February

Winter is lonely. Specifically, winter in Southern California. The weather is frightening. Any weather absolutely throws us off kilter. One storm and the barely worn rain boots are pulled from under the bed. People with janky umbrellas, not opened since last year, hustle from car to building. No time for smiling, no time to look up. Everyone is grumpier. This is my justification for going mad every February. Like clockwork, February sweeps in and my serotonin sweeps out. This year, though, I finally helped myself. I helped myself into some Prozac and therapy. And, still, I feel lonely. Like under my skin creeping, gaping loneliness. I am anxious and sad and lonely and gray. Like the foggy February mornings where even the fresh cut grass looks gray.

I’m beginning to think my life is cyclical. “In summers, I go swimming. In winter, I go mad.” Possibly affected by seasons, possibly just bone deep depression. It’s the restlessness, though, that I can’t escape. I want to change...something.

I want to travel, even if it’s to West Covina. I want to eat at all the fancy restaurants, dip my feet into every body of water. I need to move, to change something, maybe my hair. The impulsivity is so suffocating. I can’t ignore it.

Last week, I accidentally dyed my hair purple. I was forcing it blonder and I made it purple. Kind of a purple silver, but Mrs. Slocombe would be jealous, it was that purple. And then 2 days ago, in my Facebook memories, there I am 5 years ago, with over-toned purple hair.

A few weeks ago John told me that he was buying new tires for my car. I was backing out of the driveway when I noticed a weird sound. I hopped out to find a flat tire. A few minutes later, my facebook memory popped up from 6 years ago, “Got a flat tire on our way to buy new tires.”

Recently, I was looking for a tv show to watch, something distracting enough to allow me to ignore my life but not so engrossing I can’t play Words with Friends as I slowly get drunker. So I started watching Dollhouse again. It seemed like it had been long enough that I forgot most of the plot, but I remembered I liked it. And then, in my memories from 2012, “Just finished Dollhouse, what show should I binge next.”

It’s like I’m living in a circle. There is nothing new under the sun. I think I’m spontaneous. I think my decisions are made spontaneously. But,...the spontaneity is a cycle. I have a cycle of spontaneity. I’m in a matrix. A random life generator but it’s never really random. There are only so many choices out there for someone like me. More than others, sure, but less than some.

I feel restlessly helpless. And it’s not a feeling I know. I like to solve puzzles, fix problems. And this one seems...infinite when I like finite. The time is the thing, then. It’s like Groundhog Day, but on a broader scale. I haven’t yet repaired myself so it keeps spinning back with the same tv show, the same hair debacle, the same car problems...making a pattern that I will eventually see. Something unequivocal that I can’t deny. I’ll see the pattern and eventually I’ll know how to change it. Doing what I’ve always done hasn’t changed anything. My car still gets a flat. On the same day 5 years later.

If this world is just a virtual reality game designed for aliens, my player is not as creative as they think. Which I know because I am not as creative as I think. Wow. So consider your player for a moment. Mine is possibly less attractive than me. But they picked what was seemingly attractive to them only to find that in this world, it’s not as attractive as they thought. Or as smart. Nor as creative. We are never “the most” anyway. And those who are “most” or “best” must have more credits than us, right? It can’t just be that I’m unmotivated and possibly swimming in imposter's syndrome. It must be that my creator is more insecure than I am. That’s it. They want to be so much more than their credits will allow them to become. Meanwhile, terrible people who know how to manipulate the system for more credits get everything. So maudlin, this theory; I never had a chance. I have a bored imaginer who has a too busy life or a life more exciting than the one they designed. Generally not the case. It’s almost always someone who thinks this life would be exciting. Someone without kids who thinks 2 boys would be fun or someone with a boring job who wished they had time to “figure it out” or someone who wished they could stay at home. Although, even I can’t do that.

It’s almost sad that the thought that some alien race controlling my decisions makes me feel better. It takes away my agency leaving me blameless for my current place in the world. As though everything happens to me, not because of me. Not because of my attitude about work and jobs and bosses. Not the fact that I’m too much. But because some alien didn’t have enough credits to purchase me a better education, or a better childhood, or a better self esteem.

In fact, if that alien could save up for the self esteem I feel the rest could fall into place. Self esteem must be pricey. I got not quite enough for a whole person, just a dash, but they purchased a helluva memory. Enough to remember every hurt and answer on Jeopardy. Just a little haze would save so much grief. Like why purchase so much anxiety? Or is anxiety built-in and the trick is to purchase enough sociopathy or happiness or ignorance that no one ever feels that rush of heat that keeps them from moving on? Maybe they're as scared as I am. With adulthood and being grown up, I mean. It’s possible they’re 15, which explains why I’ve always felt that age. And this life just got...away from them. And they don’t know what to do or how to make the adult decisions. So they guess. They guess at adulthood. “Howdy, howdy I’m an adult. I wear slacks and blouses and I enjoy brisket.”

I drove by my house today. It wasn’t my house, but it was my house. The same Sears house plan from 1928. The same arches and the same windows. The same chipping stucco and rotten sills. And parked in front was my car. The same black Volvo I was sitting in. And in that split second of seeing my house and my car I imagined my life there.

I was picking up flotsam and jetsam from the living room floor, harried as though I were expecting company. I was reminding my kids, my happy, well adjusted kids, that they needed to finish their homework. My house was clean and neat and new. The same but cleaner, more vibrant. The house seemed somehow,...happier. The eaves smiled with their shadows and the curtains winked in the open windows. The yard was bigger, I cooked. There was food on the stove with tendrils of steam curling upwards. I wore earrings and pumps. I had a job. A job I didn't love but paid the bills.

My alternate universe was pleasant. My other life was better. My other life was less complicated. My other life was still lonely, though. I could see it in my face. I was performing my life, not living it. Going through the motions of what I thought a life should be. But even with those seemingly better circumstances, I was still lonely. Even with less complications, I was still sad. The cycle doesn’t end. The alt-me is still bewildered, still mad. Even in my imagination I’m struggling. It’s bleak. Like a foggy day in February where even the fresh cut grass seems gray.

Stairs to the sea

Liliana plunged into the chilly water letting it slide over her limbs. Sweat dripping down her temples and her face flush from running through her forests, she dove under. She loved the feeling of being underwater, the cool weightlessness of it, as though she were free. As though she could just swim away from this place and never return. She erupted from the water and drew in a great breath. And then Liliana floated, just floated on the water, listening to the birds cry and the water lap the shore. She had been here, on this island, for ten years. She was taken care of, she was fed and clothed, but no one spoke to her. Or touched her. But being in the water, wrapped as she was, soaked through as she was, this was close enough. The water moved over her as she floated, her arms extended, touching back.

She floated for a long time, lost in her daydreams, until a hawk screeched somewhere in the distance and pulled her back to her reality. Liliana dragged herself over to the shore and the stone steps that disappeared into the sea. She stood on the bottom step, picked up the hem of her gown and twisted the water away, her skin exposed to her knees. It was her lightest dress and still it felt like lead when she left the water. She never wore her underskirts while she ran or swam, she needed the freedom of movement. When no more water could be wrung out, she released her skirt and watched as it swept down, clinging to her legs.

Liliana was still dripping wet, her chestnut hair heavy with water sticking to her back in tangles. She grabbed hold of the balustrade to keep her bare feet from slipping as she ascended, the moss heavy on the stone steps. As she reached the top, she saw a man. A finely dressed man she had never seen before. Not a soldier and not a servant. He was slowly pacing back and forth in front of the path. He kept his eyes on the ground, though she knew he saw her, knew he had been watching her. He stopped suddenly, and looked at her. She looked right back, studying him as well. He seemed to regard her with knowledge, as though he knew her.

They stood like that for what felt like an eternity and then he said, "You shouldn't be out here alone," he then paused rather deliberately, as though he was used to people hanging on his every word, and slowly paced across the path. "Anything could happen."

She was nonplussed as she listened to his voice. She thought to look to see if someone were behind her, but she knew it was only the sea. No one had spoken directly to her in so long. She wasn't sure what to do. Liliana had occasionally sneaked down stairs just to listen to the soldiers and servants talking, laughing, sharing their days, but no one had ever spoken to her. She received nods and gestures, but no sound, no words.

So she just looked at him. Willing herself calm. She studied his clothes. Clothes are never scary. He wore fawn breeches and a red and gold tunic. He was handsome, with fine features and a rather distinguished nose. He was fair with golden hair that curled slightly at the ends. He looked like every charming Prince she had read about. He was older than she was, but young, or younger than Henry, her guardian. He already had gray hair at his temples. This man was lean and strong and had an air of authority that told her he was somebody.

She gazed back up and into his eyes, which he met with a look of his own, as if to say, "Did I meet your approval?"

She didn't like him. But she couldn't say why. She wanted to make him feel as she felt. After all, this was her island, not his. Or was it?

Liliana realized she wanted to get away from him, she wanted to run back to her castle. She wasn’t prepared for this. She was growing more frustrated with every second. She had imagined this day, the day someone came to rescue her, so many different times, but never had the man been smug and unkind. He stood facing Liliana and the sea, blocking any attempt to flee, his back to the castle just up the path.

She looked up to her beloved castle, then she smiled and straightened and said, "Certainly they might disagree with you." Liliana lifted her chin as obstinately as she could indicating something behind him.

He turned slowly, keeping his eyes on hers until the last second, afraid this might be merely a distraction. But there, on the parapet and in the trees behind him he saw a collection of at least two dozen men, their bows cocked and their arrows pointed directly at his heart.

He turned back to her and smiled. But his smile did not reach his eyes. Liliana shrugged and smiled back, her smile did.

"I have been on this island for 10 years, and still I am unsure why I am here, whether I am treasure or pawn. I have been lonely, but I have never been alone."

And with that she skipped past him, leaving him standing at the top of the steps, speechless.

He stood and watched the soldiers slowly lowering their arrows with every step she took away from him. And he watched their eyes following her as she made her way, barefoot, to the castle doors. She wasn’t at all what he had expected to find.

Dangerous

Caroline tiptoed into the library, hoping to find her misplaced laptop. It was dark inside the room, the only light coming from the moon streaming in through the open french doors. A slight breeze blew in and the smell of books and leather surrounded her. She found herself sinking into her favorite corner chair and looking out into the night, the view of downtown Los Angeles framed by the pergola outside the doors. This was the first moment Caroline could breathe since she got home. Her father needed her help with the party preparations the second she’d walked through the door.

Caroline opened her laptop, it was a habit, something must be going on somewhere, she thought. There on the screen was the code she had been working on earlier. Her father had given her a complicated hypothetical and asked her to solve it. The code was nearly done so she started to type when something caught her eye. A movement on the patio, a swath of red danced in her peripheral vision. Caroline glanced up and saw a beautiful woman storming back and forth across the patio. She was mumbling to herself, but not in English. A man appeared and watched as the woman walked

Patterns

I was fired. From my job. And it was awful. I hated that job. Hated as in nauseated every morning as I dressed. It wasn't hard, it was just a lot of "maneuvering," a lot of pretending. Introverts are not great at "maneuvering." But, I don't fail. I give up. That's my pattern. Why fail when you can give up?

My son was sick, he had an ear infection, so I called in sick. I couldn't take him to school with a fever, especially when they were the ones to discover it. I received a text back telling me to take the rest of the week off and that we'd talk on Monday. And I knew. I spent the next few days dizzy and in a fog. I felt like I was on a roller coaster, all those ups and downs. Up, up, up to the view that is at once thrilling and beautiful. And then down, so fast, down, my heart in my throat, my gut clenching. 

But I was never on a roller coaster. I had a pattern, you see. Try something and when you no longer care for it, quit. Suffer the consequences. Blame someone else, be the victim. Then repeat. That is not a rollercoaster, it's a ferris wheel. It evokes the feelings of a roller coaster, it goes up,...high, higher, it's terrifying, then it drops down and the rush goes through you, but it never changes. No surprises, no unseen turns. Up and down, over and over; a pattern. A pattern with the illusion of choice, of change. But after a time it's just going through the motions. Up, up, up and down, down, down, repeat. No turns, no hidden drops, just around and around. It's the illusion of a rollercoaster, but tucked safely inside a cage with no real risk. 

But then, I got fired. I didn't quit like I usually do. And it was shocking. I had no plan. I didn't eat, I couldn't. I just laid in my bed. I didn't know what to do. Getting what you want? In the way deemed best for you? It's like clicking up that roller coaster. Anticipation and terror. Up, down, turn, upside down, up, up, up, down; afraid and excited. I can't see the end. 

After years of the ferris wheel, the roller coaster is terrifying. No pattern for comfort, no routine to fall back on. Anticipating the same pattern only to watch as it spins out and turns, heads in a new direction, it's frightening.

Long before I was let go, I spoke to someone about my situation. The job I hated, which seemed too perfect to quit. He told me about patterns, specifically my patterns, With jobs. He told me that when a person gets a job, they dress nicely and give it their all, but eventually it wears on them, so their dress changes as does their attitude. And that's when you want to quit. You are as culpable as the job. He told me to change the pattern. And I did. Subconsciously, I guess, and consciously. I didn't give up. Though I had anxiety about walking through the door every morning, I refused to fall back on what I used to do. And my pattern changed. It put me in a new place. I have time to think. I have time.

I have no idea what I want to do next. But for now, I think I'll just throw my hands in the air and enjoy the ride.



Sarah Morris - Untitled - from Dulles (Capital) 2001

Fading Memories

I was boarding the plane back to the US and I could already feel my vacation slipping away. The stress of the taxi and the airport and the papers and the bag checking takes up too much space. I tried to be so careful with my moments, tried to wallow in them and let them envelope me. I tried to sink into the ancient smells and the tastes I held on my tongue and feeling of being myself somewhere else. But as I sat on that plane, the plane that looked like all the other planes, those moments were fading from my mind. All the brightness and color and laughter and flavor was turning black and white and dull inside.

I didn't want to forget my first morning waking up in Lisbon, opening the tall french doors and sitting on a tiny balcony. I looked over to the elderly building across the way with peeling paint and weeds growing through the cracks then down into the black and white cobbled streets that feel both old and new at once and I felt like I could breathe again. That I was myself alone and where I was supposed to be. Everything was beautiful.

I didn't want to forget my sister arguing with the waiter about splitting an entree, only to have me interrupt with, "Ok, dois," (Ok, two) in my terrible Portuguese which somehow impressed him so much he brought us free ginjinha. I didn't want to forget drinking ginjinha, that famous cherry liqueur that goes down like cough syrup, bitter and not quite drunk enough to want another. Or the next two he brought us just for fun.

I didn't want to forget driving with my sister through the Spanish countryside, navigating Las Pueblas Blancas, mastering roundabouts along the way. Or the way she liked to over pronounce the name of every town with her American accent. "Sauce-jo." Or the time she somehow drove vertically across the gorge that separates old and new Ronda, twice.

I didn't want to forget wandering the streets of Arcos de la Frontera and stumbling upon a view that took our breath away.

I didn't want to forget the feeling of sitting at that cafe, drinking cappuccinos surrounded by amazing architecture and having no where to be. Or at the end of the trip, when we were exhausted and I tried to take a another selfie with my sister and she said, "Where are we, what is this?" And made me laugh out loud.

I find I have to remind myself that I was actually there. I look at the photos on my phone. I send my sister texts about the trip to reassure myself that it wasn't a dream. "Remember when the hotel owner thought we were German?" "Remember the mint tea in Tangier?" I want to keep all those memories closeby. I want them to spill out of my mouth at the slightest provocation, which, of course they can't because society. But I want them there anyway. I feel myself willing them forward constantly.

And it's so unfair.

Because then, I'll be reading a book, or sitting in my car or shopping at Trader Joe's and a song or a phrase or a moment triggers something, a memory, but a bad one, and I can't stop it. The memory flashes in my mind and that wrenching feeling sweeps through my gut, all warmth and heat, and crawls up my throat clawing at my insides and I feel sick. My body trembles and I gasp in air trying to exorcise it. As though I am experiencing it all over again, physically, as though no time has passed.

Those memories get to stay,

But the joyful ones, those I have to dig into with my fingernails and hang onto with my life. I have to flip through them constantly, like a mental photo album, remembering, just in case they decide to slip away.


Me and my sister in Ronda, Spain 2016

Dreamt

I have a recurring dream. For the last three nights I've dreamt of a test I need to take that I have not yet studied for or a project of some kind that I haven't finished. I'm an adult, in the dreams, with kids and all, but I have to get to school to take the test; I have to finish my project. The common thread that I am faced with every night is that I always end up staring at a blank piece of paper, unable to write anything. I stare at a page of nothing, frozen; the anxiety is palpable. I can hear myself tell myself to just write something, but I am interrupted by someone or my surroundings change or I wake up. And I wake up filled with the same anxiety I had in my dream.

So, brain, what are you saying here? It seems as though maybe I should write something? Is that what you're trying to tell me? My brain is full of fictional yarns I'd like to spin for unsuspecting humans. But, alas, I know I am not yet ready to pull it off. Like it's a con. It is a con. I need to con you into believing this other world exists, these people exist. I need to Keyser Soze you and I'm not ready. It's existential double dutch. I'm watching the ropes turn in front of me, waiting to jump in, waiting and waiting and waiting, my hands up, keeping the rhythm. and I'm watching myself, I'm watching her not jump in. And my stomach twists and my jaw clenches and I think, "Now! Go now,...now...now!"

But she won't,...I won't go.

So what's the cure? Is it the dream? Was it sent to fix me? I mean, self fulfilling prophecy, I'm writing about it. Maybe this was the push I needed. Maybe I jump and rhythm takes over and I am filled with joy and I am jumping and jumping and jumping! Or maybe the ropes crash down on my feet and I look down defeated, and walk away. But then I hear it, the click-click, click-click, click-click. The ropes are turning again. And this time, I'm not as scared.


Allegory of Rhetoric (1650). Artemisia Gentileschi (Italian, 1593-1656)

Much

Too much. You're too much. Seemingly complimentary. Yet unseemly. Teeming. Teeming at the seams with enmity.

Temerity.

Your audacity in nonconformity.

You should be more like them. Join the club. Jump on the bandwagon. Have friends. Influence people.

It's what.
You.
Want.

To finally fit in. To have a people. To be loved.

Just, don't be yourself.

Be them. Wear their clothes. Make their jokes. We are all individuals. (I'm not). Don't say that thing, though. Don't tell that story. Don't wear that color. Don't eat that. Don't laugh at that. Don't tell her that. Don't know that. Don't know anything. Don't. Don't. Don't.

But, don't.

Tell her. Wear it. Laugh. Laugh 'til it hurts, 'til your side cramps. Know the thing. Know it all. Live. Live. Live. You will never be whole when half of you never sees light.

Never regret your muchness. Some people. they won't like all that light, they will steal your warmth. But don't worry. You have plenty. You're too much.

Las dos Fridas - Frida Kahlo