air swimming

I once had a dream that I was a special investigator who could sense the presence of the devil. I found a dead chicken in a shower and knew it was the devil. And then, I knew that I was both the chicken and the devil. I refer to this as The Chicken Devil Dream.

I had another dream that a tall skinny man sat in a dark corner of an empty room holding an old traveling doctor's bag, and Magic Johnson was walking around with his head cut off asking for wooden nickels.

I used to swim through air in my dreams. I once air-swam laps around a giant plantation house.

I am frequently chased. I am frequently running through the dark and jumping over picnic tables and making out with Keanu Reeves under stadium bleachers. A few weeks ago, a giant green dinosaur stomped through the neighborhood and split my house in half.

These are my dreams.

The following are Chris's dreams:

Last night, Chris dreamed that he ordered a new screen door for the back porch and called to have a tree trimmer come out to groom the walnut in the backyard. The end.

One of us has an easier time with the idiosyncrasies of the world than the other.

yo mama don't live here

I shouldn't write when I'm cranky.

But I'm gonna.

First, I will say, as I have 14,000 times before (because I seem to revisit the same themes over and over) is that part of my soul plan is to learn how to let go... of lots of things, but they all likely boil down to perfection. I'm supposed to let go of the idea of perfection. Self, world, others... all imperfect. And that's okay.

I would like to amend that: Imperfection is okay. But it's not okay to just run around being a big jackass with no regard for Other People (They exist! And they really like it when you use your turn signal and say Please and Thank you.)

I've been wrestling with this idea of judgment, and how I really shouldn't--as an imperfect little wrinkled mess--cast it. I keep thinking I need to learn how to "go with the flow." But something about it just doesn't sit right.

And then... this was my Rob Brezsny horoscope last week, and I thought, my my my, what perfect timing, you tricky minx.

Taurus Horoscope for week of August 12, 2010

When they say "Go with the flow," what "flow" are they talking about? Do they mean the flow of your early childhood conditioning? The flow of your friends' opinions? The latest cultural trends? Your immediate instinctual needs? When they say "Go with the flow," are they urging you to keep doing what's easiest to do and what will win you the most ego points, even if it keeps you from being true to your soul's code? I'm here to ask you to consider the possibility that there are many flows to go with, but only one of them is correct for you right now. And in my opinion, it is flowing in an underground cavern, far from the maddening crowd.

Precisely! Which flow? Because I've been observing a lot of really asinine flows, and none of them seem like a very good idea. The trouble isn't the not-going-with-the-flowness; it's that I don't know how to observe asininestry, detach from it, and continue without angst. When I observe a complete lack of sense, to the point of destructiveness, I don't know how to: co-exist peaceably, resist the destructive flow, and/or point out the damage and demand change. I observe acts of disregard, and they stick in my craw, then I become kind of a jerk (which is ironic).

An example: driving to the fair Friday night, we were following a car with a specialty license plate with a U.S. flag and the words "God Bless America!" Two guys in front, smoking with the windows cracked. Little kid in back. Then, out the driver's window: an empty, crumpled cigarette box, tossed into the street. Few seconds later, out the passenger's window: another empty, crumpled cigarette box, tossed into the same street. And I thought, "Really? God Bless America? Just not this particular block of America's East Euclid? This particular block of America's East Euclid can suck it? But the rest? Bless that? God Bless America, but not the kid in your back seat who lives in it? God Bless My Trash? God Bless America, Mother Earth can bite me?" I grumbled angrily about it for many blocks, and felt genuinely... flummoxed. If you're going to drive around with bold exclamations on your bumper sticker, know what they mean, Jackass.

I mean, what is the right thing to do? What's the flow? Hey, okay, people throw trash. That's just the way it is, so don't get upset? But... it's not okay to throw your trash around. "Oh, it's just a cigarette box." How many people in the world, in a day, throw out a cigarette box? How many people throw out their fast food bags? A plastic water bottle? A pop can? A sink? It adds up! We don't live in isolation! And if we say okay now, when does it stop? Plus, what does that say about how you view yourself in comparison to the planet? That you are above it? That you are superior? And if you feel you are superior to the planet, and that your actions have no impact, what else will you do? What happens when the entire world implodes in the center of a giant mosaic of plastic bags and crumpled Lucky Strikes? It's not okay to treat the earth like your own personal toilet. It's just not!

So many things I see in a day, and I think, "Hey! That's not okay!" And some of them are so small. They are woes the width of a hair. But even things that are small are indicative of larger things. Like: not saying thank you when someone opens the door. Small. But big. It's how you view other people (if you view them at all). If you have so little regard for others that when they hold a door for you, you cannot muster a thank you, what else can you not muster to do? How will you treat people, on a larger scale, if you don't think they matter? It's the energy you feed the world. Don't feed the world your sucky, haughty, destructive energy, man! Be nice! Be respectful! Be cognizant!

I'm spending all this time telling myself, "don't judge. don't judge. don'tjudgedon'tjudgedon'tjudgedon'tjudge." But how can some things not be judged? Some things are really quite awful. Am I supposed to pretend they're not? Am I supposed to pretend I don't have opinions about basic, decent human behavior? Because, you know what I really want to do? I want to grab people by the shoulders, and I want to yell at them, "You! You are being an asshole!" I want to sit them down and point into their faces and say:

You. When you are at work... work. Give a crap. Show some integrity. Do it.

You. When someone honest and kind loves you, don't shit on them. Don't.

You. Cats have claws. Period. Stop yanking them out. That's cruel.

You. Stop treating your dog like a thing. Your dog is a gift and a teacher. Cherish, Jerk Face.

You. Stop cutting down all the trees and barfing your junk into the water. Stop mucking up the sky with your charcoal stick. Would you stab your mother in the eye with a fork?

You. Don't sleep with your best friend's ex. That's really bad taste.

You. With your anti-gay marriage rally. Your energy is going the wrong direction. This is foolishness. Lobby for love, respect, and responsibility. Lobby for not-jumping-shipped-ness-at-the-first-sign-of-trouble. Lobby for not-using-marriage-as-a-crutch-for-your-brokenness. Lobby for understanding the power and sacredness of marriage as a vehicle for soul growth and spiritual development. Watch what happens then.

You. With your arms full of plastic grocery bags. Forego your case of Mountain Dew and spring for a few reusable grocery totes. They cost $0.99 each. Have you looked at the ocean lately?Also, Mountain Dew is a horrible choice. Do you hate your own guts?

You. Wherever you're going, I'm pretty sure they have a trashcan. Would it kill you to hang onto that piece of crap until you get there?

You. Contribute.

You. How 'bout you spend the rest of your life trying really really hard not to toss your unexamined life garbage onto other people? Hey, you're not perfect. You'll screw up. But when you do? Apologize. Mean it. And then clean up your mess. Yo mama doesn't live here.

That's what I want to say. But I'm too busy apologizing and cleaning up my messes. My mama doesn't live here.

unabashedly imperfect

It's 9:30. I should be much more tired than I am. I think working out at 5 a.m. every morning has reduced my body's dependency on sleep.

Because I like to observe my own neurosis, and because I believe my neurosis is not unique and likely matches your neurosis, which makes it a shared neurosis between most people and therefore probably really shouldn't even be called "neurosis" but instead should just be called human nature, I would like to recant the frenetic brain activity that happened after my last blog post, the song blog:

Neurosis: This is attention seeking behavior. Stop, immediately.

Rationality: Why is posting a song blog any more attention seeking than posting a word blog?

Neurosis: This song is horrible. You suck. You are horrible. You should be ashamed. Stop, immediately.

Rationality: It doesn't have to be good if it's honest.

Neurosis: Yes, it does. Why do anything at all if you can't do it perfectly, Idiot?

Rationality: But, there is no such thing as perfect.

Neurosis: Maybe, but this is really awful. Be ashamed. Stop.

Rationality: But, isn't it liberating to publicly and freely acknowledge your own awfulness? To bare your limited skill set and failed attempts? Isn't it soul-freeing to bite the dust of imperfection in front of lots and lots of people? Isn't that the only true way to find joy--to release all unrealistic expectations for self and just...be?

Neurosis: No. Stop.

Rationality: But, maybe someone somewhere won't think it's awful. There is an audience for awful things. Just listen to all that weird obscure indie music. They can't even sing, and people love them!

Neurosis: They have horrible taste and their opinions don't count.

Rationality: But it's not okay to cap honest expression based on outside opinions.

Neurosis: Have you no pride?

Rationality: Yes, I have too much.

Anyway, just a sampling.

Another frenetic dialogue is happening right now as I type. But I'm going to just leave it at this.

Good night. Sleep tight. May tomorrow be wildly and unabashedly imperfect, and may you fail publicly and not give a flying tin can of shit.

Swim: a song blog

I really like songs that tell stories -- too-many-words songs. So, with my last beautiful day of staycation, I tried to write one. I found it... hard. And for someone with normally very fine rhythm, kind of... annoying. But I like it, in a not classically good sort of way.

Here is the song:

(And if that doesn't work: Here is the song...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JUmL65WPews)

And here are the words:

You know, when I was six I was

sucked in by the ocean

on vacation to the beach and the waves pulled me

under, pulled me under

and sideways.

And I still remember toes

in seaweed, kicking for sand,

searching for land,

But the tide flipped me on my side, and I

took in water

so much water 'til I

couldn't breathe

I couldn't breathe.

Ocean in my ears, I heard what

whales hear

what squid hear

what seals hear

when they're underwater.

So, my uncle pulled me to shore

wrestled me through choppy waves,

and I cried into the castle

my sisters built.

He's gone now, that uncle

Taken too soon, too young

No warning, and

isn't that the way with the tide,

it takes and it gives and

you never know

which or what or when, so you

just swim

and swim

'til you're tired.

Yeah, you never know

which or what or when, so you

just swim

and swim

'til you're tired.

Every summer we went to Minnesota, to

the lake to my grandparents' river, and

we floated downstream in rafts with

turtles and fish

and snakes.

They had a canoe, too, but

between me and you,

I hate canoeing.

There, I've said it.

I really frickin' hate canoeing.

Flimsy, stupid, unstable vessel

wobbling like a drunk on water

just me and a paddle

and a partner, and we tip

side to side, and

spill into the water,

Athough, I'm a good swimmer

a strong swimmer, I still

hate it.

It's just, I want to know when

I'd rather jump than be pushed.

Do you know what I mean?

Boats, they dump you into water &

conspire with the river who drags you

downstream, upstream, sidestream, wherever

she wants. So I muscle through

and scream, "This is not my choice!"

Not my choice.

Maybe I'm too high strung

Never been too good at floating, so I

swim

and I swim

'til I'm tired.

Yeah, maybe I'm too high strung

Not too good at floating, so I

swim

and I swim

and I swim

'til I'm tired.

i like to make things.

It is the last day of my stay-cation, and I feel nervous. It's already 7:48 a.m. Last days of any-cations always go too fast. I will blink and it will be 7:48 p.m. So much pressure to enjoy each moment. This one! Enjoy this one! Focus, P! I froth when I discover moments have passed, and I've missed them, let them slip unacknowledged. I am sweaty and wild-eyed with moment-marking.

An exaggeration. Really, I'm just eating yogurt and fruit and drinking some coffee. But I really do feel nervous, and I really do keep looking at the clock. 7:52. Dammit!

I know that I do not want to spend all day flitting around online. I will make music and make pictures and make food and make stretching of IT Bands. I like to make things. I like to make things more than anything else. I want to spend all day making things. All day. Not just part of the day. Not just periodic 4-day stay-cations. Songs, stories, poems, dinners, pictures. My soul likes it. Craves it. I dare say, I was designed to make stuff, sometimes it's crap, but the process--I was born for that. I also like to make messes. Sometimes I even like to make things clean, but please don't tell my husband.

There is never enough time to make all the things I want to make. And that makes me so awfully nervous.

7:56.

serious runners are always ready to run

Physical therapy appointment today, and my usual PT was out of town. She set me up with another, a strapping young guy who is the running guru. She told me to bring shorts and running shoes, because she would have him watch me run to determine if I do something stupid (my words).

I follow directions most of the time.

This morning, I packed a set of running clothes, and due to a laundry back-up, had to choose between a tight tank or the super fancy technical shirt from the Amy Thompson 8K in Kansas City (a cool shirt and super comfortable, but covered with sponsorship tags and... Well, when you wear it, you might as well also begin every conversation with "HelloI'marunner."). Reasoning the tank would be too cold and too... boobalicious... I decided to look like I was trying too hard.

Fast forward, and I arrived at my PT appointment with my running clothes in a large plastic bag. I also brought my knee wrap. I excused myself to the bathroom to change, thinking, "I will be on top of it. I will change and be ready and not keep the strapping young PT waiting." I felt mildly stupid when I put on the race shirt. Plus, strapping young men always make me feel shy. Always. I am 36, but I am 12 when it comes to strapping young men.

Then I returned to the waiting room to sit in a chair in full running gear (complete with knee wrap), my work clothes inside the plastic bag I held on my lap.

I was not wearing sweat bands around my head or wrists, but I would like to go ahead and pretend that I was, because I think that makes it funnier.

Oh, I would also like to pretend that I was carrying the water bottle that straps to my hand and that it was full of Gatorade.

Strapping young PT fetched me from the waiting room. In the exam room area, he stretched my knee cap, talked to me about some stuff, checked my squat form, talked to me about some more stuff, taped my knee, and then I realized he was wrapping things up.

I said, "Weren't you going to watch me run?"

He looked confused. "No, we don't need to do that today."

I looked down at myself, my running shorts, my technical race shirt, running shoes complete with toe tag identification, [sweat bands and water bottle], knee wrap, knee tape, my real clothes in a plastic bag on the floor, and I started to laugh. "Did you think I was taking things just a little too seriously?"

He smiled and said it was easier to see my form when I squatted. [Let me translate that for you: "Yes. You are weird."]

I laughed all the way out of the office, through the parking lot, to my car, and to the grocery store, where I then exited my car -still in full running gear, now with knee tape- and paraded around the produce aisles as if I was just about to go run some serious miles just as soon as I bought up some pineapple and turnip greens.

This might be as nice as I get.

My character has some unsavory nuggets. I get really annoyed with adults who make stupid decisions [Translation: I am judgmental and want everyone to have the exact same values and sensibilities that I have. When they don't, I think they are morons.]. I hold onto irritations like I'm protecting a big red button to the universe. I would like to let go of these ugly tendencies for the sake of a sparkly soul and improved relationships.

To my favor, I also believe that every problem under the sun has a solution, and I'm pretty sure I can figure out what it is. So yesterday, I devised a strategy to fix my broken junk. Every time I entered my familiar irritation dialogue (Which usually starts with "Gah, jackass.") I would imagine a patient, stoic, teacherly sort saying, "Give that to me, please," as if I were a clumsy child with scissors.

This morning was Day 1 of the new "Be Nice" plan. I spent 85% of the morning hearing, "Give that to me, please.... Give that to me, please... Give that to me, please..." By 2:00, I hated the patient stoic teacher sort, told him to go eff himself, gathered all of my broken junk, held it to my chest, and decided, with some regret, that this might be as nice as I get.

a letter to God in the spirit of Hafiz

Dear God,

Thank you for loving me enough to beat the shit out of me

When that's what it takes.

You're a benevolent badass

With a fiercely loving left hook.

Humbly,

Patresa

[in the spirit of Hafiz]

obedient to benevolent forces

Revisiting old journal entries here, I have settled into March of 2008 sitting alone on a hotel balcony in Litchfield Beach, South Carolina. I was on walkabout, something I do (did) when everything in me sets to jitter (Oh, and it does. For the life of me, I cannot keep this roar at a hum for any lengthy extension. I don't know what part of me malfunctions; I only know it does.) I rented a car and drove south and west for 10 days.

I had a moment with a dead jellyfish that I thought was kind of important, and I think about it off and on. It was washed up in the sand like a gelatinous blob, really not so attractive when dead and motionless, tentacles not so much like cool dreadlocks when they're still. And I thought about many years before when I read an article about jellyfish in a Natural Geographic. I gave a presentation to my students at the juvenile detention center where I worked at the time. I used it as an example for how you can make your own curiosity, how everything is interesting and nothing is boring if you inventory its details. The jellyfish has no central nervous system, and yet it is one of the longest surviving species and most efficient predators in the ocean. How can something without a brain be so good at what it does?

I thought of this looking at the dead jellyfish. It was dead. It didn't give a crap that it was dead, because it never over-thought its life. It didn't sit around drinking coffee with its friends and bemoaning its watery existence. It didn't fret over what to do next. Didn't make plans. Didn't stare into mirrors all day long. Didn't get anxious. Didn't act out of selfishness or guile or wayward psychology. Didn't feel insecure or threatened or superior. It didn't evaluate anything or anyone. It just existed. It gave itself to the tide and to instinct, totally obedient to a bigger plan.

And I thought, "Good on you, Dead Jelly." That must be very peaceful.

Not that I want to be mindless. I just want to release and float and be obedient to benevolent forces and then sting crap with my tentacles, I guess.

my body wants a spinach omelette

Here is what I have to say about my gardening and that giant unfinished landscape project I started 2 months ago: Nothing has its space, everything is overgrown, and it's all completely out of control.

I will also say the same about my desk.

And the kitchen.

And the bedroom.

And my government issue windowless tan cubicle.

And my brain.

And the whole f*cking world.

My right knee is out of commission, marathon training stalled for another week or so while I rehab it. And I've been so ... angry about it. Are you kidding me? I felt like everything had finally clicked, and I knew what I was doing, and I felt really confident, and I slipped into my schedule and was committed and obedient. I had a plan! I'd even composed a motivational speech I recited to myself while I ran. It was brilliant! Plus, I just finished training for the 20K, and didn't have a single problem. Not one single issue. So, I thought, what the hell is the difference? Why now?

I also believe, as I may have said a time or 1600 before, that our bodies are geniuses and they talk to us. Every sprain and strain, every bump, scar, tumor, rash, ache, and every good thing, too, is a direct and important message--not just about things like, "Hey, stop huffing paint, Dumbass!" I really think it gives us messages about how we should be living, emotionally and psychically and how we should be treating the planet and each other.

I really do think that. And it makes me feel very reverent toward my physical form, like my mind and my spirit are being ushered around life by this very kind, very old, and very wise shaman woman who doesn't speak very good English.

Believe this as I do, when I get angry about my knee, I try to replace it with gratitude. Thank you, knee, for delivering this important message (now translate and shut the hell up). I've been trying to figure out what it's telling me. Last night my knee used English (via my massage therapist), and said, "Dear sweet, dense woman: Let go let go let go."

My knee is screwed up, because my quads are insanely tight and the IT Band on the side of my leg is irritated and pulling my knee junk out of alignment. I find this remarkable, because I stretch more than anyone else I know. And really good stretches, too. I stretch like a freakin' Olympian, I'm telling you. I could win contests!

Last night I went to my massage therapist, Kate, who is awesome and a healer who sometimes says f*ck in the middle of a massage, who chops her own wood, and roofs her own house, and who looked at my new bird tattoo a few weeks ago and said, "Hm. She is very composed. Look at how tightly she's holding her feathers." I told Kate I was having problems with my knee. She said, "It's not your knee, dear."

Kate was bending me into all kinds of funky stretches. Each time she held one of my limbs, she said, in her patient, smoker's voice, which is just as comfortable dropping f-bombs as it is talking chakras, "Let it go, please. Give this to me, please. Patresa, let it go, dear." And after each direction, I would think I was letting go, I would dip my hip, exhale, sag my shoulders, make a frowny face, whatever, and each time, she would say, "You're still working, dear. Give this to me, please. Let go, dear. Stop working. Release. Stretching doesn't work if you don't let go."

I stretch, but I don't let go. I don't let go, ever. I'm pretty sure I don't even relax in my sleep. I don't even move in my sleep. I wake up in the same damn position I held when I closed my eyes the night before. Every tissue in me is a guitar string about to snap; God save me if the winds pick up.

Which brings me back to everything that is completely out of control. It's only "out of control" because I'm trying to keep it "in control." You can't be out if there's no in, you know. I think I'm supposed to just let it be it, and for my part, be okay. That's what my knee says, anyway. And the clenched bundle I carry around in my left hip.

I don't know what my body has in mind, it's really become very particular over the past year--very insistent. It's like a woman who turns 50 and starts telling people exactly what she thinks and exactly what she wants. Or like I'm being prepped for a mission (scary). Over the past year, my digestive system has eliminated 3/4 of my previous diet, and now my muscles and tissues are demanding I free my fuzzy bunny soul. Basically, my body has become really insistent on purity and freedom.

Right now, my body is insisting on a spinach omelette and some more coffee. And even though my insecure mind wants to apologize for always writing such weird, goofy posts, I'm not going to. I'm not going to apologize for always writing such weird, goofy posts. You're just going to have to deal with it. Please. Please, just deal with it.