A Near Murder of Crows

For the first time in two years, my fingernails have been bare for days. I stripped away OPI's "Feelin' Hot-Hot-Hot" with mango-scented nail polish remover. Of course, the mango is merely an afterthought, an apology for the scourge of pungent chemicals.

A lone fruit fly flits around my bathroom, and even though fruit flies make regular appearances throughout my apartment, for some reason, today, I thought of my father, and the last time I ate dinner with him in a restaurant. His eyesight had become so poor that a tiny fly--or was it a gnat?--buzzed lazily around his nose, but he did not notice. When I attempted to shoo it away, I ended up startling my father, who was otherwise calm and content over his plates of appetizers. He kept offering me pigs in a blanket; I kept refusing, with a bothered smile.

I noticed today that the vertical blinds that shield the sliding glass doors in my living room swayed ever so slightly back and forth, even though all windows and doors were closed. This happened all afternoon, as I sat on the couch and wrote and napped and checked my email account eighty-three times (give or take). I had to keep watching the blinds, to be sure I wasn't hallucinating (how devastating it would be if I was hallucinating). The slivers of light between them widened and narrowed, widened and narrowed. I crouched down on my knees, held my hand beneath them and felt a gentle coolness of air seeping in from outside. (Because of our close proximity to the Los Angeles International Airport, these apartments are supposedly regulation sound-proof, and yet, clearly they are not air-proof. No wonder I don't sleep well at night.)

At one point today, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a small black creature, the size of a healthy cat, peek out at me from the other end of the couch. When I turned my head to look, nothing was there. But I thought, how entertaining it might be to write a fictional story about someone--a man?--who hallucinates, sees a shadowy figure repeatedly peeking out and creeping back, peeking out and creeping back.

My fingernails are clean and smooth, and only slightly stained yellow, from months upon months of wearing too much polish. They are clipped short, and appear foreign in their nakedness.

I left my apartment just after dark. It seemed unusually dark, because the light outside my door had blown out again. I realized my next-door neighbor must be out of town, or pulling all-nighters again at his USC research lab, because not one, but two morning papers were resting against his door. His lights were out. I thought about last winter, when he had chicken pox, and quarantined himself in that suffocating studio unit with the make-shift kitchen. (He had caught chicken pox, evidently, during his flight back from India, where most of his family still lives.)

I snatched the two editions of The L.A. Times and dropped them, along with the pizza delivery menu that was wedged between his doorknob and door frame, inside my place. (There are thieves here. They already stole from me once.) (I meant to send my neighbor a text message to let him know I have his papers. Now it's too late. I'll have to tell him tomorrow.)

My boyfriend lives one block from the end of the alley (my apartment overlooks an alley, not a street, but I would prefer street sounds to garbage truck alley noise and the clattering of The Night People who rummage through the dumpsters, searching for bottles and cans to trade in for cash). I delivered dinner to my boyfriend tonight--a tossed salad with fresh-squeezed lime juice for dressing and a tomato-mushroom omelet I prepared with crushed garlic and marsala wine. He was there, but I quietly left the containers on his balcony, outside his door, and walked home, by way of the alley. I called to inform him about my delivery.

We never talked about that day again, my boyfriend and I, that day last January in the alley, when he said he wished he had a gun to shoot the noisy ravens, and I wanted so badly to correct him:

They're crows, not ravens.

What I said, instead, was: Maybe they're having fun.

I was thinking: I would rather be one of them right now.

My fingernails are clean and shiny and only slightly stained yellow from months upon months of polishing them too much; and the places where they peeled, well, I filed them down, on the surface, buffing and smoothing away all the imperfections, all the damage incurred from disguising them in elusive hues.

On Going Gluten-Free

I remember bite-sized Chips Ahoy cookies, their puckered little faces staring at me, advertising their crunchy sweet baked chocolate goodness. I remember bagels, soft, chewy and warm, dense with melted margarine and thick peanut butter. I remember English muffins, their vinegar twang, toasted with salty white cheddar drooling over the sides, dripping onto the bottom of the oven: sizzle, sizzle, burn.

My new best friends are scrambled eggs, apples, yogurt with honey and raisins. Soy protein bars occupy a sacred space inside my refrigerator door. I bought a brick of rice flour bread that makes me want The Real Thing. At least gluten-free oatmeal tastes just like Quaker. Imposters, they are, but We The People are so easily fooled by a placebo.

And the payoff? At least I don't look like I am four months pregnant anymore. ("You look like you have a baby in your belly," my daughter used to say.) And I don't contemplate the evil box of Ex-Lax in the bathroom cabinet. Life is much smoother, despite the hundred and one cravings I endure each day. Wheat, oh wheat, why did you betray me?

Three Things Unthinkable

I accomplished three things this year that, a short time ago, I thought were unthinkable.

The first feat was gaining ten pounds. This sounds crazy to many people, that I chose to gain ten pounds, but I was and still am underweight by all standards. Two years ago, I fell to my lowest digits: 88 pounds. Now I am hovering around 100 again. I have flesh on my bones. Not much, but enough to notice a difference. Enough that my size zero petite Ann Taylor Loft corduroys are too snug around my hips and waist. And that, I assume, is a good thing.

After that, I continued weaning myself off of prescription tranquilizers, having been addicted for nearly four years. I took my last dose on Monday, July 11, 2011. My first day without the pills is my anniversary: July 12. It is a day I will never forget, and a day worth celebrating, as I freed my body and my mind of a harsh, brain-altering chemical.

Last but not least, I attended my daughter’s seventh birthday party at her father’s house. I helped her father’s girlfriend plan the party. She is the woman for whom he left me, nearly three years ago; I think I can safely say she was the catalyst for an inevitable divorce. We are now constant communicators, the other woman and I, working together for the benefit of my daughter. I never thought I would say this, but I cannot believe this woman is so nice.

I can only hope these three things continue to add strength, health, and fulfillment to my life.

A Season for Remembering

The sigh of summer has taken a pause, and our mouths have turned now to yawning. Bed times crept back an hour, our alarm clocks have been resuscitated, and we have, at last, a new school year full of preparation, anticipation, and exhaustion. What I find myself with at the end of the day is a child passed out in her bed by 8:30, and an empty lunch box staring me in the face. How to fill it?

This is what we do now. We fill things. The school bag, the lunch box, wallets, folders, water bottles, coolers, thermoses, dinner plates, drinking glasses, our own stomachs. In an instant, we leapt from the ease of an August afternoon and all its flexibility and rule-breaking, to The Agenda. Our task as parents: Remembering.

Remembering homework, permission slips, emergency contact cards; sun block, shoelaces, hats-jackets-scarves; soccer games, spelling tests, science projects, fall holiday fund raisers; our largest, strongest muscle: our memory.

Over the last few months, we forgot how strong that muscle is. We gave it a rest in June and July, iced it and recorded its vitals in August. We never did our pre-season training. Instead, we let Labor Day massage us even more. Now it is time for the scrimmage; next, the long drive. We must be careful not to succumb to regret, nor judge ourselves by what we forget. It’s all one big practice match.

The Same Water

How humble I felt this morning, walking along the sunny coast, gazing out at the Pacific, blue and serene as it ushered pointed sailboats in and out of the marina. The beach culture-- families with their rainbow colored tents and wagons full of kids' toys, and singles fresh and clean, their shaded eyes glancing curiously at other singles--seemed innocent, unassuming. And yet, a subtle sense of vigilence made itself known, nipping us on the ankle like a disturbed sand flea. For we are aware, most of us, that while we bask in the sun's warmth, or bat the volleyball over the net, or navigate our course across the waves, another beach, another ocean, on the other side of this land, is being ravaged and pillaged and plundered by the sky, by the very same water we all eventually share.

Departure

*This is a very very very rough and incomplete draft...in case anyone is reading.

Ushered in from the elbow of a freeway, we arrived by road, rail, wings and wheels, to materialize in small, gentle swarms, surrounded by cicadas and crickets, tall evergreen cathedrals, and sturdy stone structures that would harbor our lives for the next two weeks. We clutched our shiny wireless technology, chargers tucked carefully inside our bursting bags, and marched confidently across the hot turf. We had the power to make history on our various i- and non-i- gadgets, yet the unspoken verdict: ballpoint pens and spiral notebooks were essential. This was writers' camp. Ahem. Writers' boot camp.

Things happened. We moved into dorm rooms. Unpacked suitcases, or made a conscious choice to live out of the suitcase. We pulled crisp white sheets over unyielding mattresses. Those of us spending our second year here reunited with old friends. First-timers met everyone. Not gradually--no, not at all--workshops commenced in the glare of fluorescent lights. We talked. We read. We laughed. We wrote. We read aloud. Through the contagion of commentary, we related.

Now that furious fortnight has slipped from our grasp, a kite lost in the clouds, and we find ourselves packing, saying good-bye. Tomorrow, we leave this carefully staged world to chase the abyss of uncertainty that orchestrates our real lives, where each day, we must wake up and reinvent ourselves: teachers, parents, journalists, critics, dancers, painters, musicians, athletes, foragers, architects, doctors, dramatists.

The page is blank. Your cursor is blinking. An audience waits.

Where I'm From, modeled after George Ella Lyon

I am from telephone wire, from duct tape and WD-40. I am from the mildew on the bathtub caulking. (Gray, peeling, it smelled like mold.) I am from the planted marigolds, the fragile impatiens whose loose petals the squirrels pilfered each spring. I’m from sweet bologna and cream cheese, from Regina and Daniel. I’m from the don’t-talk-about-it’s and the don’t-tell-them-I-said-so’s, from go outside and get the stink blown off of you. I’m from Our Father, who art in Heaven, and fourteen stations I drew myself. I’m from Grand Marnier on the rocks and the baby grand, after-dinner mints and cloth napkins. From the deep scar of my mother’s Cesarean to the beauty parlor in my grandma’s basement. On my dresser stood a porcelain menagerie, chips of paint gone missing like a gypsy ancestry.

I am from those disturbances—dishes clanking in the kitchen sink—planned yet accidental.

My Seven Pillars of HEALING

Honesty - Be honest with yourself, with others, and the universe.

Energy - Pay attention to, and respect, your ever-changing energy. We all naturally experience low and high frequency energy. Use your energy, along with intuition, as a guide, to make the right choices that are unique only to your needs, on a moment by moment and day to day basis.

Acceptance - Accepting yourself as you are, and accepting others, is instantly calming. Like all good things, acceptance takes practice and positive self-talk.

Love - Ask the powers that be to fill you with love. Let love be your primary reason for existing. Be not one who seeks love and peace, but one who delivers love and peace.

Intention - Let the power of your intention guide you to personal transformation.

Nurturing - Become your own parent. Only you know how to best take care of yourself.

Gratitude - Instead of thinking about what you want or what you don't have, focus on and be thankful for all you do have. Like acceptance, gratitude is calming to the mind. Gratitude is humbling; it is the perfect platform for personal growth, peace, and love.

Coming Soon...

Upcoming posts:

I Know It's Rude

and

Whose Fingernails Are These?

Cutting A Scone In Half

Cutting a scone in half is no easy task. A scone’s crumble capacity makes dividing it evenly particularly difficult. And you’re still debating whether or not you should consume any of it, let alone half, but the thing is, you’ve already ordered it along with your tall decaf Americano, paid for your order, and walked away with that mouth-watering scone in a brown paper pastry bag. Now you must find a way to cope with your ambivalence, and, more importantly, accurately count the calories you are about to consume.

Why did you choose this? Is it subconscious self-sabotage? This is not acceptable, part of your mind says: All this sugar, for breakfast. Your whole day will be sabotaged once you meddle with your blood sugar. That long walk you took mere hours ago will have been in vain. You need balance. And here is this scone, a seemingly benign baked triangular object, now threatening your very existence.

How could this be?

Why do you have to be so damn serious all the time?

Look around. People are noshing lemon pound cake, over-sized wild berry muffins and chocolate chip cookies, brownies. They bite and chew and talk and sip and they don’t think twice. But you, you hold this crinkly bag in your fist—the feel of it, the idea of it, the image of its contents gripping your lungs. Breathe, you think. For God’s sake, it’s a scone.

Clarification: It’s a mini-scone, one-third the size of a regular scone, and you’re plotting to dissect it. That’s nice. At least Starbucks now lists calorie content on all items. Yours is 140. Half is an awkward, but manageable, 70.

Bon appétit. Can you eat, enjoy, sans guilt? Any other way would be an oxymoron.

a fine line

There is a fine line between pleasure and pain, happiness and sorrow, and, as an old friend reminded me, sunshine and rain...

ambivalence

Placing a label or diagnosis on a person or condition can sometimes prove faulty, even dangerous; often, though, a label provides clarity and propels us toward a point of acceptance. Such is the case with an ambivalent mind.

Recently, during an intense session, my therapist found it necessary to highlight my tendency toward ambivalence regarding nearly every aspect of my life. For a person who feels as scattered, confused, and overwhelmed as I typically do (my therapist might substitute another term here--"fragmented"), to regard myself instead as ambivalent felt enlightening. Not enlightening in the Eastern religion/philosophy sense of the word, but enlightening as if someone had shined a light upon a quality in myself that previously seemed like a flaw and a hindrance, but suddenly became the pinnacle of my healing process, a stepping stone toward self-acceptance.

If I can catch myself when I find I am swinging on that weighty pendulum of ambivalence, and understand that this is actually a popular position for the human mind, that I am in fact not so different from the whole of our species, I can, as paradoxical as it may seem, feel grounded in mid-air.

That is my goal for this blog, to feel grounded in mid-air. For even as I sit here and type the letters and words and sentences that form this post, and before that, when the concept of this blog entered my mind, I felt ambivalent. Should I blog, or not blog? What else could I be doing with my time? Will a decision to instead let this constant notion of ambivalence volley back and forth inside my own head trap me? Will the blog free me, or will it prove a waste of time? Could it advance my career as a writer (everyone says to get your start with a blog!) or will it side-track my progress toward the MFA degree I am pursuing? How will others regard the concept of this blog? Will they resent it, or embrace it? Does it matter what anyone else thinks?

On the one hand, no; I write, first and foremost, for myself; I write because I must write, because I need to write, because I want to write. On the other hand, most honest writers will admit that we also write to "touch" other people, to connect with the outside world.

Would it be more beneficial to clean and organize my apartment?

Most of these questions will remain unanswered, and that is perfectly (or imperfectly) okay. For now, I attempt to clean and organize my mind, ambivalently, with this project. And within this project, I plan to address all things ambivalent, while welcoming others' ideas, as well.