Peace Has Got to Be in One of These Boxes...

I moved into a new apartment on the 30th of December. Somehow I made it through packing, cleaning and several round-trips up and down stairs thanks to a three-week break and friends and family. 'Twas worth fulfilling my poetic idea of having a new place for the new year.

Now I've hit that tiring stage of unpacking where I realize one very important thing: I have too much stuff. I haven't tallied up the rat-packing damage but confessing I have 52 pairs of shoes alarms me. Something seems so wrong about having so much. I feel like a hoarder and restless. While this realization may put a slight damper on my shiny new ideal from the first paragraph, it also means it's a perfect time to de-clutter. The year still has that brand-new smell, no? 

The more I process, the more a nagging feeling tells me this also applies to people. (Oh, over-thinking mind of mine, when will you rest?) Not in an angry "GO TO HELL, I DON'T NEED YOU!" way, but in a bittersweet awareness that we've simply fulfilled our roles for each other and it's time to move on. Maybe I'm the one in someone's storage or "Give Away" box.

I'll keep rummaging through and purging boxes to try to settle my place and soul. I create attachments easily so this will be challenging. Knowing myself some things will be stored for a possible second chance, others released into the wide world of donations. Perhaps that'll happen with some people too. Whichever I'm letting go of, or if I'm the one being let go, I will remind myself that it will all be OK.

What Do I Want?

I think I've always been tentative to answer for fear of sounding selfish. I tend to put others' needs or wants ahead, admittedly not always self-lessly. The other half of my hesitance is self-consciousness.

Now I have downtime and the urgency to answer that question before taking my text life-step. So far I'm not sure of the answer but there's no wrong or right. I'm even afraid of what those wants are and changes they inevitably bring. (Change and I aren't friends but we've learned to be civil and even neighbourly.)

These are the hardest:

1) I want to not be afraid of wanting.

2) I want to be honest and good to myself.

3) I want to actually follow through with what it is I'm wanting.

Perhaps (and rightfully so) I should answer "Who am I?" first.

I said, "BURR!"

It's probably 40-some degrees right now. Nebraska refuses to hand over Spring. *sigh* I should know better by now. I'll continue to pretend I'm in the Northwest and someone took the pines and mountains.

Low temperatures have me saying two things I normally wouldn't: I'm cold (I don't get cold easily). I maybe, just maybe, need a man.

Schroeder, former history professor, once said, "Everrry gerrrl should have a boyfrrriend to keep herrr warrrm in winterrr." The man is wise beyond his lifetime.

I'll just settle for a cup of coffee for now.

Today goes to show that...

1) Lincoln is bigger than you think

2) It's not always the doctor you want; sometimes it's the receptionist

3) Missing cell phones are to communication as trolls are to bridges

4) Sometimes you do need a GPS

5) The events you couldn't wait for are the ones you sometimes miss

6) People can change

7) Life is full of irony

I Wish for More Than Prayer

Earlier today I received a text from Mami. She said Abuelita called to tell her Abuelito fell, broke his femur, and will be having surgery soon, perhaps tomorrow. His accident happened about eight days ago; he's been in the hospital but hasn't been faring too well.

If in my shoes, some of you might call or visit. The latter would be my ideal, but I can't. You see, my extended family lives in Mexico and I haven't seen them in 19 years this coming June (due to circumstances I can't help).

It's like I'm tied to a parallel universe I remember but haven't experienced in years. I know there's a bond, and I "go back" when I get a chance to communicate with them; I just don't know how strong it still is despite time and space until something like my Abuelito's fall happens. That's when I realize I'm somewhere else and can't do much of anything no matter how secure my ties are. All I can really do is pray and hope for the better, but I wish for more.

"We Were Emergencies"

Poetry is something I need to have spoon-fed to me. So, while I won't take credit for finding this one, I definitely want to share.

"We Were Emergencies" by Buddy Wakefield

A poet
can stick anything into the fog and make it look like a ghost.
But tonight let us not become tragedies.
We are not funeral homes
with propane tanks in our windows
lookin' like cemeteries.
Cemeteries are just the Earth's way of not letting go.
Let go.
Tonight, Poets, let's turn our wrists so far backwards
the razor blades in our pencil tips
can't get a good angle on all that beauty inside.
Step into this
with your airplane parts
and repeat after me with your heart:
I no longer need you to fuck me as hard as I hate myself.
Make love to me
like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did.
Go slow.
I'm new to this
but I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop without jumping.
I have realized the moon did not have to be full for us to love it.
We are not tragedies
stranded here beneath it.

If my heart really broke every time I fell from love
I'd be able to offer you confetti by now
but hearts don't break, y'all,
they bruise and get better.
We were never tragedies.
We were emergencies.
You call 9-1-1.
Tell them I'm havin' a fantastic time.

Bob Dylan. The man is a legend. The music is unique. The hair is epic.

Betcha he could roll out of bed and still look like the rock star he is. What else could you want hair-style-wise?

I want hair like Bob Dylan's.

"I KNOW you have a heart."

Yesterday I got my heart scanned. One of my friends, Walter, is studying to be a... cardio-something. Basically he'll be looking at hearts for a living and his skills labs include scanning hearts. Being a sucker for simple and new experiences I volunteered to be one of his "patients." That's how I wound up in a hospital-like bed and gown.

The first part called for a top view of my heart. I craned my neck back towards the screen. Fascinating. It showed my right atrium, aorta, and one of my valves fluttering with the blood flow. Sometimes Walter pushed a button and I could hear blood woosh-ing through.

Wow. There it was, my little fist-sized heart that could.

Unfortunately a lower view didn't work out. Walter moved the transducer but couldn't get an image. "I KNOW you have heart," he said. "I JUST scanned the top of it." He eventually gave up in to avoid being intrusive. I know he's not a creep but I understood.

It was still a win-win: he got some heart-scanning practice and I got to see my heart at work. "Amazing" doesn't do the latter justice.

Ex Nihilio

Yesterday I felt like nothing: not good enough, unwanted, untalented, and un-anything else from a professional standpoint. My hormones also conspired against me, resulting in a depressing day. One of the few good spots was talking to my dad for about an hour.

Today I went to counseling. The first thing I did was ask for chocolate; Buffy knew it was bad when I grabbed the Kleenex box next.

How are you? I feel like nobody wants me (employment-wise). And, due to certain triggers, I feel... poor, like I have nothing.

The latter is a big deal. Being and immigrant I know what it's like to start from scratch and be "poor." However being low on the economical bracket never defined or bothered me. Besides, we always had a roof over our heads, food and clothes. Only reason I was self-conscious was because kids would tease me. Children can be cruel.

Now my current job hunt points to my low-income reality. But there is something spiritual about having nothing. I'm not convicted but I know. When you are metaphorically stripped down you shiver from cold and shame. Then you start to see who you actually are and what you really do have; in a strange way you are free. Assuming we include God, He takes that and works wonders.

I feel insecure right now but I know I am far from nothing and have a lot to offer; I love and am loved and I have what I need, including autonomy. Yet I know there's more; I just don't know what right now.

In the beginning there was emptiness. Nada. Then God spoke and created amazingness and beauty ex nihilio, out of nothing. I am hoping one day that will be me.

"Claudia, DO SOMETHING!"

Within the last three weeks I applied and/or sent my resumé to four different prospective employers. (I'm doing a fifth, though it's not a track record to be engraved on a plaque.) I had a pre-interview with one but have heard nothing from the others. In the meantime, I find out a friend has an interview and another starts a new job next week.

My feelings are mixed - happiness with a touch of envy and pressure. At a young age I craved approval. Now as a "grown-up" I continue to want it at some level, this time with a job. I want a "professional" to tell me my skills are good enough. Thing is, I KNOW they are; my FRIENDS tell me they are; my CLIENTS are happy. These people, including me, matter. So, what the hell is my problem?

My friend, Michael, said, "Employment is just as much a sign of talent as grades are." True. I just don't want to be that friend. You know, the deadbeat who didn't do anything with his/her life. The one who somehow frustrates you because he/she didn't reach potential. Yeah, that friend.

While writing I've perked up. I don't necessarily need or want what others have; my long-life happiness isn't contingent on employment. (That's another blog for another day.) Right now though, I feel like comedian Margaret Cho when Wisconsin's Laotian community contacted her for help: "People are calling me and e-mailing me from there... going, 'Margaret, DO SOMETHING!'"

Singled Out

Last Saturday I went to potluck... for young married couples. I happened to be with Kelly and Santi when our friend Garrett invited us and received no indication that it was for a certain demographic.

Stan and Angie, the hosts, were a bit surprised to see me but quite welcoming. (If you don't know them, they are a sweet, older couple who do premarital counseling at my alma mater.) I do confess that I felt slightly out of place. Which one is not like the others? *Raises hand* The only other single was Danny, Zak and Jovannah's two-year-old.

We had the food blessing and after filling my plate I looked for a seat. Two empty chairs were next to Kelly and I took one. A few seconds passed before Stan came over and asked if I could scoot over so I wouldn't "break up" a couple and pulled up another chair. He joked that they would've given me a couple hours to find somebody had they known I was coming.

Cue awkward/courtesy chuckle.

Luckily I knew most of the couples at our table and we had a pretty lively conversation about general subjects. Apparently the other table had a marriage-focused table talk.

Before leaving Stan turned to me and said he hoped this inspired me. Inspired me to do what, Stan? He left that to interpretation. This is what I got: I am happy being single but I am thankful for the coupled friends who aren't exclusive.

Birds of a Feather... Bake Together?

Last Sunday my bakery chums and I had our "We Survived the Holidays" party. We went over to Stacy's house for a potluck celebration. Of the 13 employees only two were missing.

All of us can cook and our spread definitely showed. Included were free-range beef sloppy joes (they smelled really good), a beautiful pineapple turnover, lentil soup, and homemade ice-cream. There were no dish assignments, just brought something, but had a balanced entrée/dessert ratio. And only one person brought bread.

We sat at one of two tables but eventually migrated to the larger dining table. As we told and listened to each others' stories, shared recipes, or reminisced about customer encounters, I felt like we were at a reunion.

I looked around and realized these people had become an odd little family to me. Some are younger, some are older, but there seems to be a vibe of familiarity, value and respect. I even supported some outside of work: VJ and his gospel choir down at the Zoo Bar and Naomi with a pottery exhibit.

Things will eventually change and new people will come and some of us will go. But for the moment I wouldn't have us any other way.

"Bump" Went the Night

I'm probably one of the silliest "adults" ever. I'm in my mid-twenties and still slightly afraid of the dark. That's why I shun horror movies or anything dealing with the supernatural. Growing up in a superstitious culture has its toll.

Tonight I remember descending into deep, deep sleep. Everything was slowly fading but a noise made me come back. There's the cause, but why? I know these sounds: creak, thunk, rattle; they're floor, the breathing house, and window, respectively; they don't usually bother me.

I turned on my bed lamp and looked around. There was my stuff, right where I left it. I "bravely" got up and looked around my apartment. I even looked under my bed. (Ridiculous, I know.) Nothing. The closet was clear too, though that particular place has been a constant source of worry since childhood. Somehow that baggage stayed with me. I couldn't sleep for three days after watching Coraline because I faced my closet. That was two years ago.

I tried to go back to sleep but my overactive imagination and the night's ability to magnify sound were against me. These times make me wish for someone to protectively snuggle against or a roommate. It's the whole "strength in numbers" mentality.

Right now I really want to close my eyes and get some rest, but I'm scared of something I don't know about. Maybe I'll wait 'til morning to do that. Or maybe I'll leave the light on, something I also used to do as a kid.

Take That, Cover Letter!

Currently I'm fighting for concentration while trying to rework an old cover letter. It's the thing I dislike most about a job application process. If professionalism could step outside for a minute or if I could take and tie it and lock it in the broom closet until my job app is finished, here's what I would actually say:

Dear Prospective Employer,

Hello. I'm writing this because I need a job and out of force must try to impress you with words. Thanks to technology we can ditch the watermarked paper and save myself some postage.

I love creating and would like to do it for a full-time living. I've created cool-looking stuff, including posters, invitations, banners and programs, some which were seen around the community. I even made directory that featured hand-drawn illustrations.

I'm good at what I do and I'm dedicated. My clients love my design work and I aim to keep them happy. I haven't had a single complaint since I began freelancing three years ago. They love me and you would too.

With the economy still in a shabby state I really need a job, preferably one I enjoy. (I would also like know I didn't waste time and money in college.) This seems to fit the aforementioned description, so I would appreciate it if you would hire me.

Sincerely,

Me

What's Your Answer?

(Watch the video. THEN read. ;-))

Being a part of this was random luck. My sisters and I were at the Plaza on Black Friday afternoon when we were asked if we would like to support the project. Adri didn't participate but she persuaded Beky to do this with me.

Later I thought about my answer and decided it was not The One. The one off the top of my head but not completely correct: I like where I live, I have friends in the area, I grew as a person, and I'm not too far from mom and dad. My situation worked out and I don't really regret it. Honestly I feel like the people towards the end of the video. I am me because of choices I've made, so what's really to regret? Not too shabby so far, I think.

I thought and thought and thought some more and actually came up with something. It's not because I want to have a regret; it's because I want to be honest with myself and try to do better. I regret not being there (for X or Y reason) for some people close to me when they needed my love, support or at least my presence. I truly I'm sorry about that.

Going back to the video, I do want to ask the rest of you, what's YOUR answer?

My Vie Boheme

Here's to...
too-small apartments, lack of parking, and a prison-sized sink; to bunkbeds (To bunkbeds!) and food made of soy; to IMs, invoices, someone sleeping on your floor; to snowpants and 11 people digging out your car; to breadboard philosophies and half-baked theories; to zombies and the coming apocalypse; to late-night grocery store runs and staying up with friends; to garage sales, curbside junking and dumpster diving; to nerds downstairs who download the world; to simplicity and electricity; to job applications, posts and rejection letters; to getting "hammered and sickled" with Leninade; to praising God when you didn't get a job you really didn't want; to sleep overs and dinners (in the same evening), Goodwill and Dollar Tree presents; to kneading, baking and bagging bread; to roadtrips that empty your pockets but enrich your life; to hostels, gum walls and weddings you never reach; to salmon and ratatouille and splurging for a Rolling Wok feast; to gardens and muddy shoes; to bicycles and the punks who steal them; to searching Craigslist and sipping mate from gourds; to animation and good films; to gnomes, used books shops and maps; to ninjas and pirates; to classic rock, real musicians and mashups; to futons that creak; to minimum wages jobs and the co-workers who become an odd family; to paper lifesavers and Dinner Roast holiday meals; to experimental cooking and butternut squash; to a clean apartment, incense and a warbly parakeet; to knowing "it too shall pass"; to the comedy of errors that is being independent; to steady (and floozy!) clients and PDFs with corrections; to odd design jobs and random inspiration; to hats, musicals and outcasts; to photo shoots, skinny dipping and lost pets; to questions that often don't get answered; to wondering if I'll make rent; to opera and coffee and the animal crackers you dip in it; to a family who makes you laugh and somehow cry; to shuffling a deck of cards called "Beliefs" and sitting quietly to hear silence; to yoga, to yoga, and 24-hour diners; to $5 worth of fries and curse-word therapy; to blogs, bloggers and vinyl; to profiles, pictures, information overload and the power button to turn it off; to too many books, farmers markets and bartering; to three-green salad (or was it four?); to free music, lunches and sweating through the summer to save on electricity; to an AC that leaks cold winter air and broken coffee pots; to closets being for clothes, shoes, odds and ends but not people; to Tardis and Sherlock; to being wrapped in blankets because there is minimal heat; to a teddy bear that shares a bed with you; to being drowsy after watching a winter solstice lunar eclipse; to Spanglish and breakfasts that consists of huevos rancheros, coffee, tortillas, beans, and avocados; to being (technically) poor but feeling like the world is yours; to dreaming in ink and laughing at life; to a group of friends that will "never be old enough."

Viva my vie boheme!

The Book(s) That Saved My Life

One I judged and picked by its cover; the other was a recommendation from friend and former professor, Mr. Blake. They were "The Life of Pi" and "Traveling Mercies," respectively. The former is the story of Pi and his plight to survive in a raft along with a tiger and the latter is Anne Lamott's thoughts on faith.

Though seemingly unrelated stories, they both deal with God, religion, faith, and survival, things I've been sorting out for the last who-knows-how-long. I love books, but these two make me believe lifesavers still come in paperback or hardcover. I think God in his almighty humour saw I was barely doggy-paddling through life and tossed them over.

The current me happens to relate to Ms. Lamott's spiritual stumble. (Sans the drugs, drinking and sleeping around.) I took "Mercies" with me to one of my counseling appointments and read an excerpt about religion and forgiveness; she said it better than I could've explained. As for Pi, he reminded me to be one of those who has "life-hungry stupidity." Survival, though held together with hope and belief, starts with oneself.

Pi, while floating in the Pacific, said, "My greatest wish -other than salvation- was to have a book." I'm so glad I do.

It's Still Raining There

Rain... my God I love that sound.

No words can ever express what it means to me, though a few can give you an idea: memories, peace, redemption, life. My soul's bitter dirt and grime floods away along with pebbles and dirt for at least a moment and the soft earth side of me, the one that splashed in puddles and climbed a nearby dam in the middle of a long ago storm comes back.

Tonight I stepped outside my apartment's shelter and put myself at the mercy of the sky. Droplets hit me like soft bullets that gently exploded on my skin. I was soaked but intact. So is that rainy day, from drenched clothes to God painting.

I hope we always remember when it rained.

How to Mutate a Quesadilla

Some people burn water. Brandon mutates quesadillas. Last night he created a Frankenstein of foods: the pizzadilla.

It wasn't supposed to turn out like this. We were hungry and I wanted a quesadilla. His epiphany came as we went by the canned pasta: put Spaghettios and eggs in it. Sleep depravation made this sound like an interesting experiment at the time. He reassured me it would be the "best white-trash quesadilla ever."

I should've known how this would turn out when he started cooking.

"You don't fry a quesadilla," I said.

"Really?" he asked.

Seriously? I thought.

"No, you just warm up the tortilla, put cheese in it, close, and flip it."

"Well, I'm a yellow person making brown people food. I need guidance."

The "pizzadillas" came shortly after that. I took a bite. It was gooey. And cheesy. And simply flat-out weird. Confused is an understatement for my taste buds. They didn't know how to explain this to my brain.

"You like it?"

This is Brandon's equivalent to "Does this make me look fat?" "It's interesting" was the best I could muster.

"You didn't like it."

I didn't say anything.

"You may insult me, and you may insult my cooking, but you CANNOT insult Billy Ray Cyrus' favourite meal!"

I don't think Billy Ray Cyrus would eat this.

The Hand Bit Me

Since May I've been waking up more frequently than not because of numb hands. Lately I'm afraid of falling asleep. Sunday I woke early to severe numbness on my left hand; last night I woke up at 2 a.m. and couldn't go back to sleep. My fingers tingled, felt swollen and ready to burst; I couldn't move them and tried shoulder rolls, an arm massage, a cold press, a hot shower, and laying on the floor to relax my muscles. Eventually they gave up and let me function normally in time for work at 6:15 a.m.

I'm afraid I'm getting carpal tunnel syndrome. Years ago my mom had surgery on both hands. We basically did everything for her that summer. The surgery was successful, her hands are pretty functional, but she still cannot put much pressure on them. E.g. push-ups are out of the question.

I think the culprit is a knot that frequents my back's left side. Pinched nerves can cause what I'm going through. If so I'll take the those over CTS, thank you.

As of now holding up the phone or driving become painful as minutes pass. Meds are not go-to solutions in my mind but I've been taking some Tylenol. Weight loss, back-strengthening exercises, yoga, better posture, and a chiropractor should help.

I struggle to consider myself a true one, but as an artist I can't lose my hands. OK, nobody wants to do that, but we definitely take for granted everything we do with them. What makes me a little more sad is the fact that I was gearing up to pick up my pastels and inks again.