking, and i enjoy that talking most when it is honest and open and brave and it stretches late into the evening. i think i need to have at least one intimate face-to-face conversation every few days to keep my mind on track, to prevent my head from exploding. sometimes email and phones just don't cut it: i need close discussion with a real live person, so i can speak to them and then watch them speak to me. real talking reminds me that i am a single individual among many, interacting with things and people. without it, i get caught up in my own little large world of imagination and small problems turned big. i suppose i can only take so much of myself. in shopping malls, crowded streets, big empty parks, and flourescent-lit offices, i tend to be less open with words. it's like i'm observing rather than participating, and the changing of gears required to tell a story to someone i bump into can feel awkward. i even have trouble with the brief mumbling required to order a cup of coffee. these are my binary social mood-modes; at a party, i either stand on the sidelines, carefully watching, or i sit right in the middle, talking and asking and making jokes. lately, i've been a bit more extroverted. i've spent the last week in houston, where "the girl" and i had a lovely time walking, talking, and looking. she has bunches of rad friends with whom we hung out at restaurants and bars and cafes. and good conversation came naturally with those people, in those places. i enjoyed the city despite the smoggy air that kept my sore throat soaring. i'm back in plymouth now, where it's been easy to fall back into my comfortable routine of work and web. hopefully, i'll have time for more writing. but words or not, i miss the girl. |
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i have always wanted to share my thoughts, feelings and ideas with other people, and i don't know why that is. maybe it's the writer impulse in me, this grand notion that i have something to say that the world deserves to hear. (writer anne lamott would certainly think so.) although common sense tells me some things are better left unheard, another voice tells me it is better to be honest and open and brave. and so, i am very open with my words. i don't hold back: on websites, in letters, even through anecdotes told to the lady at the grocery store. but i just know that i am going to get myself into trouble that way, and i am waiting for it to hit. sometimes, i think about what will happen when i die and people stumble upon the box of journals i've been keeping since i was 9. there is a lot of self-indulgent, blush-worthy, practically-incoherent blather within the pages of those books. hopefully, it will be taken with good humor. (also, i've been meaning to tell you how pleased i am that sixfoot6 is back. i've missed it and you. and, how are things, anyway? with you, the girl, the home. i never seem to ask you the simple questions, anymore.) |
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i used to have a small tape recorder that i carried around with me, just in case i needed to capture an idea for a poem, song or story. i think my father gave it to me for christmas, hoping to "encourage my creative mind". (that's a phrase i would probably never use, but it's a sentiment i appreciate.) i carried that tape recorder during an entire year of college in boston, taking it out only a few times to record my own voice. more often, i used it to record the sound of the subway, or birds on the street, or the voice of a woman who sat down to talk to me about finding jesus. there have been only two periods in my life when i've kept a private journal. i scribbled down thoughts on the day's events nearly every night during my freshman year of college, and i kept a travel log during a ten day trip to europe two years ago. these were times of rapid growth and new experience, and i wrote it all down to make sense of it to myself. now that years have past, the scribblings present a raw, unedited look at my thoughts and my thought process, my fears, hopes, and so forth. some of it is scary and stupid, some of it makes me nostalgic for moments when my head was full to the brim with ideas and possibilities. those old journals help me to remember, but they don't help my to construct. nowadays, (a fine and under-utilized word), i am less interested in private writing and more interested in finding ways to use words to connect myself to others. it's not always that easy. hand-written letters are a damn good place to start. nowadays, everything i write is meant to be read. everything i say is meant to be heard. and almost everything i think is meant to be shared. i wonder, though, if there is a more central part of myself that never gets a voice because i don't scribble in a private journal anymore. that part might have something important to express. maybe it knows what i want to do next. a note to everybody: two's company, and company is nice, but a crowd of three or four or twenty is even better. so if you're reading, click on the hand icon and add some words of your own. respond to what we've said, or share something new, or just give a good old-fashioned shout out. we'd love to know who else is in this with us. |
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tonight, on my way to my parents' house i listened to a tape i made. not a mixed tape, mind you, but something else--a tape of me, my thoughts, my ideas, my voice. i started recording my thoughts months ago as a way to keep myself occupied during my commute. too often i'd be sitting in my car stuck in traffic when an idea would hit, and i'd wish i could write it down right then. (there is the rare occasion that i'd actually write it down right then, and i admit that's far worse than any los angeles cellphone driver.) so, i started to fill cassettes with my life. as if i didn't document it enough, already. it was so strange, listening to this tape that spanned the last two months of the year. it was a period i'd almost forgotten existed, or maybe one i wanted to forget existed. there was so much doubting and crying and hating, followed by a lot of understanding and laughing and forgiving. what seems strangest, i think, is that i don't think a lot of people who are close to me know any of it even went on. in fact, i know they don't. but the thing is, i couldn't let it stop me. i had to keep going. work, eat, sleep, smile, laugh, nod. breathe. i had to keep going. it all seems so long ago. and now, another month has gone by in a blink. i guess what i'm saying, in my lovely long-winded way, is that like you i've been too busy to keep in touch. there seemed something so gravely wrong with this cassette i held in my hand that represented a slice of my life, which i never shared with anyone else. i am going to work on that. it will be, dare i say it, a resolution of mine. more handwritten letters, sunday afternoon phone calls, and visits because i was in the neighborhood. it's been too long. |
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sometimes i manage to convince myself that i am the sort of person who can handle solitude, or a long distance relationship, or separation from the friends that I care about most. that kind of convincing (confident self-delusion) comes easily when i'm in a content phase of life, or simply in a good mood. i'm often in a good mood. i think i'm often in a good mood because i'm almost always surrounded by people that i care about. i've never lived alone. i spent two years in the crowded intimacy of dorm life and two years living in apartments with good friends. i stayed for months with a friend in pennsylvania and another in phoenix. these days, i'm back in my parents house, typing and sleeping in the same small bedroom, hearing the sounds of my sister talking on the phone or my mom brushing her teeth. those sounds comfort me even when I don't feel like interacting with anyone. i like being alone when i know that someone will eventually come home. but without family or a few close friends around to keep me happy, i bet i would just lose it. i don't think i could ever move to a city in which i didn't know anyone. because when i'm not deluding myself, loneliness scares the hell out of me. in fact, i shudder a bit when i picture you or another of my friends sitting alone in a room, unable to bear it. my circles of friends are fragmenting as well, spreading out across the coutry. two of my best friends, more courageous than myself, perhaps, have gone out on their own, across to your coast. the girl who came to visit me earlier this month is out there, but we can only connect through voice and text. through this monitor, i'm constantly discovering the writing and creations of incredible people who i will probably never get to meet, people who i have more in common with than my neighbors and coworkers. usually, i don't have much time to let these all these things depress me because working, reading and writing keeps my body busy and my mind distracted. a couple of casual deferments can swallow a whole week with ease. i'm often so busy that i have no time to keep in touch with the people i love, and little time to regret that fact. that's intensely saddening. we can, at the very least, hop a plane, fly out to visit a friend, and pick up right where we left off. |
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sometimes, solitude is so big and hollow and scary, and i would give anything to have someone in the same room with me. even if it were a stranger sitting in the corner, quietly reading a magazine or watching TV. the space changes when it is filled with someone else's breath, and smell, and things. (this is probably also why i can't stand to sit in my living room, because without the proper furniture or lighting, it is still so dark and empty.) i found myself alone last night for the first time in days, and it was so unbearable i didn't know what to do with myself. perhaps it's also because the previous four days it was a series of go go go: go here, stop there, visit him, meet her. i, too, had an out-of-town guest, and she and i did the whole sit and talk and shop and giggle and whisper and photograph routine. it was lovely, but it wore me out. and maybe i'm feeling rather nostalgic, as well. i feel like everyone is moving in different directions and i want to pull them back toward me. this is also a problem i'm finding with the web. i meet amazing people (like her, and you, and others) and we can talk all day and write long letters and hop several planes and it will seem like we were never apart, but inevitably we go back to the place we started. back in our computer chairs, behind the screen, pouring words into a text window and watching it disappear into the ether. it's just that i am becoming fond of some wonderful people who are just beyond my reach, and i don't know how to deal with it. |
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it's strange how periods of time - days or weeks or a whole month - feel more meaningful than others. and i'm not just talking about periods of time when i'm having fun, or enjoying myself, or being productive. a certain series of events somehow come together just right, and often involve the same kind of love, loving and goodness found in those moments you described, moments now represented by objects. periods of karmic upswing, with both giving and taking, and things to look forward to. for me, the second half of december and the first week of january felt like one of these periods. the frantic christmas shopping, writing in coffee shops, a little snow, and everything seasonally decorated. and this pre-holiday buzz gave way to a relaxing holiday, followed by a two week visit from a bright and beautiful girl who flew across the country just to visit me. at times during those few weeks, i found myself feeling nostalgic for the events even as they were taking place, knowing the buzz of it all would have to fade before long. it's during just such a period that i find myself believing that some presence or providence keeps things moving for me. but naturally, the post-holiday, post-visit let down came before long, and left me feeling bored and empty. following a few days of struggle and withdrawal, i managed to stay on my feet thanks to routine and simple pleasures, walking working and writing. right now, the time itself feels less meaningful. but everything can't be packed full of love and good every moment, so for the time being i'm back to just living a good, simple life. as you reminded me, that doesn't take too much effort. |
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i grew up in a house filled with religious artifacts (catholic, as you know, my family is very catholic). i'd walk through the front door and right past the wall of angels and saints, pause at The Sacred Heart of Jesus to make a quick sign of the cross and run up the stairs that were protected by a six-foot high crucifix. it's funny when friends visited for the first time, because their faces showed a combination of fear and wonder and even a little uneasiness. looking back, i can see how it could be intimidating and overwhelming for someone, religious or not -- my family also collects antiques and artwork of all sorts -- but i just stopped noticing it all. to me, it was just stuff in my house. those things don't hold as much meaning to me as, say, the letter my grandmother sent me on my 21st birthday reminding me to find a mate (she used that word exactly) who will be gentle and caring, or the wooden name tag in the shape of a dove from a high school retreat where i volunteered last fall. those are the kinds of things that remind me of God, because they were represent moments when i felt His presence in my life. when i felt loved or loving. when i felt goodness. i think maybe, also, that is why many of those Christian-related objects are so misleading. they come from the wrong place. the importance is replaced by catchy slogans. the meaning is lost in profit margins. and bumper stickers? i don't need a stinkin' bumper sticker to announce that i'm Christian. i just try to lead a good life. i know that sounds simplistic, but i really don't think it's as complicated as people make it out to be. |
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the idea that some objects possess a sacred quality makes them attractive, in my experience. i almost need to encounter special artifacts and sacred places once in a while, because it's boring and unsatisfying to think that humans have covered the world with ordinary stuff and unremarkable buildings. i save lots of stupid junk - like receipts and string and hallmark cards - for its sentimental value, because it reminds me of a time, place, person, or state of mind. or all of the above. and sometimes i save things because i figure that they will grow more special to me as time passes. i was raised catholic, and like most people i know who were raised catholic, i ended up more or less agnostic. but when my whole family goes to church, (as we will on the rapidly approaching christmas eve), i always enjoy the experience. because regardless of what i believe, hundreds of people joined together in song and worship has a special quality that i can't - and wouldn't - ignore. a kind of huge and human and caring and unafraid feeling. it's easy to throw away the junk that holds sentimental value for someone else, because it's usually hard to imagine what that sentimental value might be, how the particular sentiment might feel. but for me, religious artifacts are different, no matter what faith or sect they might be connected to. it would be hard for me to toss that medallion into the trash knowing that it might represent the huge unafraid feeling for the previous tenant of your apartment. for me, that's where most of the sacred quality comes from. christian-related objects are everywhere these days, however - from what would jesus do t-shirts to little dashboard figurines - and they sort of water-down the artifacts with real importance. that bothers me quite a bit. |
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where have the past few days gone? they've been spent doing less than glamorous tasks like lining the kitchen cabinets with contact paper and arranging (and rearranging) pots, pans and dishes. there are two things i know about the people who lived in my apartment previously: they were sloppy and they were religious. they left stained curtains on the windows, rotting food items in the refrigerator and layers of dust in the cabinets. they also left a poster of the Virgin Mary on the top shelf of my cabinet and a kind of medallion on the front door. when i arrived one evening, my roommate asked me if i would tear the medallion down. "protect this home, dear Jesus," it said. she was afraid to because she thought she might be struck down by lightning. this, from the girl who just the week before claimed she was atheist. (later, i got her to admit she was agnostic, which makes the difference.) it's funny, though. i took it off the door, but i had a hard time throwing it in the trash, and the poster in my closet, well, i just left it there and piled boxes on top of it. what is it about religious artifacts that makes it so difficult to throw them away? |
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