Tales from the Dreaming

running in circles

2012-01-22T22:16:00.000-06:00

I swear, I've posted it before and again.

What I write is of the moment, pay it no mind.

You have to realize that there are a lot of things which swirl inside my head, just like emotions. When I write, I write what I feel of that moment, in that space of time.

Sometimes people get offended by these things. How I could put them to words. But the fact of the matter is, I can admit to thinking them, regardless of those that would think and not do. Which is to say, I can put a voice to my mind, even if sometimes it just kind of prattles on.

Doesn't make sense? Doesn't have to. The fact that I can say it aloud or write it for the world to see makes all the difference in the world.

I can get sad, pissed off, or upset at whatever. And in the same instance, happy, blissful and content. Doesn't matter. The words translate the experience into being, but like any other experience, they effect the here and now. Writing is what colours our images of the past, shapes how we communicate at present, and leaves a trail for people to follow in the future.

Even the smallest words matter, even if you don't mean them. Or if you do. It's all in perspective.

Epiphanies.

2012-01-16T15:41:00.000-06:00

The thing I really like about epiphanies is that they kind of come out of nowhere and broadside you out of nowhere.

A wise friend said to me, "...treating friends like friends and not enemies is a good boundary to respect."

I really started thinking about this line, then thought, "What the hell am I doing?"

I think a really good red flag in these words is ENEMY. I mean, who would treat their friend like an enemy? Dictionary.com defines ENEMY (the first definition, by the way):

a person who feels hatred for, fosters harmful designs against, or engages in antagonistic activities against another; an adversary or opponent.

Holy crap. Them's some strong words. But you think about this, anyone you argue with, or rage against, that kind of fits the definition of it, doesn't it?

Why the hell would anyone treat a friend like an enemy?

"The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function." - F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896 - 1940)

Heh. Does that mean that smart people can disagree and still remain friends? (Yup, I've been kind of a fortune cookie lately, posting a LOT of quotes...)

Sounds like I'm kinda dumb, then. But to try and cheer myself up (please pay no attention to that background noise, it's the fading sound of a pity party being thrown in someone's closet), I'm hoping I'm not a total moron. Now it's just trying to figure out what kind of boundaries I need, what kind of boundaries they need, and where to meet in the middle. How to give and take. And that's what any relationship is, really. Meeting in the middle. Because being friends is more than just a jovial wave and a shared drink. It's more than just a intellectual conversation.

To what lengths would you go for a friend? Would you drive in the middle of the night to rescue someone? Would you bail them out of jail? If they screwed up things in their lives, would you wait around for them to straighten out or would you walk away?

If they had to walk through Hell, would you stand beside them, shoulder their burden, or carry them through it?

What is a true friend worth?

the plant

2012-01-15T22:33:00.001-06:00

"Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love. " - (Charles M. Shulz - 1922-2000)

There's just a lot of people who have thought I behave as if every action that I made was the most correct action possible at the time.

They'd probably be about half right.

I don't think that a lot of what gets executed by me is planned, proper, and within whatever astringent guidelines people seem to have.

Generally, it's a decision that got made by the spur of the moment and I'm hanging on to the seat of my pants.

Or plants.

Take the marble ivy. A hardy plant you can grow in the office or in your home. If you had a small one, and a large planter, and gave it half a gallon of water every day you saw it, which was every day, then it would grow. If you had enough thoughtfulness to throw some fertilizers in there, it would grow quiet a bit from just a few little roots. It will come out of it's home, hang out, and begin to work its way into your walls. And as you water it daily and watch it, with its yellow-green and darkly green marbling, it looks like a healthy plant that is now threatening to crack your sheet rock. You probably don't care if you have this plant this large and indoors, because it's kind of pretty.

SO....what would happen if you suddenly stopped watering it? Or threw on it half a cup every few days, as opposed to watering it half a gallon, every day like it's used to?

The first thing I imagine it would do is droop. Droop and look sickly. And unless you give it more water, it will have this crazy-assed limp look about it, listless. Yep, all the roommates walk past it. Their guests too. No one waters it because it's really YOUR plant. You just don't really have the time. Or water on hand.

Eventually the thing just kind of shrivels up and becomes crunchy.

Maybe I'm stupid, but I feel like a friendship got that way and as the plant, I'd rather just toss myself out instead of linger, browning on the table.

no vancancy

2012-01-13T23:14:00.000-06:00

I think that was a snap-back to reality phrase.

Apparently I have been pulled up short because someone was 'renting too much room in my head." Can't say that never happens, but it happens in times that aren't really fortunate for me. Sometimes when things get rough, well, they only get rougher because things have a tendency to plummet beyond reach. I'm learning to just let go of some things, but others, it's just too bad a habit.

I think I realize several things. Regardless as to whether or not they are, the entirety of thoughts are irrelevant.They were thoughts that can be applied and have more than likely been made manifest, however unwittingly people would try to deny or salvage them. Peoples actions are what they are, and sometimes they do good, and sometimes they do bad. And the hell with anyone that wants to take a fine microscope to any of it. Even me.

I have a lot of thoughts as to why it came to this kind of end. Some that will be vehemently denied, and probably other accusations flung for deflection. But I know where I was when this journey started, I know where I was through it, and I know where I was at the end of it. If no one else listens, I don't suppose it matters. Just another tale in my bardic book of tales, one that will reach the carefully penned but less spoken chapters. Half of my adventures in the country will be sealed away to darkness, not because I am ashamed to speak of them, only because they make me terribly sad. There are some songs I have a hard time listening to in reminder.

actively making a difference

2012-01-05T22:11:00.000-06:00

My eldest daughter has a facebook. It's okay, she's allowed. I frequently check it, constantly ask her about 'friends' on it, and harass her to the point of eyerolling.

Which, of course, is my parently duty.

But one of the recent topics of conversation, in line with our move, is there used to be this guy she liked at the old town. She doesn't really 'talk' to him like that anymore, and she's been at the new school half a year. One of our conversations kinda of went like this.

"So....are you...'going out' with anyone?"

"Mom...." She smirks.

"What's his name?"

"Nobody." She smiles.

"Okay, HER name?"

"Mom!"

The little one pipes in, "Her?" and looks at her little sister curiously.

"Yeah, mom asks me HIM or HER. She says she doesn't care and she'll love us the same." She rolls her eyes, smiles, and the conversation continues.

And when I say it, I mean it exactly. I want to be able to show that kind of love and support to my kids. I want them to be strong in their choices, both on the field of emotions and academia. I want them to be strong women and like whatever they want to like, do whatever they want to do, and grow up with integrity and compassion. I want them to be happy, emotionally strong and comfortable in their own skins. I can't say what I'm doing is right and true, but it's the best I know how for now.

But this kind of attitude, this kind of thinking, I believe it starts with the parents. How accepting are you? What kind of standard do you set?

Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out...

2012-01-03T21:49:00.000-06:00

I cannot express how thankful and relieving it is that 2011 is gone. I think it has been the most stressful year of my life, with growing pains and hard losses. In less than a year, I've changed my life a great deal. I've switched jobs, moved to another city, lost both of my nest mates, and am now overshadowed as the bread winner in my household.

It's been a long, bumpy road.

Most people have started a few weeks ago getting new year's resolutions. I think I started when I turned in my two week's notice. Of changes in themselves, around them. I think part of it is reminding ourselves about what changes we wish to make, and reminding ourselves of our chosen path, so we can focus on moving towards our goals.

SO....here's to changes, to moving forward and to growth and joy.

A random practical joke.

2011-12-21T23:47:00.000-06:00

I suppose people understand I'm a little off. Today I convinced one of my co-workers to fold themselves up in a freight box and wait.

Then I went to the other side of the store, insisted that I borrow yet another associate from the other assistant manager, then promptly sent them to help unpack freight.

As soon as that person ducked out of sight, I dragged the other assistant from their task and made a beeline for the area with the empty-but-full freight box in it. We stood around the corner, watching the second person opening boxes and working freight onto the counter.

Unfortunately, I was called away for some other mundane call, when I hear shrieking come from the side of the store I just left.

I love the holidays.

The Underground

2011-11-28T10:43:00.000-06:00

Today I am headed with a very good friend of mine to the Houston Underground.

Wait. Houston has an underground?

For those of you who don't know, Houston (HUGH-ston) is built on a vast swamp and even has a bayou running through the middle of it. When you're at sea level, you don't have basements.

However, to accomodate the ever-growing populace, if you can't built up, I guess they figured they should build down. There is a small maze of eateries and shops which glitter alongside the scurrying sheeple, underneath the blaring horns and traffic lights. You'd think that it would be akin to the Morlocks, where the shadiness dwells, but in all actuality, it is inhabited 9-5 by corporate yesmen and the likes which dwell the majority of their lives in cubicle world.

So today, the underground will be our playground. Hope you have me on facebook. I always post a lot of pics. Like from the Chocolate Bar.

Predictions

2011-11-28T10:21:00.002-06:00

I just wanted to say, you wound up doing exactly what I suggested you to do.

Swallow that.

The White Tree

2011-11-27T23:07:00.000-06:00

So...this year, we have a white Christmas tree.

The tree is white, because of the request of my sister, literally on her deathbed. At first, I really didn't think this was a request that was lucid, but throughout her time with her friends, this was something that happened on occasion. So...my mother went out and bought a white tree.

We put over 500 little lights on it. The first go-around, my husband was asked to buy lights on the way home from work. When he got home, he realized that the cord was GREEN, and too highly visible on a WHITE tree (fail). But we went later on and got a white string, so everything was cool. The kids lit it, put the garland on, and hung on the ornaments.

Every year, we buy the kids one ornament. We started this tradition in the hopes that when the children were old enough to leave their nest, they would have a collection of ornaments to take with them to put on their own tree. We got the girls bells this year, engraved with their names and the year.

So after the tree was pretty and lit and decorated, the kids and husband went to bed. I thought about my sister, and how she would have enjoyed helping the girls, or merely watching them. And I cried a little. Somehow, it makes the holiday a little more lonely that she's not here. I'm sure it won't be the last time. That's okay, though. On the up side, I my family may be small, but it's great. And I have a few really good friends to share the holiday with.

It's the holidays.

2011-11-27T20:10:00.000-06:00

Other than double-ordering an item for Christmas, the Yuletide holiday shopping is moving along smoothly. In fact, it's the smoothest it's been. Save for a few little hiccups, which are mostly inconsequential.

I have a little bit of a rant. I was going to the The Cheesecake Factory this evening, and of course, for the holidays, parking is full. We eyeball a couple moving through the crowd and point the little car towards it, hoping for a parking spot. When we get there, another car is on the other side. As they pull out, I think, "The hell with it, I have been sharking for parking for like fifteen minutes" and snipe the spot of the couple we'd been watching.

At this point, another little red car begins to protest loudly with it's horn.

Now, I'm in the car with my mom, my sister-in-law, and a good friend of mine. "Really?" I ask, exasperated. All this time, I'm talking out loud about how I had been watching the couple, amongst agreements from the peanut gallery all around me.

Dude gets out of his car.

Now, several thoughts run through my head. I'm wearing prescription shades which are dark, a sweatshirt with Death on the front, skully earrings and a skully bracelet (which...well, no one really knows it's Death on my shirt...). And I'm thinking, "Do I look thuggish enough?"

The guy sees me, is taller than me, and immediately starts yelling at me.

I can't even remember what he said. I was getting flustered. "I walked them watching...". "What? What are you saying?" "I *watched* them *walking*...." And now, he's yelling more and I'm starting to get pissed. Finally, I cut him off.

"I'm not moving."

"You mean after all this," he yells loudly, "you're stealing my parking spot? You're not going to move?"

"No. I'm not. Call the cops. I don't care. I'm not moving."

I really thought this guy was going to hit me. Then finally he walks back, stares at the back of my car, then slams into his, leaving.

Now, I'm concerned that I've pissed this guy off and he's going to come back and key my car or slash my tires. I'm shaking, I'm furious, but all I can do is quote an old friend as the people around me are talking about this guy.

"What a douchebag."

I can't help it. I get angry. I mean, it's a fucking parking spot. Really??? You got out of the car to try and intimidate a car full of women to move a car because you want the parking spot? But I'm concerned, and if I'm concerned, I know that my mother is close to having an apoplexy.

And I can't convey to her that today is going to be a good day. Damnit.

She begins to obsess as we're walking towards the restaurant. And I'm mad, but I figure that whatever happens will happen and I won't be able to do jack shit. Karma would get his ass. So finally, I kind of cut my mom off (which I try not to do) and convey it in the only way I can get her to understand it.

"Mom, it's okay. God will take care of it."

She finally lets it drop. We have our meal, some WONDERFUL dessert (tiramisu and strawberry shortcake and yes, cheesecake), and leave. When we get to the car....there is a HPD cop car a few car spots over, engine running, and cop sitting inside.

All I can do is laugh. The Universe works as it should.

Any blessing is still a blessing.

2011-11-08T22:41:00.000-06:00

When they prayed over my stepbrother, my stepmother paused, knowing my difference of opinion when it comes to religion. Gently, she asked me if it was okay.

"Yeah. Any blessing is a good blessing, no matter where it comes from."

And I stand by that remark. Maybe it makes me a little nutty, but I sincerely believe that the good begets the good, and what goes around really goes around. So I humbly accept the blessings of others. Blessings for peace, to prosper, for love and light and joy.

I kinda get more fickle when it comes to the state of my immortal soul, but I digress.

Anyway, I lost my phone today. What actually happened was I left in in the bathroom. Perhaps 30-45 minutes after realizing this, I ask the loaner boss to borrow his phone, frantically calling my own.

"Hello?"

"Hmm, yes?"

"Hey, um. You found my phone."

"I picked it up on the counter in the bathroom."

"Can I have it back?"

"I've already left Party City and I'm on the other side of town. I might be able to swing by there later in the week."

"Thank you so much. I work here, so please leave it with any of the cashiers up front."

Riiiight. That phone is a goner.

On a good note, within that hour, I called to have the phone shut off and flagged as stolen. (Try to use it now, assholes.) A 500 dollar phone on the Sprint system becomes a worthless piece of junk. You might be able to hustle someone into buying it for 50 bucks, but who'd want to risk it if it didn't work?

The only really hard blow to my heart was the pictures and stuff on there. Mind you, most of the pictures no one is going to make any heads or tails out of, some of them are of people dancing around a bonfire. Drummers. No places, no names, nothing attached to it. Nothing...ah, risque. But there's some stuff on there that really HURT to lose.

Like the last few text messages between my sister and I before she go too ill to use her phone anymore.

Pictures of the last few hours of her life as they presented her with an honorary teaching degree in art by UTSA. Within an hour of everyone dispersing from the ceremony, she quietly took a few short breaths, then breathed no more. And we were all here for here like we were there for my kid brother. Telling them both how much we loved them, how much we want them to be free of the darkness that plagued them, and we got to rub and pet them before they passed away quietly.

My loaner boss, the retired jewish gay special ops marine (who is deaf in one ear because he go shot in the face and the trajectory of the bullet coincided with his ear, you do the math) who could probably eat glass and piss napalm said something very sweet to me. "Maybe you really just didn't need the phone because you didn't need the pictures of your sister like that. You shouldn't remember her like that. There was more to your sister than being sick. Focus on the happy memories."

And really, that's what I think I'll do. Those pictures were sad. She could hardly move. She barely opened her eyes. Everything took tremendous effort for her. Having to explain the attachment on the phone brought me to tears.....tears I thought I had washed away a while ago. But I realize that these injuries to the heart are like being impaled with stiletto. The damage is quick, sharp, deep and serious. It either leaves you to bleed out on the floor, or the adrenaline spurs you into response. However...the damage is done, so have a care that the blade doesn't move, the wound doesn't fester, and you don't bleed out entirely.

Knowing I lost those pictures, broke me down. I spent half an hour trying to recollect myself a work. I was a mess. Virtual or no, those were he last things my sister gave me, and they got lost. So don't mind me if I seem to be having my heart ripped out and stomped on the floor by a complete stranger.

It's okay. I still come out ahead. This month will mark the anniversary of me getting shackled to someone for 15 years and no killing them (or somehow killing me). Don't let anyone dissuade you, it's an amazing accomplishment in this day and age. I have someone to pick on for the rest of their life, that carries heavy stuff, that cooks, that cleans, that brew. Someone that wants to go camping with me across America and back again. Someone who would help me build a cordwood house out in the middle of nowhere because he can.

So.....yeah, maybe he phone being lost was a blessing in disguise. Just means somewhere, through someone, the universe is looking out for me, and I appreciate that.

I'm already gone.

2011-10-31T00:34:00.000-05:00

I think that this has been the year of self-preservation.

I look back on the pagan calendar and I am thinking about my journey from the last Samhain. It's been a long, dark road before me, wrought with perils. I am sure that there is a lot about me fundamentally that hasn't changed, but I would have to say that there is a lot about me that's changed too. I've made a lot of hard decisions in the past year, about the people I will keep in my life and the friendships I will let go. It sucks, because people I call 'friends' have great aspects about them. But I've come to the point where I'm realizing that even though I see the potential of a person, that doesn't really mean they will live up to that full potential, nor that they even care to. I'm weeding out those people who do not enrich my life in any way, or people that seem to take from me and never give back. One-sided, unhealthy relationships. I am brushing away those that would speak kindly to my face, but bitch about me behind my back. I am turning my back on those who offer nothing but their outstretched hand. Those that never seem to care about me, because the world revolves around them.

Maybe that sounds a little selfish. Maybe I deserve to be a little selfish.

Since the focus moved from my community (those I hang with) to my family (those I live with, save for a scant few tried and true friends), my family prospers. My husband and I are doing really well and able to do more and more for our family. I'm not driving in the middle of the night on rescue missions, I'm not trying to cut it close to life expenses versus bailing someone out of jail. I'm not over-exerting myself outside of my household. And things have never been better.

Some days I think about what I have lost, and I mourn the loss of people. Of their potential. But the greatest of that potential lies with me and my family. Had I seen that sooner, well...

...would of, should of, could of. It doesn't really matter. This past week has been a bit of hell at work, but in the end, it's worth it. Even if it's just me and the cat in the middle of the night. We get past that short spell, and on with the living. I got at least one of the two things I wanted most for my birthday this year. The reasonable one was spending a nice, quiet evening at home with the family, celebrating my birthday.

The second one was the impossible, but it doesn't mean I couldn't wish it. The second was I just wish my sister could have called me to wish me happy birthday. I hope that she would be proud of me.

Liar, liar.

2011-10-28T09:06:00.000-05:00

I remember taking the humanities at the community college, like sociology and psychology. One of the things that Dr. Simones used to say is that people lie to themselves, even just a little.

And we get this. Sometimes it's what our weight or size really is, just little white lies to the brain. Others, they're a bit more severe, like we really didn't want something bad to happen after just wishing for it. Or we didn't wish for it, it just happened. Whatever we can tell ourselves in a whisper to keep ourselves in a comfort zone. Looking in the mirror, we tend to be critical, but we also tend to talk ourselves up, saying things like we haven't gained that much weight, the creases at our eyes aren't so deep, we haven't really changed all that much from high school. Right.

I realize that intermittently, I can affect people subtlety. I don't necessarily get the credit for it, but I do influence people, and the funny part is that I don't intend it. Like picking up the partiality to sterling silver flatware, or the desire for the garb and dress of the renfests. From teaching to writing to my personal thoughts on hallucinogens to tending fish tanks. I know there are places I had a hand in thoughts. Deny it all you want, but someone in your life that you've loved, even if that love didn't last, has affected you in some way. The seeds of conversation plant ideas which would flourish into something not entirely unlike a thought process that loved one had, or maybe it was set adrift to form a completely different viewpoint. Either way, a few choice words were a catalyst for something.

I have an aversion to designer drugs, flowery patterns, and turquoise plaids. But I have picked up an affinity for house music, antiques and small, random adventures. I love pottery, textured fabrics and enjoy designer coffees and breads. All of my tastes, styles and thoughts have been my own, yes, but also shaped by the world, no, the people around me.

To not give them credence is laughable. Just because I don't like someone, I'm not honorless enough not to give credit where credit is due. Perhaps I did not really care much for my mother-in-law, but she did make sure that I got my diploma and that I walked the year I almost didn't graduate. Doesn't mean that I have to be bosom buddies, but it would dishonor me not to admit where I came from, so to speak.

So surround yourself with people, but don't get lost amongst them. The ones that you invest your precious time in will shape the kind of person you are. You are your own person, honed by the love of your company. Pick with care who you spend your time with. You can either be like crabs in a bucket, people clinging to you to drag you down, or you can fly with your flock, the winds uplifting you all.

Occupy Wall Street.... Occupy Your Life. Get in there and LIVE it.

2011-10-24T23:48:00.000-05:00

I've been watching this in the news, touch and go, and getting ideas of what exactly it is.

No one seems to have any definitive claims as to entirely what 'Occupy Wallstreet' is. Some have said it was a protest against capitalism in the form of corporate greed. I've seen others say that it was a demand for a truer democracy.

Each person, whatever color, gender, sexual orientation, religion or creed....no person can seem to give a straight answer on exactly why they are there.

But they're mad as hell.

I can get that. There is so much bullshit wrong in the world, I won't even start my own list. I've listen to people bitch about unfair laws, unfair corporations, unfair, unfair, unfair. But there are a few things that I have to say to this.

Firstly, standing around gets a bit of attention, but never really the kind of attention you want. "Yeah, I've been standing on Wall Street for days now..." Okay, you look like a good guy to give a job to, don't you? But I have to give them props. They're trying to figure out what to do with whatever it is they're upset about.

Therapy might help.

But beyond the selfish outer shell of the movement, the rallying words of "we want", perhaps something more revolutionary would be "we act". Let's fucking take this to the street then, shall we? You know that there is registered sex offender lives on the corner, never coming out of his house. Let's all get together instead of standing in a street with a volatile concoction of emotions and anger, and bust in on this bitch for some vigilante justice. We will just hang him in his own tree in the front yard. We will do what we believe is right to make this world a better place, be it through burning down the buildings of the corporations, or stringing up a guilty man in a indecency with a child charges.

Oh, wait. Once that's done, you find out the guy was 18 at the time the crime was processed, sleeping with his 16 year old girlfriend. And rumors and speculation led this mass mob to hang him. When really, even though he was tried and found guilty by the letter of the law, that this perhaps wasn't quite the case it sounded like on paper.

Does the vigilante justice redeem itself just by saying they're sorry, they didn't know? Hell no. And when the masses are to blame, well, everyone misses the blame.

Instead, go to the source.

I have said this several times before, I'll say it again. I am not the best when it comes to interpretation of the law. I am no lawyer, I have never been to law school. I'm taught the bare fundamentals in school, like everyone else, and set out into the sea of adulthood to find my own way. I get that. But no matter how long my ship gets to sail, the waters will always be grey.

If you don't like what's going on, change it. But you can't change it from the roles of victim and exploited. Get out. Get up. DO something. Join the congress. Join the PTA. Join a community shelter. Do service at the local church. Help at the pet shelters.

Pay it Forward.

Nothing will change overnight, and all though self-understand and self-reflection is important, it cannot be all-consuming. When you get your tentative grasp, hold on tightly and move forward as if it is the last thing you do on this earth. Because any cause can be shunted to the side. What you do about the things that trouble you is what will make the entire difference.

For those at the Occupy sites, I wish them happiness, peace, joy, and resolution.

BE THE CHANGE YOU WISH TO SEE IN THE WORLD.

Life is a dancefloor....

2011-10-23T21:44:00.000-05:00

"Might as well let go, you can't take back what you've done..."

That's part of my problem. For some reason, I'm literally hard-wired to obsess. At least, that's what the shrink said by looking over the waves of my brain. I suppose he got bored with me, or he's just kind of letting me do my own thing during October, because I'd told him it would be crazy-busy.

I've got to work on my birthday, which is a first in a while, but being the type of retail, I don't mind it. At least that day I get to work early, so off early, which means dinner, possibly. I don't really think too much about it. Frankly, the only thing I want for my birthday, I can't have. And that would be just to hear my sister call and wish me a happy birthday, as we were apt to do on our birthdays. Just call and chat.

Last month I found myself calling her phone number, just to see if the voice mail was still there. Nope. I couldn't have checked it, so I wonder about the calls she never got to return sometimes. It worries me, fascinates me, and humbles me, the realization of how completely her life just stopped. Bill collectors and catalogs still frequent the mail. I had to donate a lot of her clothes (when I got here, we were the same size....a few months past and I'm much smaller now....plus, well, we just aren' t into the same kind of style of dress....go figure), and she has art supplies here I have yet to go through. So much stuff, so little time. And well, there's other things.

She's got photographs of being out with people I've never seen before, to places I never knew she traveled to. I am sure she loved her friends very much, but it was just another indicator about how very different our lives were. Sometimes it makes me feel really alienated, like I never really knew her at all. And in other moments, we we spoke and the exact same thoughts crossed our minds, I felt deeply we were cut from the same cloth.

And now....now all I have to analyze is what went on before, and soon enough, those memories will erode in their sharpness, and it scares me to forget them.

And then I think about my stepbrother, about how long he had to suffer with schizophrenia, and it makes me truly sad. I mean, it emphasizes the fact that in all acutality, I lost both my sister and stepbrother a long time ago. Estranged. And the thing that makes it the most pointed is the fact that I have a hard time recounting the last time I saw them before their deaths. In my stepbrother's instance, I think years have passed. In the instance of my sister....I'd seen her a few weeks before, but before that particular visit? I can't remember.

Gods help me, it's really been long enough I can't remember.

It still doesn't make me feel less of either of them, I love them all the more for having watched. Having been blessed enough to be there. Not entirely under the circumstances any of us would choose, but I got one gift I can't be ungrateful for. I got to say goodbye, which is a lot more than some people ever get.

Just sometimes I feel really alone.

Of the moment

2011-10-13T19:27:00.000-05:00

I can't say that every word I ever wrote was kind, but nor can I say that I meant every harshness I dealt. And that can become the deadly beauty of writing. A double-edged sword which can help you cut to the quick of things, but damaging and swift to others.

I remember that a friend of mine once left a diary behind in a move. He was beside himself with horror that anyone might pick it up and read it, because he wrote freely in it, not withholding his emotion or timbre. It caused him great anxiety for two days, whereas we safeguarded his words, never opening, and returned the books to him. In passing, he mentioned writing things in a not-so-nice-way about people in them, and actually said he had done the same to me, 'writing in anger'. He was easily enough able to retrieve the books and continue our friendship, although he admittedly wrote very ugly things in it about me. I was able to nod to this, because I believed my friend had a right to his feelings in the heat of the moment.

I look at my words to him in recent times badly. I know they were unkind. I was angry and dealing with other things, but....he is firmly of the belief that people, depressed or having issues should be responsible for their actions and words......Oddly, even in anger, I had the strength to speak directly to him (or indirectly, writing to him) and I shamed for my behavior. But what he writes, as long as I wasn't privy to it, does it make it justifiable?

I look at the double-standard as interesting. I am not saying either of us is right or wrong, but in my observation, it looks like a duality exists. Just as assuredly, if I know that something is illegal and willingly engage in the act, then I am chancing the probability of being caught. Having to be responsible for engaging in the illegal act. I will not cry about how unfair I think it is, or how the system is wrong. I will not evangelize about my rights, the deterioration of 'the system', or make any other excuse about why I should not be arrested, tried and convicted. When I speed in traffic, although I have faith in my driving capabilities, although I have never been in a car accident, if I accelerate above the speed limit, I know that there is a possibility that I can be stopped by law enforcement, ticketed, and possibly jailed. So when I speed, I willingly break the posted law, the law I know about, so when I have to face the consequences, I will accept them as an adult. I might bitch about the fact that I hate the process. But I know the law, no matter how unfair it is to me, and anything else is just looking for an excuse. At least, that's how I feel.

And yes, I speed sometimes. Just not often. Because frankly, I can't think of anything so important that I couldn't have left twenty minutes earlier for instead of trying to break the sound barrier. Granted,in emergency instances...well, if you'd have known it was an emergency twenty minutes earlier, you'd already be long gone, wouldn't you?

the dream of a memory...

2011-10-11T21:21:00.000-05:00

A man walked into my store today which struck a chord with me. For all the things that I had to do, all the work that had to be done, I paused to look curiously at this man.

He closely resembled a man who crossed my path over thirteen years ago. The anesthesiologist that took care of me when my first child was born. I remember his thin and supple fingers, his calm, quiet tenor words speaking lowly. The content, I can't remember. It's the reassuring tone you use when you're dealing with someone you are afraid will spook at any sudden movements...kind of like a horse trainer, I suppose. He was pale, thin, very tall, and had eyes the color of brilliant aquamarines. They reflected the cold, crystalline blue and picked up grey from the matte steel materials which surrounded us in the procedures.

It's interesting to me how one face, one smell, one pattern or touch can bring to me a hundred flashbulb memories. Some with complete clarity, some a little hazy from the faded photographs time leaves behind in the mind.

Don't know why it was so strongly remembering it, but it was a brilliant moment.

scotch and strings

2011-10-03T01:27:00.000-05:00

Last night was a beautiful night. Even though I had to work yesterday, I came home to a content husband. We talked in the breezy, cool weather of the evening.and spoke of the String Theory and its relation to music and magic.

There are the things that we talk about when left to our own devices....

So....can you imagine that.....? The universe made of subatomic particles which are all,, for all intents and purposes...just music....

Every moment we ahve, every place in time, through out time, back and forth in the multiverse.....the ForeverSong.

Which....does make happy about the name I gave it when I was so little.

But regardless, we spent hours last night, holding each other outside, singing to music and talking in the cool twilight. Which is what love is, right? Spending that quality time.

Geez, I'm tired.

The Piano Bar

2011-09-24T09:36:00.000-05:00

Friendship dictates the celebration of a friend's birthday. This particular celebration found us at a place downtown called Pete's Dueling Piano Bar. Us being my husband and mom accompanying me.

Having never been to a dueling piano bar (one of my sister's favorite places in San Antonio was Dirty Nelly's Irish Pub, which she said was quite a riot), I wasn't entirely sure what to expect, save two guys playing pianos. I don't know that 'dueling' is really the proper word, at least for the instance of the evening, but you'd get a paper, write your request, slip it onto a grand piano one of the guys was sitting on, and if they knew it, they'd probably play it. Order of operations dictates that if they played it, it got wadded up and tossed somewhere. If they didn't know it, early in the evening, they'd let you know and they were keeping your money anyway. For the more serious bar hoppers, the bigger your tip, the better chance you had of getting your song played.

Now, if this hasn't been established before, I will let you know now. I can seriously drink. I don't normally like to seriously drink, because drinking is supposed to be something that is relaxing and done in moderation. As a kid, I would always try to press the limits. As an adult, if I'm not driving, well....I try to behave myself in public now. Anyway, knowing about what my bar tab runs now, I shudder to think how much money gets blown at this bar - soused people paying exceptional money for the alcohol in the first place, then tipping these guys twenty bucks to play a song, in some instances, not even in its entirety. Decadent, but it was kind of fun just to laugh at some of these people.

There was a few memorable instances for the evening, especially since it is really kind of a sing-along type of environment. "You don't have to call me darling" was promptly recognized by the group I was with, and after that specific string of words, the words "BITCH, SLUT, WHORE" were screamed from the group, much to both the surprise and delight of the the pianist. There was also some other song where the same three words were used, with the addition of YOU in front of them. And some other song where the audience called out TO GET DRUNK, TO GET HIGH, TO GET LAID. Some of the songs, I recognized. Some of them I didn't. But singing along was fun anyway.

But it might also give you an idea of exactly what kind of group I was hanging out with. Good, bawdy people.

There were a few songs that were added to the set, two of which my husband called out on, that was accompanied by the waitresses dancing. Of course, the request for The Time Warp, which gets everyone on their feet.

Now...let's go back to the fact that my mother went along.

The volume was loud enough to leave that kind of hollow, tinny sound ringing in my ears after we left. My mother probably had a harder time understanding the men talking, because they spoke fast and were distorted slightly by the reverb from the microphones. Sometimes I leaned back and explained a joke passed between them, and she laughed. But generally, whether or not she could catch the joke, she found the whole thing amusing. Especially when one of the guys used a flashlight for a 'spotlight' and heckled people in the audience (some white guy was referred to all evening as 'Pepe'...the pianist said that was his name for the evening, so he responded and joked with the pianist most of the evening). My mother gets wasted on a thimble-full of booze, so she happily enjoyed the show with a soda. We both agreed it was something really different, and kinda fun, and her biggest surprise was that going into a bar in Houston, there was no smoking inside.

Mom doesn't get out much.

But that was the evening. And if you feel a bit bawdy and loud, maybe you and your chums will drop by Pete's Dueling Piano Bar. It was a pretty nice night out.

Dances with Beavers

2011-09-17T20:57:00.000-05:00

Back home from the trip to San Antonio. It has been an amazing day.

The day started at about 5 am for me and after trying to leave the house at six and picking up a family friend, we adventured to San Antonio. Of course, we had to stop at one of the places my sister always stopped at on the way to Houston...Buc-ee's.

If you haven't had the Buc-ee's experience, it is one of the largest, cleanest pit stops I have ever been to. I've traveled a lot in my time, and when you've got to stop to get gas, use the bathroom, or buy something to eat, I've probably never seen any place as well-staffed or as clean as a Buc-ee's. They can gouge you on prices for some of the items with their Beaver mascot logo, but really, if you've ever been in a seedy place where toilets became hover-seats (that is, you're afraid of catching something so you can't actually sit on a toilet seat to use the bathroom, which is a horrible incident in the making for women sometimes...), then you can appreciate the cleanliness of this place.

Anyway, as we stop there, I think of a good friend of my sister's and how she told stories of the Beaver Wars between my sister and herself. They would buy the craziest things for one another as they stopped at this place, and stick stickers of the Beaver on each other's car. Her birthday was at the beginning of the month, so to celebrate her birthday and that of my sister, we got her a Beaver Backpack.

So,we get to Dick's Last Resort, a bar on the Riverwalk in San Antonio. Since the Universe works as it should, it is apparently nestled gently under the hospital that my sister was diagnosed with cancer six years ago. When we arrived, I carried my purse, a Beaver Bag with the Beaver Backpack in it, and a small recyclable bag that carried two urns of the remains of my sister.

This was not meant to be a sad occasion. It was my sister's birthday, a celebration of her life and the opportunity to share the event with her friends. And so it was.

Her friend was thrilled with the Beaver Backpack. I presented her with the urn and charged her with spreading ashes at my sister's favorite places. She was happy to do so, then in an effort to make sure that nothing happened to the urn (which I Saran wrapped and rubber-banded to make sure that she didn't spill out...), she proceeded to stuff the urn into the Backpack.

Okay, the thought had occurred to me when I purchased it, but I thought to myself it might be weird. But here was her friend, trying to stuff the urn into the plushie Beaver Backpack.

"Suck it in!" my mom yells, encouraging my sister to 'fit' in the backpack.

The clown there sees us playing with the backpack (during the day, it's a mostly-harmless, attitude baring clown which makes balloon things and picks on people...at night, when there's no kids, the balloons turn obscene and the heckling begins..) and wants his picture with it. At that point, I'm nervously trying to pull the backpack from the clown and gently explaining he has to be careful. Finally, at some point, I tell him my sister is in the backpack, and if he isn't careful, he'll spill her. He clicks that I am in fact not kidding, and begins to stammer and apologize.

Leave it to me to stop a clown deadpan in the middle of trying to be funny.

Anyway, a good time is had by all, and I'll spare you some of the insults and banter that went on. When we finished, we walked some down the river and found a small man-made waterfall. They gathered around it tightly, to shield me from all the people across the river. My sister's friend said a few words, reading from a book and directly quoting my sister. When she was finished, I thanked them all for coming, then poured my sister into the water stealthily.

The Beaver Backpack still had the second urn, and for some reason, everyone wanted their picture 'with my sister'. She would have probably found this funny, because everyone was sporting the backpack or cuddling the plushie. As this was going on, one of my sister's other friends was looking down at the frothing water.

"Don't say a word," I laughed. The ash had clung to the foam, making my sister a latte in the fountain.

The trip home was through the rain, but the rain itself wasn't a bad thing. It was a blessing and a sign of hope for us here, where the water has been scarce. The day was great, and full of laughter and love, with just a touch of sadness.

I love you sis, and I miss you dearly. Happy birthday.

Love moves mountains. Real love moves bodies.

2011-09-16T23:23:00.000-05:00

I really should write a book. The fact of the matter is, I just can't make this shit up.

So, after acquiring two urns to take my sister to San Antonio, we make plans to go to one of her favorite haunts (no pun intended), a place called Dick's Last Resort.

Now...first let me tell you about Dick's.

All I can think of is the song "My Posse's on Broadway"....which has at one point or another also crossed my sister's mind. It's this bar on the Riverwalk in San Antonio that is famous. It's notorious for it's crabby staff, shavings on the floor, and the fact that crap can be literally thrown at you. There's a clown there that makes obscene balloon, uh, things and if you're new to the bar, they make hats for you.

A long time ago, I traveled there with my friend Marc. During the time, I think I was working at the tattoo parlour and the pottery shop. We loaded up into Marc's blue corvette (which we actually tried to drown, by the way...it had probably three inches of water in the floor board, but that's another story) with the police lights on it and made the journey from Houston to San Antonio in slightly under two and a half hours. Although it was a relatively short drive, I realize that when you're in fear of your life, time slows down. I really didn't have anything to worry about, I was in good company with a mostly safe driver, but not used to traveling by three-digits...it can kind of throw off your nerves.

When we arrived, my sister was thrilled and took us to this bar on the Riverwalk. The pine shavings on the floor kind of gave it a bit of a funny smell, but I imagine they were there to soak up all sorts of stray things. It was a live music night, we drank beers with necks the size of those super-huge Mountain Dew bottles, and had various napkins and cups thrown at us. At one point, fries flew above the din (french fries), and my sister told the waiter that my friend and I had never been to Dick's. So we were promptly given paper hats. The waiter wrote (literally) on mine, "I'll fart for a quarter" and on Marc's, he wrote, "Hung like a (Sea)Horse". After staggering to the bathroom a couple of times to stare at the pictures of bare-chested, glistening men on the walls of the stall, maybe you kind of get the idea of where we're headed tomorrow. Maybe even an idea about how fun and mischievous my sister was. How much I appreciated some of the silliness of us. And, well... At least around noon, the crowd might be more sedate...

But back to the heart of my story. In our last episode, I'd purchased two nice, yellow ceramic urns for the use of transportation of my sister. The urns are just big enough to hold a bag of her remains. Two urns, three bags. Two for in and around San Antonio...one for the deep blue sea later on.

Now, I just said that the urns were big enough to hold a bag of remains each. Literally. I got them home and realized no matter how much I squished, pushed, rolled or prodded, there was no way I was going to be able to put those bags wholly into the urns. Which means, yup, you guessed it. I had to pour her into those urns.

Now I want you to think about this. When someone's cremated, it's not just this fine silvery ash that gets thrown to the winds to travel the earth for all eternity. It's not that pretty. In fact, it's chunks of bone and ash, akin to maybe crunched up coral. I think the weirdest part was finding the IV needle.

Yes. Yes. You guessed it. My mother knew it had to be done too, so she was kind enough to set everything up. When I got up after dinner, she'd cleared away the counter, set down paper towels, the freshly cleaned urns, a small metal funnel, and went to bed shortly thereafter, leaving me and my husband up alone.

Now it would really upset me to try to leave my mother to that task, and my husband is a man of great fortitude so he set his face with determination when I asked for his assistance. We'd removed the bottom of the cremation box and analyzed the size of the baggies my sister was in before endeavouring on this. Very carefully, we began to shake her from the bag into a funnel, swirl the funnel and let her kind of pour into it like an hourglass.

Like a coarse sand through an hourglass.

And all I can think of is a million things as I'm doing this. Please don't let the funnel clog. Slow down, she's making puffs of ash. What if I breath that up my nose? What if I sneeze? Shit, was that needle left in her after they wheeled her away from the hospice? That was a large chunk. Why are we giggling? Why are we teary-eyed? Did I seriously just get my sister up my nose? If I throw away the bag or wash out the funnel I used, is it disrespectful? Should I ever use that funnel again for anything? It would certainly not be something I'd want to eat or drink anything out of. And why the hell am I doing yet another ridiculous request of my sister's? Gee, it kinda sounds like when we were kids and we threw tiny pebbles down the flat metal slide at the school playground.

And of course, the heart of me is so sad. This is the last physical remains of my sister. This is the last time and last form I will ever touch my sister, and it is nothing like her. There is nothing left of her after this is gone.

So all this sadness, all this craziness, through giggling fits and sobs, it's more than I can bear and more than I can express. It's kind of the mystery of Love. So many things that you have a hard time ever explaining it. But for my husband to unblinkingly be so supportive, to help me in this insane task, to laugh with me and hold me when I cry....I just love him so much. I don't know that he thought it would be this crazy being attached to me for so long. But, I suppose 'at least it ain't dull'.

Well, we commit the ashes to the Riverwalk tomorrow. And another portion into the hands of a very good friend of hers for out and around San Antonio. Whatever makes my sister happy.

After pouring her into the urns and realizing that they are more for aesthetics as opposed to functional, I was worried she spilled. So there are two urns of human remains, both Saran-wrapped and rubber-banded, sitting on the counter, awaiting journeys to San Antonio tomorrow.

Maybe after that, we can stop at Papa Jim's.

last touches

2011-09-14T23:05:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine posted an article on the power of touch.

Everything reminds me of my sister right now, and that's no exception. But let me start with the day.

Since I've been back in Houston, very few of the friends that I had when I was here have surfaced in my life. There are a couple of people I love like family, and consider them family, who have come to see me before and after the events of April, and few else. Today, I was blessed enough to touch base with an old friend.

Like I said, very few people have made any efforts to say, "Hey...stop right there. I want to see you." Now, I know that life gets pretty hectic and I'm sure that a lot of them are just busy. Face it, we grow up, we build careers or have kids, and really, the time left over we are either spending it with our spouses or trying to find spouses. And those that aren't doing either of those things, are just trying to find themselves.

Anyway, I laughed all morning and got a small token of affection that will go on my wall. But it makes me realize a lot of things with people that we take for granted.

But to back up, today I was spending time out and about with my husband. Other than the scheduled visit, we really were just kind of wandering around. I went into an antique shop I haunt on occasion, and I don't generally drag my husband. But we were out there and I happened upon a very nice sugar pot with a lid. Which...of course, reminded me of the fact that Saturday, we are going to spread some of my sister's ashes at the Riverwalk, and I need something to carry it in.

I wouldn't call my religious beliefs conventional. I'm wandering around this store (the husband broke off to go to about other business for a moment), and I'm talking very quietly under my breath. I'm asking my sister to help me find something to carry her remains in, because I don't think that carting her around in a ziploc bag is very dignified. Shortly after, my husband comes trailing along behind me, wandering in my quiet wake through jutting tables littered with antiques, used items, and just plain 'ole junk.

I pause momentarily, looking around. I see tins that have Spiderman and Star Wars on them. While my sister loved both, I mulled this is probably not quite appropriate...but I felt compelled to the little hall with these items. Shaking it off, I made a lap through the booths and came back. My husband was standing in that spot. He asks, "What are you looking for?"

So somehow, I wind up explaining about needing urns. And I tell him that I'm nuts, because I just randomly talk to my sister as if she's there, right beside me. Maybe I have blown a gasket, but I swear sometimes she really is just hanging out. And for some reason I had felt compelled to stop in the spot he was standing in. Then I explained the little tin boxes, and the appropriateness of them because of the fact she loved both Spiderman and Star Wars...but I couldn't see carrying her in a tin lunchbox.

My husband kind of smirked and said, "Look behind you."

On the shelf were two little yellow urns, a matched set, which was fairly inexpensive. I picked them up, amazed.

"I felt like I needed to stop here too. When you're doing that kind of thing, you should tell me."

People talk enough to themselves, if someone hears me, they think I'm crazy enough as it is. Telling people I'm having a one-sided conversation with my dead sister is sure to raise some eyebrows.

But there they were, a mellow yellow color (something she might have picked, but I would never....), side by side and ready to be taken to the counter. So now I have something to cart her to San Antonio in...

However, back to the article.

One of the most wonderful experiences I had with my sister in her final days was just sitting next to her. She was watching TV and I'd just gotten off work. I came over to her, gave her a hug, rubbed my hands across her head and sat in the chair next to her, just rubbing her arm and leg.

"Why are you rubbing me?" she breathed quietly.

"Because I love you," I answered simply. "I know you're sick, and people don't like touching or being around sick people a lot. You've been sick for a long time, so it's probably been a long time since anyone's just touched you.....do you want me to stop?"

"No," she said. "No, it's okay. Thank you."

And I sat there, rubbing her arm and her leg for a while, just watching TV with her.

That was a precious moment. That was also the turning point. I think at that point, she realized exactly how sick she was, because she asked me that night to call for my stepmother and dad to come soon. I don't know what made her decide it, but once she fixed on it, it was decided. I called, and with wrangling, the call was Thursday and my father arrived Sunday. Monday, while I was at work, my sister was admitted into the hospice. Understating, it was a hard time.

So after acquiring these urns, for the very first time, I unscrewed the box containing my sister's remains in the idea that I was going to put them in the urns, or at the very least, put the divided bags into the urns.

I didn't realize how heavy the remains would be. The only texture I can compare it to is if you had dealt with pearlite, or perhaps gravel that was made of crushed shell. I had expected fine powder ash, not this other material that I pulled from the box.

Like a physical blow, standing there with these bags in my hands, it comes to me: this is the last physical remnants of my sister, whom I loved. This is the last traces of my sister on the earth, other than bric-a-brac and photos that will lose their meanings and their names. The room lurched a bit, so I laid the bags back down. I'll try again maybe Friday night. I know it has to be done, but it is a hard process. One that I think I must do in parts, both figuratively and literally.

But for all the hardship and heartache, I am blessed, I truly believe. My sister and stepbrother both came into this world, surrounded by the friends and family that loved them most. Everyone was there to greet them into life. And when they made their passage beyond the veil, they were surrounded by friends and family who loved them, said their goodbyes, and prayed for easy passage. Not everyone is lucky enough to say goodbye. Or to be able to say the things they feel they need. But in the end, when you get to it, nothing really matters except the most basic, base feelings.

"I love you. I'm gonna miss you. I will think of you always."

stupid parents

2011-09-11T20:55:00.001-05:00

Okay, I figured out the one thing that I really don't like about my job.

Being that it's Halloween, I was asked to decorate a fixture for the store with ye old Halloween decorations. Some of them are bloody, mangled, and gruesome. So for all the stuff that I'd set up, parents would bring in their little kids. The kids would cry because they were scared, but the worst part was that their parents would yell at them for being afraid...or they would purposefully use these images to frighten their small children.

Several times I wanted to yell at the parents. Really, it was the least I wanted to do to them.

What I really wanted to do was beath the holy snot out of them.

around the corner

2011-09-04T11:04:00.000-05:00

Yes, Halloween is just around the corner. So, to have other holidays off, I give up Samhain for a while. We pick and choose what we can live with.

But with that kind of spiritual and superstitious stigma that is attached to that particular time of year, tons of ghost-hunting reality shows, documentaries, and horror movies come out to heighten our tensions and awareness, giving us the Quickening of the heart, the things which have driven us to survive.

One of the worst words in the world is 'supernatural'. I hate that word. To me, calling something supernatural is to attach to it something that gives it a means beyond the natural order of things. I have to disagree with it entirely. If these things happen in which we cannot explain, it does not mean it is beyond nature, just at the moment perhaps beyond our ability to explain it. I think that people who are quickly dismissive or try to over-analyze (oh, the lighting on the film is radio signals from a tower, electrical discharge from remote power lines, etc.) with far-fetching rationalization.

Oh well. Whatever you believe, start sharpening your senses. That mystical time of year is sneaking up.