i have been experimenting with badassery.

I don't know exactly what's been happening to me over the last couple of years, but I'm starting to... uh... speak my mind a bit more. It's the strangest thing. I don't know if it's just a general surge in confidence, or a growing awareness of mortality that makes me a little ballsier, or a fluctuation in hormones that has put a fritz in my filter, or what... But I've become less apologetic about my opinions and also: less and less tolerant of disrespectful, dismissive, and socially harmful behavior. I mean, like it's really lodged into my craw, and I can't get this seedy little bastard out.

So, I've started calling people on their shit. I've become that person!

[I would like to state that I think I accept people calling me on my shit pretty damn well, too, for the record.]

A few weeks ago, I drove around the block to confront some teenage boys who threw a snowball at my car. Not yelling. I just wanted them to explain their decision to lodge a snowball at an innocent stranger's moving vehicle. They could not. So I suggested they reconsider their choices if they can't come up with intelligent explanations for them.

I've been doing LONG overdue pushing and prodding and pointing, in my professional world. (In fact, the pushing and prodding and pointing have started to exhaust my resources, and I'm noticing physical stress responses, which is why today I am at home tending to those.)

But my biggest moment so far came Tuesday.

Due to the professional pushing and prodding and pointing, and the subsequent appearance of some physical stress responses, I have been working on "letting go of that which I cannot control." (Do I need to explain what a really f'ing difficult feat this is?) I've had this glitch in my character for as long as I can remember. And for several years now "Learn to like yoga" has been on my to-do list.

I do not like yoga.

I have a strange reaction to yoga. It makes me mad. Every time I do yoga, I just feel pissed off and annoyed. I don't understand why others thing it's so calming and centering. What is WRONG WITH ME? (Which reminds me of when I tried to like pot when I was 20, just like the rest of my hippie friends. Oh, it looked like such a grand beautiful giggly great time. Peace and love, Dude! But me? Nope. It just made me paranoid and morose.) I've blamed it before on how friggin' slow everything is. And I hate being talked to in soothing tones. Gaw, just spit it out, lady! I'm not a mother truckin' tulip! Holy J(H)esus!

But someone recently (I don't remember who, but it may have been my friend, Maggie), said, "That's probably a sign that you need to do more yoga." Yes, I suppose so. Yoga reminds me of how much anger and irritation I repress on a daily basis.

So, last weekend I bought 3 books of yoga. I don't want to go to a class. I like to do things alone. Tuesday mornings, the group fitness room at the gym is empty. So I took one of my books, grabbed a mat, and practiced some poses, went through a basic "energizing morning sequence."

Salutations to the sun, Chipper Sprite.

I finished feeling... I don't know. Not really relaxed, but my body was definitely responding to a new and much slower morning workout. I cleaned off my mat thinking this was really the start of something. I would push through the discomfort, and I would be changed. I would be Peace, incarnate.

It was too early to shower and leave. Plus, one of my books said you should wait about 30 minutes to shower, so you don't wash off, uh... Prana? I don't know. Like yoga puts you in a sleepy dream suit and if you take a shower, it'll get wet and lose all its sleepy magical dream powers. Whatever. You don't have to tell me twice.

So I hopped on a treadmill and set it to a nice, slow, relaxing 2.0. Immediately, who should enter and take the treadmill in front of me?

ROD, THE GYM PERV.

I wrote about a very nasty and horrible experience with him: HERE. Oops. Nope. It appears I deleted that post. To summarize: he took the treadmill next to me, and kept looking over at my boobs while I was running. Then when he was finished looking at my boobs, he walked behind my treadmill, stopped, and stared pointedly at my ass for an uncomfortable few seconds. It felt horrible. Diminishing. Violating. Whore-ish. And I wanted to leave immediately. Instead, I kept running and watched him for 30 minutes do the EXACT same thing to every woman there. It's WAYYYY beyond the normal checking-people-out behavior. Being checked out normally by someone at the gym doesn't bother me (because I've probably already done it to them.).

Allow me to reiterate that I have not overdramatized that experience and the absolutely sickening SICKENING energy that emanates from his presence. What he does to women at my gym is despicable and far beyond anything decent. I hate it. I absolutely hate it.

So, fresh from my "quiet the raging storm" yoga, I see F'ING ROD. He NEVER comes to the gym that early. NEVER!

I actually said, aloud to the universe, "Are you testing me? Seriously?"

Because I do think the universe needles with me, as I stated in my LAST POST about the orgasmic grunters. I think I have extra sensitive receptors when it comes to the world. And I truly have days where I feel, physically, like the entire universe is being amplified straight into my head. I can't describe it, exactly, but I know I'm not the only one who experiences it, so I'll just leave it up to you to make the connections. Relatedly, I think one of my life missions is how to reconcile the vast injustice and grotesqueness, and generally very bad and harmful energy that I soak up, and still cast light and remain peaceful.

Hence: Do yoga. Be IMMEDIATELY put to the test.

So... I'm walking. Rod is walking. Rod is craning his neck around the man next to him to watch the woman next to him. He is leaning around the front of the man to look at her boobs while she runs. He is leaning around the back of the man to watch her ass while she runs (literally, he had to bend at the knees and contort to stare very directly and blatantly at her ass). He is ogling the boobs of the women leaving spin class and heading back to the locker rooms. He is turning around to watch their asses while they enter the locker rooms.

I had enough.

I got off my treadmill and felt myself starting to tremble. I squeezed in beside his treadmill, to the front, looked up at him, pointed, and said:

"I see what you do, and it's not okay.
They way you look at women is not okay.
You've done it to me, and I see you do it to everyone else.
On the woman's part, it feels like shit to be looked at like that, and you need to stop or not come here."

He mumbled something then said, "I thought I knew her."

To that I said, "Bullshit." and walked back to the locker room. Still trembling.

I debriefed to a gym friend, and she high-fived me. Then I washed off the magical sleepy yoga dream suit (clearly mine is broken), and left for work. Within a block, I honked at a man who was texting instead of driving forward at the GREEN LIGHT in front of me. Then, I got to work and pushed and prodded and pointed.

Yes, clearly, I need to do more yoga.

Dear world, I cannot solve your problems today. Please leave a message.

the hot dentist.

Sugar makes me intolerant. I've been eating entirely too much lately. Leaving work for the day, I pretended not to see a woman hustling toward the elevator. I let it close. I left her behind. Sorry, Lady. I was just really tired of people. It doesn't matter how much I like you, how cool you are, how attractive you may be; at some point, I'm just really so sick of you I could barf.

I'm intolerant of elevator conversation. "Boy, sure is cold out there!"

"Sure is."

"Boy, just look at all that snow!"

"Yep. I saw it."

"Boy!"

One day last week I had the elevator to myself when a man boarded on the 2nd floor. He stood in the corner. Seriously. It was just him and me, and he stood in the corner with his nose about 1 inch from the emergency buttons. It was pretty weird, but I liked that he was as uninterested in talking to me as I was to him. Too much pretending makes me tired.

And it's Tunnel Time. Underground tunnels (Is there such a thing as an above-ground tunnel?) connect the parking lots and all the buildings. When it's snowing and bitterly cold (Boy! Can you believe this cold?!) I hike the 3 blocks in the dank underbelly of Iowa's capitol. Some people use them all year long. I don't understand this. They bring their tennies and sweat pants and hike back and forth next to the leaky water pipes and strange murals (One mural has 3 black crows flying in such a pattern, with wings at such angles, that it looks like a witch flying on a broom.). I bet there are a lot of body parts cemented in those walls. That's not pleasant.

I'm having weird dreams again. Last night I was chasing a rodent and washing the word "Studwater" off a window. I like knowing when I've popped up in someone's dream. But, I've recently decided to stop telling others when they're in my dreams. Some people really get weirded out about that. I mean, seriously. I think that's ridiculous. I can't be held responsible for what my brain does when I'm sleeping. Just because you're in my dream doesn't mean I'm going to stalk you and leave dead stuff in your yard. I don't have a room in my house lined with sliced newsprint that spells out your name 35 million times.

Or do I? Sleep with one eye open.

I went to the dentist today. I am debating whether or not to publicly confess that I hadn't been to a dentist in well over 10 years. I guess I just resolved my debate. But look: I brush; I floss; I mouthwash; I don't drink pop or weird, sugary juice drinks; I don't eat a bunch of candy. Nothing hurts. Nothing is wiggly and falling out. So, I don't think about going. If it ain't broke…

I went to Chris's dentist. He calls her the "hot dentist." She's pretty, but I wouldn't say she's "hot." Maybe she's just not my type. I don't know. But I lost a filling a while back and let it go too long, and I might need a root canal. I figure root canals probably aren't really all that bad. It's probably just something people say--something that wormed its way into our scripts. Most of our scripts are dumb. So I'm optimistic.

One question on the intake form asked, "Do you plan to keep your teeth for the rest of your life?" Seriously? What kind of question is this? I circled NO.

The hot dentist poked at my gums and scraped at my teeth, and then she took off her mask and told me that other than the missing filling, I had a healthy mouth. She said that: "You have a healthy mouth." She looked disappointed--defeated--when she said it. "You've been really lucky to get away with not going to the dentist." Like I was cheating. Like I'd skipped class all semester and then aced the final. All that flossing and brushing and no-pop-drinking. You sneaky little sneak.

I scheduled a cleaning, too. Tonight I'm drinking red wine just to get a little more bang for my buck.

juicy fruits

by wednesday i start to run out of steam. steamless. seamless. seamstress. my grandma hartman was a seamstress after they sold the farm and moved to town. grandpa was a machine mechanic in a bread factory. my grandparents worked their asses off--farms and factories and dress shops--, and i bet they never complained about it. and then my parents--in schools and offices. and now, me here, i just flit around and enjoy the juicy fruits of their labors. (sometimes progress looks like regress depending on your tilt.)

i need to pack my gym bag before it gets too late. woe is me.

i had another psychotic dream last night. i was having my back surgically reshaped. they could only do half at a time. they did one half, and it hurt like hell, and i suddenly realized it was a mistake. but i couldn't just leave my back hacked in half. i was devastated at my decision to do it in the first place. full of such overwhelming regret.

the moral of that story is leave your backs alone.

that's all.

alyssa milano never wrote me back.

I've thought about writing a million times. And then I didn't, and now I don't remember what I had to say in the first place (So it probably wasn't important.). Thoughts are like that. They just float in and out; I bet 3/4 of them aren't even mine--just remnants of some universal thought bank, wafting, passing through our membranes like smoke through clothes. I wish we had a way to track that (cross-country thought traveling). I guess we do. I guess it's called stories and art and music and dance and stuff. You know, expressive stuff. Maybe that's why the arts are so important--they connect us--maybe more so than banking does.

Although, that's not fair to say. I once had a pretty interesting connection with a lady who worked at a bank. Many many years ago I lived alone in a tiny apartment on the ground floor of an old house. The Mormons came a-knocking: a young woman about my age, and her mother. There was something about the young woman that I instantly liked (I think it's pretty easy to tell if someone is bringing you light.); plus it really interests me how people develop such strong convictions. I mean, it doesn't really matter what you think about Mormons: knocking on people's doors uninvited because you feel like you have a very important thing to tell them is a pretty ballsy thing to do.

Wait. Not Mormons. She wasn't a Mormon. Mormons are young men in black slacks and white button-downs. She was… I don't remember. But there was a kid in elementary school in Kansas who was this, too, and he had red hair and wasn't allowed to participate in any Christmas stuff.

It doesn't matter. Balls.

So, this young woman, I said, "Sure, come on in." And we talked for a while, and I learned that she had really explored different faiths extensively--traveled, read, experienced--and arrived at these convictions thoughtfully. I was impressed by that. She asked if she could come back, and I said "Sure" to that, too. So, for several weeks, she would come over, usually just by herself after that, and we'd hang out and talk about God and her faith. It wasn't a debate. I didn't agree with her, and I wasn't going to convert, but I liked hearing her talk about it. I think we just both kind of enjoyed the shared time. Then she left for a year-long mission trip.

Anyway, all that to say she worked at a bank. So you can work at a bank and still connect with humanity in meaningful ways. Actually, one thing my mom always told me, which I understand more and more, is that it really doesn't matter what you do for a living--that you always always always have an opportunity to make a difference to someone. (Relatedly, my dad always says it doesn't matter what you do for a living as long as you do it well and with integrity: doctor, attorney, barista, garbage collector, cable man, pizza delivery dude… whatever) I think that's why it's important that no matter how you earn your paycheck, you should try really hard not be an asshole while you do it.

[I don't know where this crap comes from. Sometimes I sit down to write, and I have no idea what I want to say until it starts coming out, and then I think, "What? What's that doing in there?"]

My body feels gross. It needs to get back to the gym. It needs me to stop putting so much garbage in it. It needs me to cut back on the wine. Really, I've been drinking too much wine. It needs me to rein it in, for crying out loud. It needs several days of fruit and veggies and water. It needs me to not stop at Walgreens on the way home from Chrispy's gig at midnight because I have a sudden overpowering urge for Milanos.

Which reminds me that I once wrote a letter to Alyssa Milano asking for advice about becoming an actress, and she never wrote back.

Jehovah's Witness. That's it. Man, I'm glad we got that squared away.

mr. wednesday and the poop filled sock

I feel like writing, but I don't feel like connecting any of my thoughts. Poor you.

My workout this morning was pitiful. The only way it could have been any more pathetic was if I had curled up on a weight bench with a bucket of fried chicken and a pillow. But you know, I went and all that.

I've had a lot of delightful moments this week. I say "delightful moments" because they were relatively insignificant blips in the day that made me happy. The first was when I was stuck behind a school bus on the way to work. We stopped at an apartment complex, where a group of elementary school kids lined up to board. Then, other kids came running out of buildings. Right in the middle of a flashback to my own school bus days, the very last kid busted out of a door, half the coat on, half the coat flapping at her side, hair a mess, and papers popping out of her unzipped backpack. And then I thought, "Ah, yes. There I am." And then I laughed loudly in my car for at least another 5 blocks.

I've been painting this week. I've been painting instead of practicing guitar and trying to write songs for the COFFEE project. (I've decided to call it "resting" instead of "avoiding.") I am not a good painter by any stretch. I don't paint things that look like other things. I just like to play with colors and brushes and see what happens. Yesterday, Chris compared my painting to "a sock filled with poop." He will deny this. But here is exactly what happened:

Chris: [Stands above painting, which is lying flat and in-progress, on the kitchen table.] Huh. Is it finished? [He smirks.]

Patresa: [Laughs.] What, can't you tell?

Chris: [Laughs.] Sure. [He continues to stare at the painting.]

Patresa: Do you love it? Is it your favorite? I think you love it. I'm going to hang it from the ceiling above your side of the bed, face down. So, you can look at it every morning and every night.

Chris: Oh yeah? Well, I'll fill a sock with poop and put it on your side of the bed.

Incidentally, no, it isn't finished; and I have no idea what it is, but it might turn into a bird. Note: Chris is actually my biggest fan and super supportive. He is also very honest.

We got a new dishwasher this week. The delivery/installation guy called me to set up a time to deliver/install. He left a message. Listening to his message, I jotted down some notes:

TIM          WEDNESDAY
555-5555
DISHWASHER

Chris saw the note and said, "Who's Tim Wednesday?" No, he wants to come over Wednesday. That's not his name. But we referred to him as "Mr. Wednesday" for the remainder. Tim came over on Wednesday and installed the dishwasher. He handed me his business card before he left, and I had a moment of genuine confusion when the last name printed on the card was not "Wednesday."

In anticipation of Mr. Wednesday's arrival, I told Chris, "I hope he has a nice crack."

Chris replied, "Nobody has a nice crack." I thought that was quotable and true. Nobody has a nice crack. It's not a remotely sexy part of the body. Butts are weird.

I wish grocery store produce aisles would label the produce more clearly. I had a recipe for sauteed parsnips and turnips. Standing in front of the produce, I didn't know which was which, only that they were one and the other. So I took one of each and figured, well, they'll both go in the pan. Covered. But they didn't have stickers, and the cashier asked me what they were. I said, "I don't really know," which I'm sure she found strange.

spinach enchiladas.

taking note.

i don't know if this will make any sense. i'm in a hotel room in Waterloo. more travel. the last of the road trips. one more air trip (to D.C.). then december will end, and i intend to go home and stay home for a very long time. possibly forever. you may never see me leave my house again. ever. except to buy bananas. because i love bananas, and chris is not very good at picking out produce.

sidenote: my jeans are fitting more snuggly. this is concerning. end of sidenote.

today is World AIDS Day. prior to my current job, my only related experience with HIV/AIDS was to tell the students i worked with to use a frickin' condom, for God's sakes (but then i was really only thinking about how horrifying it would be if they brought children into their chaos. admittedly, i wasn't thinking about HIV. i wasn't even thinking about herpes. i just didn't want them procreating.). without detailing every nook and cranny, i have landed in this position within HIV Prevention through a strange and not-coincidental series of universe-nudges. at the risk of sounding like a total corndog, i was led here, and i wasn't exactly sure why. i'm still not exactly sure why (i still can't talk about s-e-x without blushing), but i always assume divine guidance happens because one has both something to offer and something to learn. when you feel the hand of God poking you in the ribcage, you should shut your big fat mouth and listen close.

and i have learned a lot in the past 1.25 years. HIV is so deeply embedded in context and complexity. so many large, dinosaur human systems at play, layered, and shifting (yet unmovable, oddly)-- so much overlap (spirit, economics, education, faith, culture, cognition…). roots incomprehensibly deep. HIV preventable, behaviorally based. but what's below that? and what's below that? and under that? and then still, go deeper. good god, the undercurrents of us… can't you feel them? how do we ever get to the root of why we do as we do?

i can't begin to articulate this…whatever... just yet (it's still forming. it's still a fetus of a notion assuming shape in my melon.), but i really feel like a large part of my cosmic purpose (maybe everyone's, because i don't think i'm unique) is connection. find and form. people, ideas, institutions, movements. there is no them, no there, no other. only us, here, this. nothing is separate. everything is related. everything. i cannot think of a single exception. and the fetus of a notion in my melon is whispering that there is a critical lesson in this connectivity-- an evolutionary, revolutionary lesson. to embrace it (universal connectivity) would be to permanently and profoundly change the way we "do business." we would be kinder, healthier, smarter, sexier, more efficient, awesomer, handsomer, and peacefuller.

foolish that i'm trying to write a paragraph about it. i don't even know what it is. but it makes me want to be very quiet. like if i could get quiet enough, i would understand connectivity as more than just a concept, and then i would live better. i do so want to understand. and i do so want us to be better.

sometimes things just feel too big for words. 

i'm babbling because i'm tired, and i am in a hotel room, and i feel full of ideas bigger than my available vocabulary. sometimes i feel so full of ideas that i worry i will never get them all out, and they will die with me and be lost to the cosmos. 

i am also full of spinach enchiladas. they were delicious. good job, Chapala. 

tangled woods

I just signed up for nanowrimo. It starts tomorrow. I have no idea why I've done this, except that it is fall, and this is just what I do in the fall. Write 50,000 words of a novel between November 1 and November 30. I'm currently overwhelmed--at work and in life, have 500 travel days planned for November (which is an incredible feat for a month with only 30 days), and at least 3 other "self-improvement projects" in the stalls. Oh, P. What are you doing, dear?

Today is the first day of my "structured free time" time budget. I have already regressed, which is hard to do when you haven't actually progressed yet.

Breakfast? Yes.
Clean? No.
Gym? No.

Lunch is on the schedule for 12. I guess I could catch up then.

I have no idea what I'm writing about. I have a vision of an upscale cul-de-sac of houses cut into peaceful woods and neighbors full of weird stories. But I don't know who the neighbors are or what their stories are. And I have "Tanglewood" because when we lived in North Carolina, I remember a big park and swimming at the Tanglewood pool.

I started nano last year and didn't finish. I'm not sure I ever even made it to 20,000 words. I don't remember what I was writing about, either. what was last year? Did last year happen? Hm. This is going to bug me.

2007 = Apples for Alessandra
2008 = The Chili King
and…
2009 =

Poop.

2009 = Sideways Study of a Brown Bag.

I just had to hunt for it. You know what's crazy? I have absolutely no recollection of writing this! None. I think that's the goofy thing about writing--that it really feels like it comes from somewhere else. Like I get possessed and I just become some kind of lame, weak, typing body bag. Creepy. Writing is creepy. I have no idea why I want to do it at all.

Other things that are creepy: chickens. Last night I put on a chicken suit and went to a halloween party and then to Chrispy's band's halloween gig. By the time I got to the gig, I was really tired, and my guts hurt because I've been eating toxic waste for days. I made it to about midnight, and then was just kind of full of the noise and the peacock pageantry of it all, so I took my leave. Sometimes I feel kind of bad for C, like he got stuck with a crappy spouse. Poor C and his lame chicken suit wife.

It's 11:10. Maybe I can squeeze in a nap before lunch.

don't call me.

I did not have a rough week, but I did have an "oh, I don't care for items 1, 2, and 3" week. That's fine. You can't care for everything. If you cared for everything, you'd explode with care, which is messy.

I don't care for things that make me feel dumb. Do you?

Sometimes I have to do things that remind me of the limits of my intelligence and the weird ways I identify. Sometimes I have to go to meetings about things like government distribution policies. Sometimes I have to sit in on webinars about federal standards of measurement. Sometimes I get invited to these things as an "expert," and then I show up in my pink checkered apron skirt and plaid shoes with my mountain hair and everyone else is in brown pants and leather loafers with combed hair, and they think I've arrived by mistake, and then I say "No" and show them my invite, and so they ask me expert questions and I have to say, "I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you're talking about," and then it is confirmed that no, really, you are here by mistake. Except the the truth is that, sure I knew what they were talking about, I just didn't understand HOW they were talking about it.

So I wander back to my doodle pad and markers dragging my flowered kite and feeling very stupid and young and very different.

In actuality: I'm not stupid, I'm not as young as a child, and I'm not different. My conceptual tools are just mismatched to the situation sometimes, and I like to paint with all the colors of the wind (just like Vanessa What's Her Face and Pocahontas).

So I take walks, and I wonder if it's just me and my projections and paranoia. Maybe nobody else really gives a crap that I use different lingo and wear pink checkered apron skirts and don't comb my hair. Maybe that's just stuff, and I'm the one with the preoccupation, not them. They're nice, smart, cool people. Why am I itemizing their leather loafers as if somehow that defines them? Why do I assume that leather loafers means someone could not possibly understand the magical complexity of my character? That's so dumb it's painful.

Because if genomes are any indication, people who wear loafers and people who wear plaid shoes, are 99.9% identical. Bankers and Bohemian Baton Twirlers are practically identical twins. So in any case in which we feel unique or different or extraordinary is a total illusion/delusion. We are same same same. But why am I even talking about shoes at all?

Sometimes we misinterpret what we see and accidentally fragment and reduce. That's not very productive, and I think on a larger scale it makes the world weird and dysfunctional, because we never bother to see beyond our own perception (which is never complete). I have this powerful need to be seen and accepted fully, for all parts. (I should do a better job of seeing and accepting others fully, for all parts.) And sometimes I am told that I am flighty and ridiculous.  Sometimes I hear others refer to me as liberal, bleeding heart, hippie. And although I have no problem with flight, ridiculousness, liberal thought, bleeding hearts, or hippies, I always feel a little... crooked, as if my entire being has been squeezed into a toothpaste tube, and then I want to stop and explain so that some flimsy and strange version of myself isn't out floating around the universe. For instance:

I am not spontaneous and free-spirited. I am anxious. The unknown makes me nervous. I'm scared of making an imperfect plan. So, when I plan I get nervous and overwhelmed (because it has to be PERFECT!) and then I procrastinate and run out of time and finally am forced to be "spontaneous" (and very very imperfect).

I don't know how to choose a political party. I do know how to choose what makes the most sense to me. I don't understand abortion protests anymore than I understand war protests. I'm not "pro" either, but I do believe in starting where you are, which sometimes happens to be in the middle of very real crises. I think Peace and Life For All are beautiful ideas, but until we fully and universally commit to honoring and loving and granting equal rights to the person next door, Anti-Abortion and Anti-War don't seem like very practical options.

Atheism doesn't make much sense to me. Neither does dogma.

I believe in ghosts and aliens and spirit guides and God and reincarnation and Heavens and Hells and Nirvanas and evil and joy and religion and shamanism and that the earth has a soul, because it all seems logical based on what I know or think I know of energy, electrical currents, neurocircuitry, and human psychology. It's also based on my instinct. I don't think this makes me wishy washy.

I do not, however, believe in unicorns or flying horses or fairies or elves or "magic" in the literal sense.

I think instinct works best when it partners with research and that research works best when it partners with instinct. And I think everything can be proven in one way or another, and it's just what we accept as "proof" that varies.

I think capital punishment is scary and sad and that the margin of error is dangerous. But I cannot think of a better option given our current circumstances. I think we should love and forgive each other the best we can but also recognize that the earth as we know it has limited capacity and our current system requires money and that housing people in prisons (which are full) costs money and that money runs out and that there are a lot a lot a lot of people having babies, so we're not going to run out of people any time soon. And if reincarnation works out okay, maybe both the killer and the killee will get another chance at being cool. I think it makes better sense to work on the context in which crime happens.

I think we should meditate and pray and work hard and be nice and not worry too much about what we call ourselves.

That is to say, I really like it when I can show up to the party as-is, and not worry about whether I'm same or different or accepted or rejected or mislabeled or smart or stupid or belonging or misplaced. I like it when people don't call me flighty or ridiculous and don't assume I'm any more liberal than I am conservative or any more hippie than non-hippie, because it makes me feel really weird about my identity. Sputtery. And I really like it when I have the sense to not do it to others.

[This really long post is brought to you by a week of incredible weather and lunch time walks that make my brain full. Congratulations if you made it through the whole thing.]

crazy space station satellite

The weather has been awesome. I hope it is still awesome in one week and 3 days while I am running 26.2 miles.

Over lunch today, I walked to the river. I turned off my ipod, took off my shoes, and stared all pensive Victorian heroine like at the water. Then I realized the Des Moines River is really pretty stanky looking. I'm not sure how I would describe the color of this river, but I imagine there are a lot of dirty gym socks at the bottom.

Then I looked at the skyline, and it wasn't really all that attractive. Two cranes by the YMCA, and half of the buildings were capped by crazy space station satellite antennas.

People jogged over the bridge wearing sweat bands.

It seemed kind of bizarre that I found it relaxing and clarifying -- like finding God in a burnt cheese sandwich covered with cat hair. I hope this doesn't make me a pessimist.

Other important notes:

My dog is peeing on things. It's my fault, and I feel horrible. She has allergies. They were bad enough that I let the vet give her prednisone even though I really really really didn't like it. The prednisone has made her incontinent. Is there anything worse? She peed on my chair, on the couch, on the new carpet, in the basement.

The thing about prednisone is you can't just stop taking it. You have to taper, gradually. So once you start... well, tough nuggets. If you stop, it screws up a bunch of other things. Poor Kaya just has to keep peeing on herself until my mistake has flushed itself out.

I think I'm too tired to write any more important notes. The Apprentice is on. I didn't mean to watch it. It makes me nervous. I don't understand money contests, so I hope it's about more than sharp suits and slick hair (but I have my doubts).

it sounded like this: GYAAHH.

I've been buzzy this week. I think the alleged crack in my foot (formerly believed stress fracture to fibula, but 2nd opinion -- formed by a lot of mashing of thumbs into the side of my foot -- suggested general irritation to cuboid, if you like to keep track of such things), triggered a zippy nerve to my brain. Or maybe it's just the pronounced focus on Body that plants me a little more firmly within it (Did that sentence make sense? I can't tell.). Or maybe it's the 1.5 week break from running and all that stupid stationary biking (I do not like the stationary bike. I do not.). Whatever the cause, I feel like a stricken bell ringing from the inside.

I ran 3 miles around the neighborhood yesterday, ankle wrap, knee wrap, it felt fine, more or less. Caught a couple of minor zingers, depending on how I landed, but as long as I kept my stride short and pace slow (no problem there), fine fine fine all around. It made me happy.

Although, today I was supposed to participate in the NAMI walk. I was feeling selfish and protective of my bones, so I am sitting in my red chair instead. I might actually be able to pull off this marathon business, afterall. It won't be graceful or pretty. It won't be fast or impressive. But it will be complete and hopefully upright. Yes, my only goal, really, at this point, is to finish upright.

While I was doing my modest 3 yesterday, I was having a conversation with myself about why in hell's bells I want to continue doing something that has created such unmistakable physical havoc. My knees are goofed. My ankles are goofed. My feet are goofed. It has to be more than pride. I mean, sure, I'm prideful, but I think, if I may say so, I have a better handle on ego than most (which I may have just disproven by writing that sentence). I think it's a transition thing. My life, as I know it, has been in kind of this monkey morph state. I see the next phase coming and want to make sure I've sent this one out with a gong. I am petrified at thought of looking back on my life and seeing one long blendy, indistinguishable watermark.

But back to the buzzy stricken bell bit -- I feel like when I'm buzzy, I notice more. Things jump out at peculiar angles, and I feel like everything is purposeful. Thursday at lunch, I took the bus downtown to meet C for lunch. Two strapping young White men got on the bus with me. They were dressed nicely -- dress pants and button down shirts with ties. They were wearing name tags, but I didn't pay attention to what they said. They sat at the front of the bus by the front door. I sat at the back, by the back door.

We rode a few blocks, and a young Black woman was taking a long time to board. I realized she was carrying: 1) a baby strapped to her chest, 2) another baby in a car seat, 3) a giant stroller, 4) a large trash bag full of clothes, and 5) a purse. She couldn't get it all. The two young men just sat and watched. They did nothing. I got up, walked to the front of the bus, and carried her stroller and her laundry bag. Then went back to my seat thinking, "Hey, doofuses! Wake up! This is what you do when someone needs help." Then, I decided to give them some credit. Maybe they were tired. Maybe they didn't notice. Maybe they didn't realize what was happening until I had already gotten up to help. Maybe they were feeling bad right now. Maybe I'd shamed them.

But then, a few blocks later, we stopped, and the woman with the babies and the bags got up and started to repeat the process in reverse to exit the bus. And... STILL.. the young, healthy men did NOTHING. They just sat and watched. So again, I got up, walked to the front, carried her car seat and clothes bag down to the sidewalk and then got back on the bus. I looked at the young men more closely this time. Their name tags: "Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints." I think I actually made a noise, and I think it sounded like this: GYAAHH. I wanted to shake them, "Hey! You just missed your mission! I assure you, Jesus would not have just sat and watched someone struggling."

And then I spent the rest of the bus ride debating hypocrisy and irony and youth and dogma and perfection. On one hand, if you're going to wander around spreading the word of Jesus Christ, if you're actually going to wear his name on your chest, you better take that very seriously, roll up your sleeves, and represent. Because when you don't, it makes people like me have a really hard time with affiliation.

On the other hand, I'm as big a hypocrite as they come, and really have no room to judge anybody else, even if they do happen to be wearing the name Jesus Chris on their chests. In fact, we're all hypocrites. It's nearly impossible not to be. Because no matter our affiliations and our espousals, we're still humans, which means we're still fallible. And we have to forgive our imperfections. If we want people to forgive us ours, we have to be willing to forgive them theirs. And crap like that.

And then I thought about how I think some religious communities really do a disservice with the confines they enforce, the Perfect Living they insist is possible and required. And that I think a lot of soul & world damage comes from the act of constantly rubbing our natural grains the wrong way (Which reminds me of training for marathons and fracturing bones through repetitive force.). So when we insist on rigid rules and narrow interpretations of what's "natural" and "right," we do way more damage than good. We actually chip away at our souls. Improve what needs improving; forgive what needs forgiving; find and create love and joy and peace and service as often as you can, that's my motto (which I frequently and inadvertently violate, which takes me back to being a horrible hypocrite. Please forgive me.).

This post is like a long, gravel road, winding through space.

electric wriggling ball of stuff

I found a thick and intimidating spider scrambling across the carpet to the wall next to my red readingwritingandthinking chair today. I believe in the souls of things, that they are sacred and important, and we should do our very best to not tread all over them. ...But spiders flip my shiz. Snakes are cool. Spiders, not so much. (Actually, I do think spiders are kind of cool, but in the same way poltergeists, are. I don't want either one of them in my living room.) (I don't really want snakes in my living room, either, but.. I don't know where I'm going with this.)

At any rate, I saw the spider, spontaneously revisited my vow to go gently on the earth and do my very best to not tread all over souls, then grabbed a shoe, said, "Thankyouforyourserviceandpleasegoodjourneytoyoursoul," and I killed it dead. Squished it and its soul.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Spider. One day I will cancel my fear of spiders and live with you harmoniously. But not today. Today I will kill you.

Next, I will write 3 paragraphs about my skill for camouflage:

In this first paragraph, I will review something that happened to me very very (very) frequently when I taught at the community college, which is the same thing that happened to me very very (very) frequently when I worked at the gym. I had taught at the college for 3 years, and in that 3rd year, teachers I had been seeing in lounges and hallways, some I'd already been introduced to, often approached and re-introduced themselves and welcomed me to the staff. I'd been at the gym almost a full year when members often commented, "Oh, you're new." And I would smile and say, "Nope, [first name], I've been here a while."

Now, in the second paragraph, I will tell you a story about what happened last week in the cafeteria of my current job, where I have worked for 1 year and 3 months. The man who makes the deli sandwiches, L, to whom I have said hello at least 137 times, and who has made me at least a dozen tuna salad sandwiches, said, "Oh, hi. What's your name? You're new here."

Finally, in this paragraph, I will note as I have many times in the past, that I would make an excellent spy, because I apparently blend very well with my surroundings. I mean, sure, if it happens once, maybe even twice, you could argue that people are thick-meloned and don't pay attention. But if it happens 10 times, by 10 different people, you really ought to take a long gander in a mirror just to make sure you are actually present in your body, and that it wasn't snatched and replaced with a stranger's.

Now that I've talked about that, I guess I'll just ramble on about how creative I've been the past few weeks, and like I've really squeaked open a hidden pantry. Songs are coming out. A new tale-telling venture is hatching (which I will keep secret until I am sure I won't self-sabotage, as that is kind of my way of things -- to self-sabotage, a very special trick I've been perfecting since I was about 22.). A cool work project is lighting my noggin on fire. In passes such as these I get a vision of myself, and I like it. I'm buoyed by it. There is even some spirit of creation in the marathon training, which I can't quite put my finger on.

At the exact same time, there's a little undercurrent of Holy Shittedness. And I think I have a better understanding of why I keep the reins so tight. Every time I nudge the door open, all this stuff, this exciting, electric, wriggling ball of stuff, starts barreling toward the light. Although I know it's good, and it's liberating, and it's as it ought, it's alarming. So I gasp and kick shut. Typhoons just aren't sustainable.

Mr. Ebu-Pants is laying across my legs. I feel his motor running, and I love this cat. His is my favorite feline soul.

princess pride does the opposite

I have this working theory about ego and behavior -- that any time ego is telling you to do something, you should do the exact opposite of that thing.

For instance, sometimes Princess Pride gets an injury. Sometimes the injury is deliberate: Person A, who makes all kinds of decisions based on ego and doesn't give a poop, insults and condescends and degrades. Sometimes the injury is accidental: Person B, who is awesome in 1,000 different ways, injures Princess simply by being awesome. (In which case, it isn't actually Person B who injured Princess, it was Princess's alter-ego, Insecurity, who turned and injured from the inside.)

At any rate, I have had fleeting moments of clarity when Princess received an injury, and I made myself do the exact opposite of my most immediate urge -- most immediate urge being to injure back -- to insult, degrade, belittle; and the exact opposite being -- to compliment Person A or B on the accomplishment in question.

In those moments in which Princess has suffered injury, and I have done the exact opposite of my most immediate urge, I have experienced a 100% rate of improved fuzzy bunny feelings. 100%. I cannot think of a single time that I implemented this scientifically-approved strategy without positive effect/affect.

On the flip side, I can think of MANY times in which I did NOT implement this strategy, that Princess was injured, and I followed my most immediate urges. In these cases, I have experienced a nearly 100% rate of worsened feelings. Maybe not immediately, but always eventually. I say "nearly 100%" because there are so many times, I'm sure I've lost track and cannot report this statistical analysis with a spreadsheet or a color-coded bar graph.

Now, here is where I reiterate this other working theory that I have that says there is only one system, one cycle, in existence, and it repeats itself in varying forms and at varying scales. That is, our personal, biological systems and cycles mirror systems in forests and oceans and politics and tupperware production and cat mating rituals and how televisions work. Therefore, if we get to know one system (to me, it makes sense to start with self. But you could also start by studying trees, if you'd prefer.), we will have enough understanding to apply elsewhere.

After careful self ego Princess Pride injury do the opposite study, I have concluded that we could replicate this on a global scale. There are matters of national security, of course, that must be handled. But I think even that could be handled compassionately. Sadly, it would really only work if everyone did it. And I'm not that delusional. But, it really really makes me love the living crap out of ideas like Stephanie's:

http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=140441369332304

I think September 11 is as good a day as any to not let Princess Pride run the show. That's kind of what caused the mess in the first place.

(in my humble opinion)

twisty bendy sleeping psyche, continued

More about this dreaming business. I really think dreams are important. The brain is an enormously mysterious electric planet, and how it sorts and problem solves is fascinating to me. I think at any given moment your brain is pulling in... I don't know... thousands?... of sensory messages: sight, sound, touch, smell, taste, and [I would argue...] energy. But you're only conscious of about 7 at a time (Which is very very very necessary. Can you imagine what would happen to you if you were conscious of all 5,689 sensory messages in the space of a second? You would be crazy. Actually, I think that's kind of what "crazy" is. The inability to filter sensory messages, in whatever form.). What does it do with the rest? What happens to your thoughts when you "lose" them? Do they evaporate and cease to exist? Of course not. Most have had the experience of trying to remember the name of someone or something, and you just can't can't can't, so you give up. And then two days later, you are mowing the grass or tying your shoe, and then BOOM, that name just pops up. The question never went anywhere; it just holed up in a study carrel in your brain and researched while you were showering and cooking dinner and having conversations and watching TV and farting in your sleep. That's the magical, layered, deep sea, asteroid field brain.

My favorite theory about dreams is that they have 3 tiers. The top tier is just the brain sorting through all the sensory images it took in that day. Both the things you were conscious of, and the things you weren't. It flips through them, sorts them, puts them into categories, rearranges your schemas, unclogs your short-term memory so it has space to store all of tomorrow's sensory messages.

The 2nd tier is where your brain sorts through your conscious thoughts. All the thoughts that sprinted through your brain that day. All the things you said to yourself or said to others. Where do those go? What questions did you ask? What conscious problems have you been trying to solve? What are you fretting about on a conscious level?

And then the murky bottom tier, my very favorite, where your repressed thoughts and worries and nasty little issues go to hang out in the dark. The answers to your most troubling questions wait, buried. But here they are. I think this is the meat. And I think what the brain does--or what God does--is use the cleverly crafted functions of all three tiers of our brains to help us answer our own questions and find our own right paths. No rules are altered to send messages. Everything is governed by its own natural laws; you just have to figure out what they are and then interpret within the parameters.

Sometimes when I go to bed, I ask a question (I think I've said this before.). I don't always know who I'm asking. And I'm not sure it's important the name I give. God? Spirit Guides? My brain? Because if nothing else, it brings the question into my conscious mind, and then I go to sleep and let my brain start sorting things out in its found-art kind of way (whether it's doing this all by itself, or God sets it to motion, or Spirit Guides are leading... I don't know.). I did that a couple of months ago and then dreamed of old dogs nudging me down dark paths and a dinosaur stomping on my house. Last night, thinking about this week of crazy dreams, I asked, "What do I need?" And I got Night 5:

Night 5:

Part 1: K, close friend from high school, disappeared. She just packed up and left her family, and no one knew where she was. The rest of that crew of high school friends were all a'twitter, and we couldn't agree on whether this was: a) worrisome (i.e., She left because she went bonkers, and we had to find her and get her help.); or b) awesome (i.e., K, a snappy soul who is better suited to glittery dance skirts than navy blue pant suits, I've always thought, left because she finally wriggled free of all the wrong things.). (NOTE: Dear high school friends who know who K is: please don't read too much into that. K has a lovely family, and I don't think she is stuck under all the wrong things. K likely represents something else entirely in my dream. I'm not much of a literalist even when I'm awake. End of note.)

Part 2: I'm at work, and my boss has a shower in his office. (What the hell?) I am wrapped in a towel and sitting at his desk waiting for him to leave so I can take a shower (It's remarkable to me how things like this are not strange at all while dreaming.). His desk is backed so close to the wall that there is very little room. I look down and see that I am sitting in thick layers of filth -- trash, dirt, debris. It's awful. Hideous. I am pushing it around with my foot, trying to find the floor. I see there is a vacuum next to me, so I start cleaning up the garbage. Then, I uncover some hardened dog poop. And my boss and I try to figure out how dog poop got into his office.

So apparently, I may or may not need to disappear (it might make me sadly bonkers, or it might make me wriggly), and I need to clean dog crap out of my boss's office.

Last night was Night 6. I didn't ask any questions. It's been a long week, and I was exhausted. My streak of BIZARRE DREAMs may have ended, because, the only thing I remember was less of a dream and more of one image on loop in my mind -- resizing rows and columns of spreadsheets. And that is very very real, I'm afraid.

too much sodium

Dreams decidedly dark this week. Disturbing. Started innocently enough,

Night 1: A party. A trainer I know from the gym sits at the head of a long table, pulls out a guitar, and begins to expertly play and sing a song I wrote many years ago about a troubled father-son relationship. Presses me to perform, to take the guitar and finish the song. Everyone is watching, insisting. I refuse. They just keep pestering and staring and pounding the table.

Night 2: And I am driving Chrispy to a house in Cedar Rapids. We arrive, and I suddenly realize I am dropping him off for a date with CM, a woman I went to high school with who became an opera singer. They have fallen in love. Chrispy is europhic. CM is smug. Her mother speaks an exotic language. I plead and scream and thrash around the house. They don't care. They just keep giggling and pawing at each other. Later, after their date, CM chases me down on a dark street and taunts me, teases me about taking my husband. Bystanders think this is my fault and that I have somehow victimized this sweet and lovely opera singer. They snarl at me and try to defend her.

Night 3: My family has gathered in our old dining room in Ft. Scott (This is one of the most frequent places I dream about, which I think is weird. What is it about that dining room?). It is lined with plexiglas, and a crowd of young boys begins to throw scrap boards with nails. They throw bricks. They charge the plexiglas, and it shatters but doesn't break. They are killing each other, leaving each other in bloody heaps on the ground outside the window. Then it's over. The survivors come inside, and they have nowhere to go. We have to educate them. One young boy has dreadlocks and stares at me, sad and silent, dirty and bleeding.

Night 4: I am hiding in an oddly configured bathroom stall with an unknown baby in a stroller. I am trying to get as far away from people as I can. I look up and realize there are more people, that the stalls are arranged like seats on a bus, and they are all looking at me. Staring. There is a man on the opposite end of the stalls, and he looks familiar, but I can't place him, and it makes me anxious. A woman named Vickie invites me to a ceremony, and I am suspicious.

Tonight will be Night 5. I am going to line my body with pillows and white sage smudge the bed. I might be insane. Regardless, I am very sleepy.

like walking through wedding tulle

I was trapped in the far corner of a very small room listening to a webinar about confidentiality policies and infectious disease reporting. The woman next to me was the perpetual frowny face who reeks of bad soul health (I don't work with her; I just see her around all the time.)--icky energy, and she was eating Burger King onion rings with electric orange cheese sauce, and they smelled horrible. It was an unpleasant way to spend two hours.

I believe that bodies are temples that house spirits, that they are divine vehicles for exploration and soul growth, and that our bodies are connected, that our inner pulsings feed a godly environment and a universal energy, and that our bodies filter our experiences with the "external" world and with each other... which makes listening to an explanation of laws that protect your right to keep your disease a solitary experience very weird.

It's not that I think every warbling of our physical form should be published on the front page of tomorrow's newspaper. That's not what I'm saying at all. I just think it's one of those cases where we have to create laws to accommodate our garbled sociology. And that it's kind of like making a law that prohibits the merging of water molecules in a public fountain.

Jill Bolte Taylor. I kept thinking of her and how our neurology, our consciousness, defines the parameters of our bodies-- our right hemispheres separate us, and our left hemispheres unite us. That we really are all part of one big universal body, it's only a brain trick that convinces us we're separate.

So as Frowny Face kept munching on her smelly onion rings, polluting her innards and, by way of godly energy feeding, everybody else, I thought, "This is too much." Some days the world feels thicker than others, like I'm walking through a giant vat of tapioca pudding and wedding tulle. It's really quite a lot to take in, and I'm not sure how I can be expected to drive a car or carry on a conversation.