Reading through the past

This is not me at age 16-19, but, close enough

This is a long post, long enough I am leaving it up all weekend. It's good though. Trust me.

Last weekend, we did a lot of sorting and tossing at our house. In the middle of our fury, I found two boxes.

The first box contained the following:

2 years of letters from my high school boyfriend (we had dated four years total)

3 sealed enveloped of my color treated hair (treated by first dying it jet black then applying bleach-the end result being a coppery orange)

1 specimen container housing six pieces of body jewelry (five rings and one post)

1 letter from my mom, basically kicking me out of the family (four angry pages long-I told ya'll she was nuts)

In this post, I want to discuss the letters from my high school boyfriend. His name was Brian. We wrote back and forth after he left for the Navy.Let me summarize the content of the letters here- from his point of view.

He had joined the navy after graduating high school. The goal was to help him develop self discipline and provide opportunity. He had a girlfriend at home, her name was Holly. He was 18, she was seventeen. They had been dating about a year or so when he left.

The letters were hard to write at first. Well, he had a hard time keeping up with Holly's letters. They came two or three times a week. Plus, she sent tapes of herself talking, magazines and all sorts of crazy stuff. She was a little demanding, asking for more mail from him.

There was a lot happening, on his side of things. Lots of tests and training. For the first time in his life he was trying to achieve something. He was studying for exams, going to bed early, and learning how to make hospital corners. Plus there was the PT tests. He was getting in shape for the first time. And his long hair, the mullet, it was all short now. Don't laugh he said.

He had a rough time expressing himself, at first. Putting his emotions out there, onto paper, was hard. He started writing more of a journal, then sending that to her. After that, it all seemed to flow.

He counted how many friends kept writing him, how many people kept in contact. He realized who his real friends were. He got lonely, bored, missed home and his girlfriend. Pride developed in his test scores, the best in his life. He met other people on the base, didn't really bond with anyone though.

Then his girlfriend when to college.

There was a shift in his thoughts. He began to think about moving in with Holly, maybe getting married and having children. Holly didn't have the same thoughts. She wrote about joining the peace corp. She didn't want to get married or have children, ever. He didn't feel she ever listened to him. When he asked what she thought of the latest letter he sent, she would say, I don't remember what you wrote.

This made Brian mad. Her letters were becoming less and less. And she kept writing about this Sam guy. He met Sam, while on a one month leave. He reminded Brian of himself. a younger Brian. A quiet guy who kept to himself, who struck out at anyone who might get near. And if that person was still around after the first strike, then that person might be allowed in.

During that same leave, he noticed Holly spending more time with her friends than him. This pissed Brian off. He took leave to be with her for the most part. But he ended up spending more time with his friends instead. And she spent more time with Sam. This pissed Brian off because he hadn't seen her in forever.

It was obvious that their relationship had changed after that. After that she started seeing other people. And she wrote to him about her new relationships. Which he thought he would be cool about, but really, it kept him up at night. He hated getting her letters now. Especially since she only wrote him after he wrote first. He hated that most of all.

He wrote hate a lot in the last few letters. He wrote hate like this:

HATE!!! HATE!!!! HATE!!!

Needless to say, there was not a lot of contact after that. After that, I moved to a big city for my year abroad.

I have been thinking about going back in time, about what I would say to both those kids, Holly and Brian.

To me, well, I wouldn't say much. Really, I would not say one word. I can't articulate why, but, I just wouldn't.

To him though, I would say a hell of a lot. The first thing I would say was, WHAT THE FUCK!!! ??? When we first started dating you, I asked you to stop doing drugs and drinking, and you said you did. But now I know that you didn't, you just stopped telling me. AND I KNOW YOU ARE THE ONE WHO GAVE ME CRABS!!! And you must have cheated on me, because I NEVER ONCE CHEATED ON YOU!!!

And seriously Brian, grow a pair and stop letting your girlfriend push you around. I mean, you spell woman---womyn—in the letters. All because she is some crazy women's libber. Blah.

Epilogue:

Sometime, right before this blog, through the magic of the interweb, I found Brian again. He is married and has a little boy. He says that his wife, well, she saved his life.

He was shocked that I am married, and for eight years, with two kids, no less. And the job I have, psychiatric nurse practitioner, well, that's a shock too. We emailed a few times after that. But, the email eventually petered off.

We have almost nothing in common. I am not sure we ever did. In fact, I think I never saw him at all; I was so wrapped up in myself. Those letters he wrote paint a very unflattering picture of me. Which is good really. Those underlying traits are still there. I am ashamed of this, what I was in those letters. It's good to humbled though, good to know what my evil looks like.

And knowing that makes me a better person. After all, the better I recognize the former crazy self, the faster I can run the other way.

Either way, it is good to know he has a stable life. Good job. That he is Happy.

As for the second box, well, that is for another post.

The care and feeding of Mrs. Hall, a testimony

This is a long post. It was sparked by my rejoining weight watchers and receiving a compliment by an elderly gentleman on Sunday. Come with me now, as I testify.

I can't quite trace where it began, but somewhere along the line, I became unaffected by my appearance. I can tell you that concern for one's appearance was not encouraged where I grew up. Too bourgeois.

There was also the issue of my intentional separation from others. Of course, this began around age 15. I used my punk and feminist energy as a tool to slice others out of my life. It is rather liberating, shaving one's head, running around all crazy thrift store clothes. Looking all feral and Bjork. Again, I was beholden to no one. It is a power, this punk. But, it is a false power. A power to push away, to divide, a power rooted in the devil of selfishness and anger.

This type of power attracted the appopropriate people. Mostly thugs, confidence men and psychopaths. They had no prospect or way of sustaining a place in my life. I didn't realize it at the time, but I had created a complete and self-reproducing chaos. Which was part of my plan, to be a total anarchist. After all, if no one is in your life, you have no laws, no rules of engagement. There was no love there, no caring, no grace of God.

Eventually, my need for isolation faded. And I found this man, this Mr. Hall. I quit smoking for him. During our first week of courting no less. I began to feel his love. I began to heal. And I shed so much weight, so much anger and chaos. I felt the power of love, I began to strike the devil down.



I feel whole these days. This allows me to dress and behave like a full grown and attractive woman. This attractiveness, this care of and tending to what I look like, is healing. It is changing me. I use tools to further my pretty. These tools include a wonder bra, a heated eye lash curler, stylish clothes, and weight watchers. They are powerful, these tools. As powerful as the hand of providence. Can I get an Amen ladies?

This is where the rubber hits the road, so to speak, in this post. After all, all this talk of my outside means something very real, to the inside of me. And the inside of me, had a triumph recently.

Last Sunday, I went out for pancakes. I put on make up, intentionally. I did look good and smiled a lot. While we were waiting for our table, a gentleman of 70 years sat beside me. "I thought sitting next to you would improve my appearance" he said with a wink. He was resplendent in his pastel driving cap. His camel hair coat and wing tips were most fitting for a man of his vintage.

I was tickled by all of this. I did not feel automatic danger. There was no automatic bristling of my bones.

I was further warmed by the fact that his wife (also in her seventies) and their kids and grandkids were milling about. This is a nice man, I thought, paying me a compliment. And I received this as it was intended, warmly.

And I feel secure with all this healing. I feel the power of who I am. And now it's my turn to spread the good word. To shout out the joy of pure health.

I am healed Lord! Hallelujah! I CAN WALK AGAIN!!

That's one way to learn

“I’ve never really learned anything new, I just didn’t recognize it the first time.”-
Tom Petty quoted in Esquire magazine

I was listening to one of three HARD ROCK stations around here and low and behold what do my ears here? The Offspring. Which snapped me back to a time, some four months before I met Mr. Hall. I was absolutely done dating anyone remotely like I had dated before.

However, I had never dated anyone unlike I had dated before, so I didn’t know what the heck I was looking for. Except for a guy with a car and a job. Who didn’t yell, do drugs or have a habit of sucking the life out of me. The car and job were not negotiable.

I remember this one guy, who I met at a political rally of some sort. I had just gotten back from my year abroad. He had his own organic garden. But, he also was an avid and responsible hunter. We talked about a recent episode of Jeopardy. I remember going to his house, with a small group, and having sushi. Ixnay on the hombre was playing in the background.

And if I would’ve known then, what I know now, I would’ve gone for it. I liked him. It was a sparkle like, not a full on passion like. But, like nonetheless. Seriously. Here was a man of great sensitivity, yet undeniable masculine energy. With a car and a job. Who was good looking and worked out. He was all pecs ahoy and such.

I just didn’t recognize it the first time. I didn’t recognize men of warmth and character who can bend steel bars. I did the second time though.

Enjoy the video, and here’s hoping you recognize something that has been there all along.



If that link doesn’t work anymore, try this:

No self-esteem

Almost Famous via Mrs. Hall

This post is an extention of this week's Potter's Ground. (click here) Go ahead and enter, there is still time to score points!

What Almost Famous means to me:

1. One Sunday morning, (age 29) I was watching "The Motorcycle Diaries." Somewhere after the first twenty minutes I started to feel really, really nauseous. I actually um, threw up four times. Wore me out. Yet, I felt nothing but joy. I knew little Mac was real and growing inside me. I was pregnant! I called in sick for work and put in Almost Famous.

2. While I never worked for Rolling Stone, or followed a band on tour, I recognize a lot of the movie as my own. I am a writer and when I was a wee pup, I moved to a gigantic city. I fell in with a band of gypsy-like people and spent a year being very, very happy. I was 19. For the first time ever, and for the first time, I felt like I belonged. I felt cool. But, this is where it gets a little sad.



But, the sad part is . . . Well, the really sad part is, the end of the movie rings just as true. I forget the lines, but the conversation occurs between the Kate Hudson character and the boy.



They are discussing her upcoming 'trip' to Morocco. She talks about this a lot, it is like her Mecca. And at some point, he calls her on it. He says, WAKE UP! Your imaginary world, your imaginary trip to Morocco is just that, a fantasy.

And back then, at age nineteen, it was a fantasy. When I woke up and I realized the band of Gypsies were really just a bunch of drug dealers and street urchin. I am neither of those. Those kids that had been on their own since they were little. They had no ability to really love me, I was just an instrument of gain. I was being used most of the time and I had no idea.

Jeez, this is turning kind of sad. It's important though. Important that it happened when it did. Important that I had no real money at time. That I slept on an army cot in a walk in closet. (click the previous words to see pix). I learned stuff. Important stuff through all of this. Like now, I can smell a con a mile away. It pretty much explains my year abroad.

3. The song Tiny Dancer means something very sweet to me. A few months after I got married, (age 24), we relocated 3 hours aways from where we lived. Relocation is a recurring event in our marriage. I moved first. Again, a recurring theme.

I drove my very rusty Datsun home from work at five, and it would be very dark. During one of these times, when I was sad and missing my new husband, getting all tense whilst I drove my POS car on the scary dark highway, all tense from learning a new job, I heard Tiny Dancer for the first time. I can't explain how soothing it was. Then I told Mr. Hall all about this song. Turns out he is a HUGE Elton John fan. I had no idea what I had been missing. The best part--I was driving home to him that night. He had moved up that morning, while I was at work.

There, that's better, that's a better ending to this post!



And who knows, maybe someday I really will be cool. :)

I blog cause I love

My week thus far:

Leave house at 6.20 am, watch sunrise as I drive, arrive in thick rush hour traffic, arrive 10 minutes late for training that begins at 8 am. Sit through training for 8 hours. Drive home 15 lbs heavier because of the paperwork.

Long effing days people. Two more to go. Wee-hee!!

But I blog 'cause I love.

I am training in the same city this story occurred in. I haven't been back since really. This journey I take each morning, into this crowded city, is stirring all sorts of things in my belly and head.

But no, not now. No laying it bare right now. My dogs is barking.

Instead you get photos of the wee studio apartment that housed the pig's head. The walk in closet of the studio, housed my army cot. The main area served as living quarters for my artist friend. He of the pig instillation art piece.

Really, this city took my innocence. I was a babe in these woods. I was nineteen, decided to take a year off of school, had never seen an African American, was a radical feminist. I was very aggressive, yet kind and loving in so many ways.

I was easy pickin' for psychopaths and confidence men. I am lucky I made it out alive really. I use to smoke American Spirits and walk around at three am, all buzzy. I was without rules or obligations. It was a long, punk and naked year.

And then there was getting hit by a car. Seven fractures of the skull...Coma for a week . . Ya'll don't need to hear this. Not now anyway.

Ok back to the studio apartment. Again, the one with the pig's head that had a patch sewn into it.

PHOTOS!!

This is outside the wee studio apartment, through a window. The yellow bike was mine. It was on the first floor (duh). Take note of the back of the photo. You can make out a fridge and a stove. This will be important later. You can click the photos to make them bigger BTW.






Walking straight back from the first photo, you will find the kitchen. Note the sink. You could lean against the wall while you were doing dishes. The fridge was facing the stove. So you couldn't open the fridge and the oven door at the same time, lest the clang together.




BEHOLD: My first writing instrument, my beloved Brother word processor. The front folded down and was the key board (click here to see a picture of a Brother word processor.) The paper's taped to the front are from a journal I was published in (it was a local college journal).



It had it's own floppy disks. Mr. Hall lovingly transferred all my writing onto this very computer I am blogging from. Maybe I will find my older stuff someday. Alas, the Brother is no more. You can wikipedia the brother word processor if you would like. It makes me too sad to find it.


And, in the spirit of realizing all about the dark side and becoming quite coated in it.

The Toadies "Possum Kingdom"



I could write about any number of things from that time. Let's do some word association. Ya'll throw out random words and I will match a story to it from my year abroad. Limit three.

ROCK ON READERS and FELLOW BLOGGERS!!!

Here's to letting paying heed to the muse, even when you're tired and crabby.