Fish on Land

Morning Kitchen

You see things; and you say 'Why?' But I dream things that never were; and I say 'Why not?' 

--George Bernard Shaw

I had a vivid and unsettling dream last night. I was in my grandmother’s kitchen and it was bright with morning light. I stared out the kitchen window above the sink towards the sloping yard in the back. I squinted into the light and as I did so, my mom walked up and stood on my left slightly turned towards me, but at an unnatural angle. I didn’t look at her directly but I could see/sense her there. She was wearing a form-fitting black sleeveless top and her long black hair was in a low ponytail. Standing there with her beside me, I felt a painfully strong desire to tell her how I felt. I was timid at first, by telling her that she was selfish. Gaining momentum, I told her that she acted like she cared about others because it was expected of her but that in her heart, she was lost. I told her that she cared for idle pastimes like hanging out with her friends and playing guitar more than she cared about being a good mother. I told her that she made the choice to act like she has no responsibility or control over her life. As I spoke, as the words tumbled out of my mouth, I felt relief. I felt clear and safe. The toxic words, as they left my mouth, hung in the air melting around me. As I spoke, she moved back and forth on either side of me. I could feel her listening and concentrating on my words. Finally she stood on my right, beside me, gazing towards the window but not directly at it. She didn’t verbally and defensively lash out at me, she didn’t tighten up the way she usually would when we argued. She didn’t walk out of the kitchen or look at me. She simply stood there. Her arms slightly bent at the elbow, hands resting on counter, sunlight bathing her face. I patiently waited for her to speak and started to turn my head towards her. I awoke, startled, and had trouble recollecting the dream. The clarity of the dream vanished so suddenly, as if it never happened.

The Story of Bubba

The throaty howl of a baby’s cry filled the small bassinet as I peered over to see a ruddy and red-faced baby boy, fists clenched white, a tuft of scrappy hair wistfully plastered to his forehead, so clearly a boy. He looked so much like an old man, that we laughed ourselves silly as his pudgy legs propelled him forward almost faster than his feet could go. Russell quickly warmed up to his nickname of Bubba. Bubba because he was so stocky, bowl-legged and raspy. Bubba because the sound of his baby voice was so deep and masculine. He used to say, “My name is Bubba,” and proudly clomp around in his sturdy boy shoes, a shy grin in waiting on his lips. He liked to leave the house, in his diapers, and wander around the neighborhood. Neighbors would bring him back and disapprovingly indicate that he was found 3 or 4 blocks away; had crossed busy streets to get wherever he thought he was going. He didn’t seem to mind getting punished or spanked. He’d dash around and try to hide behind his younger brother, who was always faster than him. Those two were connected in mischief.

One day, I returned home late in the afternoon. As I trundled up the walkway, I spotted a bare butt in profile in the backyard. I yelled out, “Bubba! Poog! What are you guys up to?” I dropped my bag and went towards the back, and there they were. Naked with markings of mud all over their bodies. They seemed to take special care in the placement of mud on their penises. They were cackling like little demons and then they put their arms around each other and smiled at me with the sweetest and happiest toothy grins I’ve ever seen. Genuine little rascals.

A Broad Like No Other

God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another. -- William Shakespeare

My aunt Nancy was a wild but business minded broad. She lived in Nevada in the 1950’s and the family folklore whispers that, for a time there, she owned and operated a brothel with her husband Gale. Nancy was the first daughter but the second child born to my maternal grandmother. From the time that I was old enough to stand, I don’t remember a time when she didn’t have a lit cigarette in her hand and a genuine yet mischievous smile on her face. As a child, I adored her. She was loud, could curse like a trucker and had natural boobs that rivaled Dolly Parton. Her laugh could shake the chandelier and along with her lit cigarette, she usually also had a glass with whiskey and ice in it. Each year, she hosted a huge party at her house. She brought in regulation size craps and blackjack tables and hired real dealers to run the tables. I learned to shoot dice at her parties. I also tried vodka for the first time and brought my first boyfriend at the tender age of 15 to one of these parties.

When she was a young girl, Nancy had polio in her right leg. She suffered terribly and my grandmother spent nights placing alternating scalding hot and icy cold compresses on her leg. Nancy survived the polio but her leg remained shrunken forever the size of an 8-year old leg, a reminder of that painful episode in her life. She was teased at school, at a time when girls had to wear dresses, her misshapen leg so obvious to the world. As an adult, she never wore skirts or dresses and in many ways, she remained a frightened and hurt little girl, encased in a tough and tumble woman. She lived hard and, I think, never felt entirely loved by my grandmother, who left Nancy, my uncle Ted and their father in Ohio to run off to California and follow another man that she had fallen in love with. I miss her sometimes and think of her often, she was a role model for me in many ways. She apologized rarely and when she focused on you, the whole world melted away. She was full of opinions and had her way of doing everything. My appreciation of her, unfortunately, comes too late to express to her in person, but her direct approach to life remains with me to this day. 

Sinking

Talking to Mary, you know you don't have to shout

She can hear what you're thinking like you're saying it right out loud  

--Elliott Smith, lyrics from Talking to Mary

Instead of focusing on a lovely Thanksgiving dinner that we had at home, instead of admiring the Christmas tree that we bought and decorated the day after Thanksgiving, instead of congratulating myself for starting to clear out the garage this weekend, I chose to sink. Wrapped in half bedclothes, half street clothes, and finally just carrying a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, a portable bed if you will, from bed to couch and back again. I could barely keep my eyes open and just decided to let myself drift into the boozy slumber of a depressive episode. Waking each time reminded me how utterly perfect my sleep had been and caused me to crave it even more. Asleep, I can’t be prickly with my husband or grouchy with the dog. Asleep, I hurt no one. My sweaty cheek with hair plastered to it pressed hard into the pillow. Sweet relief.

I am quite sure that depression runs in my family. I believe that my mom suffers from intense depression, suffered many years before my brother was murdered. His death gave her depression a valid and physical shape. As a child, I remember playing in the living room while she slept in the bedroom in the middle of the day because she had a headache, every day. I often trip over trying to determine if I “learned” to be depressed and that’s why I sink or if I just inherited the faulty strand that carried the cocktail. I’m better today and will probably get better as the week takes its slow turn around the bend. This is a tough time of year for so many people. I never think of myself as one of the people who has it tough. Even in sinking grief, I found compassion and salty tears for others. I don’t like to focus on what’s wrong. In my depression this weekend, I started to fear losing my husband. During a glassy eyed TV spell, I acknowledged simply that he will die before me and that when he does, I will not continue. It was a clear sentence in my head. I will not continue. It’s hard to think with that kind of clarity now, awake and functioning.

Which Way is Up?

My way of joking is to tell the truth. That's the funniest joke in the world. - Muhammad Ali

With 2 minutes of sunlight left, I walk back to the office with my late lunch, a toasted wheat, peanut butter, jelly and banana sandwich and consider that, as honest and hard-working as I believe myself to be, I always end up pissing off my managers. To be fair, I’ve had some pretty uninspiring managers and pretty much let them know it in so many words. The tricky part is: what does it say about me? An aversion to authority is textbook. I don’t like being led by people with visible human flaws. I want an ideal, an advocate, a mentor, a sophisticated leader. Managing people is not easy, over 80% of managers in industry in the U.S. have had no formal people-management training. Many times they are promoted simply by virtue of remaining in one place long enough.

I’ve learned that I’m not motivated by money or status. I don’t particularly care what my title is or what cache it carries. My main motivation, I’ve learned after over 20 years of hard work, is being recognized and acknowledged for doing great work. That’s it. That’s my boat, cart, fiddle and caboodle. I’ve gone so far as to emphasize that positive reinforcement really works with me, hinting that a casual, “job well done” thrown in my direction is priceless. I hate those decoy meetings, where you think things are going smoothly and then a torpedo surfaces and your stomach lurches as you imagine taking cover. A casually tossed, “You’ve done everything very well, but you should have handled this or that differently,” or “I know that you’re working yourself to death, but can you move the launch date up 2 weeks?” or “You need to depersonalize your interpersonal interactions.” Are you seriously joking or truly serious? Unebe-fing-lievable. I am not making this up. I am also an expert at detecting hogwash. My BS radar starts a sonar alarm and all systems lock down. At best, I will implement a 3-foot-distance-at-all-times position and never take you into my confidence again. At worst, well, you get the point. However subtle, you have taken me for granted and lost my respect. I know I sound super harsh. I take my work seriously and I expect those around me to do the same. It’s a point of pride and it’s one of my truths.

Through the Looking Glass

Ignorance more frequently begets confidence than does knowledge.  - Charles Darwin

You never know what moments in life will matter. In love, family, work, art, ethics. What fantastic memories will be lost and what terrible memories will stick. Or vice versa. What behavior or comment will be used to judge you. And of course what you process to judge others. We have so little control over what people choose to cling to and discard. I’m just realizing this now. And it’s hard to accept. I’m a perfectionist. I despise mess and clutter and irrational behavior and rules that make no sense and I’m stubborn and I usually think that I’m right. I am loyal and dedicated and hold people up to a very high standard. I am confident. I am also afraid. Afraid of being undervalued, used, ignored. I trust people with too much and when they fail I lock them out and make it clear how they have failed. This is a pattern, I see it in myself and the years of disappointment are hard to look at with a clear eye. I’m not perfect after all. 

Chapter Deux Beginning Again

There’s no accounting for absences, so instead I’m writing with fever and avoiding any explanations to cover my tracks. It’s most definitely Fall in the Bay Area and I’m loving it – for the first time EVER. I’m actually ready for the cooler weather and a departure from sunburnt grass and sweaty underarms. Is it a sign of relinquishing my Los Angeles roots that I no longer miss the year round warmth of SoCal? Every year here I have a panic freak out about keeping warm. I pile the bed with enough blankets to suffocate us and I start to pull out all my sweaters and jackets and tights and boots and wooly scarves. It’s quite funny to see my husband sleeping in, one stray foot sticking out from all the covers, his head buried in the blankets and our dog lovingly licking that bare protruding foot. Ah yes, Fall is where it’s at for me.

Happy Birthday To Me

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons. - T.S. Eliot

I appreciate...

unexpectedly warm days when the sun warms my skin
my sweet spoiled dog
seeing in color
pineapple
my asthma medicine
Peet’s coffee
great timing
Netflix
surviving loss
dark chocolate
seeing the bay every day
having both a book and street education
perfect songs on my ipod for my walks
matinees
seafood
smiling at a stranger and seeing them smile back
falling asleep next to my husband
Home

Music to My Ears

My little bro is competing today in a “drum off” for a chance to win a car. He’s a phenomenal drummer, smooth and cool, full of charisma and completely non-arrogant. This competition is symbolic in a lot of ways. It means that he’s coming out of the foggy gloom and paralysis that he’s been in most of the year. It means that he wants to socialize, that he wants to play in public, and that he’s willing to take some risks and be competitive. I see it as a debut of his blooming self, the sweet boy disappearing and the handsome man emerging. He’s 19 years old and I love him like crazy. I’m so proud of him. My sister Sarah calls him “an old soul.” He’s always been an easy kid, patient and quiet, but very stubborn and focused. He has enormous potential, but he’s lazy and he knows it. He rarely gets mad or angry. He just gets very quiet.

On one of my last visits, he drove me to the airport. It was pretty eye-opening. He is a cautious and courteous driver. He doesn’t speed and he signals when he’s changing lanes. I didn’t feel anxious or afraid one bit when he was driving. He doesn’t listen to music when he drives so that he’s not distracted. So smart! He truly is an old soul. Obviously, I’m nuts about him.   

Just like me, music is his passion. Unlike me, he chose it at an early age and devoted himself to it. He’ll be playing today at 6:00 pm PST, so send him good thoughts and I’ll let you know when he wins. He’s already a champion in my book. Check him out doing a super cool drum solo while practicing on his kit.

Listen to Yourself

I’m headed for some big changes. I’m learning to trust myself. I believe that this year has been the most productive, the most painful and the most eye opening for me. I’m really evaluating everything around me. I’m tired of many situations and people and feelings that I’ve been dragging around for too long. Only time will tell if my inner voice is bat crazy or onto something.

You know when you get kind of stuck? You may not admit it to yourself. This isn’t the wake up and kind of wish you could sleep in longer kind of stuck. I’m talking about the deep inside rattling of something loose. The quiet low-level depression that follows you around. I do believe that there’s a steady and clear vision that you have for yourself above it all. You know what makes you happy, even if you only allow it or glimpse it for a few minutes a day.

Honor yourself and listen to what you need. Don’t be afraid. Leave that behind. Trust that you will be OK because you will be. You’ll be better than OK.