Writing a book.

For the past several years, I have been slowly working on a book. Slowly is an understatement. This book might never be finished. But it is a part of me in a way that I cannot quite express, and therein lies the purpose of the thing. I write because it is who I am, and the book is my way of trying to figure out who I am. It's a weird circular thing.

Seeing myself is difficult, like running-an-ultramarathon-in-the-desert-difficult. I've spent most of my life seeing myself the way other people have described me: melodramatic, annoying, crazy, ugly. To challenge those messages, some of them a lifetime old, is a daily struggle, a work in the deepest primitive part of my brain. So to reach inside that part takes a different kind of energy than the day-to-day walking-around kind of energy.

Anyhow, the book is about my family and the reasons I am the way I am. But it'll probably take me the rest of my life to make something I'm really proud of. So in the meantime, it will be something, a hope, that sustains me.

Peace.

Thrift Share Monday :)

Vintage health, fitness, and nutrition book for teens

I went out of town today, forty-five minutes in fact, and even though I went to a town far from home, I saw thrift store employees I know. How funny is that? They were of course surprised to see me as well, and we shared some awkward moments.

A little while later, I traveled downtown to the nicer "boutiquey" thrift store, which is always very clean and high priced. I thought I might find some work clothes. They were having a "25% off" sale on some items, and a woman came to the counter to ask the volunteers how much she would pay for an item that was $10. It took them five minutes, they couldn't figure it out, and gave up. I kid you not. I ended up explaining it to them, and they replied, "Oh, math was my worst subject." I wanted to claw my own eyes out.

Vintage book for kids about the human body - fun times :)

I ended up bringing six items into the dressing room, four tops and two dresses. Everything looked huge and made me look like a weird angular mannequin. The last thing I tried on was a vintage wool Pendleton shift. It made me look like a bad Mad Men knock-off. I know that everyone feels this way sometimes, but I'm having a hard time with my body right now, and feeling freakish.

Linking up with Apron Thrift Girl :)

Science Fiction.

When I was a kid, I loathed science fiction, didn't get it, thought it was dumb, etc. It just didn't interest me, and I couldn't understand how or why it interested other people. It scared me, to see aliens in movies (Signs scared the crap out of me; Star Wars was just a fad I had to be a part of). I also happen to love reality television, the delicious ridiculousness of it, the psychological assessments I get to do on the fly. The real vs. the unreal; this is my battle.

Flash forward a few years, and suddenly I'm super into The X Files. I think I even watched Zombieland recently with my teenage pals. I'm becoming more open to the unreal, to the imaginative part of life, and I think it's a good thing. I need more fantasy in my life to balance out the harsh realities I see every day. I need things to take my mind completely away from the day-to-day. I'm even reading Michael Crichton. Good stuff.

I'm avoiding life at the moment, making excuses, ignoring phone calls, hoping that nothing is waiting for me around the corner, hoping no one else will die or get some horrible disease. I just don't know if I can do this whole "getting older" thing. Because the older I get, the more people I love, and then people die. They get cancer. They get old. They get suicidal. It happens.

But I'm tired of it happening, and I'm just done for right now. So yeah, I'm not my most exuberant self, but I'm alive, and I don't have a brain tumor or epilepsy, so I'm trying to find some goodness in that. But otherwise, I'm wishing that I hadn't chosen to let myself love people so long ago, because it hurts to lose them.

So I go thrifting every day. And make apple muffins for breakfast, and hope that life will smooth itself out, because it usually does.

Peace out :)

The Hunger Games :)

Why do we want to stop it? I have no idea.

I saw The Hunger Games movie with some friends this summer, and my mind was blown. But of course, as is typically the case, I waited a long time to read the books, mostly because I was so traumatized by the movie. So I had the first book in a pile in my room for six months before I picked it up. Winter break was the perfect time to find motivation to read.

And as is usually the case with these sorts of fads, I ignored them in my "I'm too cool to do what other people do" way, then subsequently loved the entire trilogy. I started aching at the last hundred pages of the first book, knowing that it would be ending soon, and that I didn't have the second one. I ended up reading the second and third books online, which I chose to have no guilt over, considering I could have gotten them from the library.

They were beautiful, and worth every moment I spent reading them. I will probably go back and read them again sometime soon - I loved them that much. It made me feel like a kid again, to get so into a book, so committed to the story. It made me feel like I was carefree and ten years old again, spending days at a time reading, losing sleep, not wanting to stop.

I felt the same way about The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. If anyone wants to share another trilogy, or series, that you think I'd love, feel free to send suggestions :)

How babies are made

Ooo. I do want to know where babies are made. Vintage sex book? Yes please!

Fairly innocuous beginning. Talk about eggs. Good times.

We move to fertilization with an example of a flower. Lovely :)

Holy fuck! I was reading this to my child! Close your eyes, honey.

Oh dear lord. It continues. There is no end to this torture.

Ok, phew. You've redeemed yourself, somewhat, Time-Life Books.

I got into the "Express Lane" today (five items or less), basket in hand on the floor, slowly nudged forward with my foot, enjoying the scenery, happily looking forward to sharing this book with all y'all, when I saw a woman with a fake baby. It was one of those crazy reborn dolls where they're supposed to look lifelike, and then people treat them like they're real. The woman is standing beside the stroller, slowly stroking the hand of the doll, discussing the difficulty she has in finding appropriately-sized clothing, and how she came up with the doll's name. The baby was ugly. This cannot be overstated.

The only time I see people with these dolls is in thrift stores. While in line, I tried to figure out why this is, and decided that thrift stores are the hub for all crazy people (including me), and thus cannot help but attract women with fake babies, showing off said babies to the other crazy people. I began to feel more uncertain of my own identity...

All is well :)

'angsty' is a fun word :)

These surprisingly sold in a few days from my Etsy shop, which rarely happens.

The last few days have been amazing. Between reading, angsty puzzle-doing, and some painting, I've reached a really good place. I've figured out some things about my life, like long-term, super important kinds of things, and those things make me feel more at peace with who I am, blah blah blah.

I've decided that doing puzzles will be my new angsty project, instead of angsty poem-writing, since that pile just keeps getting bigger and only brings me more of the aforementioned angst and longing, etc. So now I'm going to do less meaningful things with my time, less emotional things, like puzzles, and reality television, and responding to angry emails via eBay. I'll leave you with this amazement that awaited me this morning in my inbox, followed immediately (and happily) by my response.

Weird stranger: Hi, Just a suggestion! THIS PICTURE ON THE COFFEE MUG IS NOT OF A TURKISH CHARACTER, BUT GREEK!!! A little common knowledge of national costumes would reveal this fact!

Me: Hi. Just a suggestion. WRITING IN ALL CAPS MEANS YELLING. YELLING AT SOMEONE YOU DON'T KNOW IS RUDE. A little common knowledge would reveal this fact!

I did miss some exclamation points. Oops.

Books are awesome :)

These old mugs are super fun, not for any particularly funny reason though :)

So having school be the top priority in my life over the past five years, I have whittled my life down to the bare necessities: eating, yoga, occasional sunshine, writing, and paying the bills. These things have kept me sane in a very rocky, turmoil-filled time, and I made it! Yay! But now, all of that stress and constant need-to-perform is over, and I'm left with this emptiness in my life that I have to figure out how to fill.

It's not that my life is bad, or that I'm lacking in love or nurturing in some particular way, but some other inertia that I no longer have. I no longer have an ever-present goal I'm reaching for. And that creates a displaced feeling in my soul that I can't quite rid myself of.

So I've been reading The Hunger Games trilogy like a madwoman. I stayed up 'til midnight last night reading like my younger nine-year-old self. I'm funny that way with kid books. I do the same thing with Nancy Drew. When I lived in the jungle, I stayed up so late, I had to use a flashlight in bed to keep reading. Nerdin' out. Like a mofo.

My writing career

I just finished reading a memoir by Jennifer Lehr, Ill-equipped for a Life of Sex, and am stuck in a moment wondering if I'll ever have a book in me. I desperately want to write a memoir, but I don't know what I'd write about (i.e. which topic, among many, I would even choose), and I don't have the motivation to write one. I write a lot, but it's mostly just messy complaining combined with trying to figure out the crazy mixed-up mind that I have. There are no stories in me save the stories of my own life. There are no vibrant characters I'm longing to bring out, just me.

But where do I begin to tell stories that involve other people? Where do I begin to tell stories that are, and always will be, unfinished? And how do I do those things, and keep doing my job(s), and paying the bills which I always seem to be behind on? And who will read it?

Differentiate yourself.

I'm not exceptionally good at describing jewelry yet.

So I'm reading this book called Passionate Marriage, by David Schnarch. I guess you could say that it's a book about sex, but it's not really. It's more a book about how sex reflects our intimate relationships in both positive and negative ways. I've pretty much decided that I'm going to give it to people as a wedding gift, maybe two copies, because the book is all about differentiation, and how we can have better relationships when we don't expect the other person to define us or affirm our worth.

In most of my relationships, I don't need other people to give me worth. That's not a hard thing for me. Maybe at one time it was, but now not so much. However, that is not the case in my closest relationships. I have so much trouble saying, "This is where I end and you begin...This is you...This is me." I take on people's problems because I "love" them, but when I do that, it communicates that I don't think that they can handle their own problems, that they need me to function properly, and that's exactly what I do not wish to communicate.

Truly intimate relationships are difficult to navigate. They take constant work, and pain. Sometimes there are easier times than others, or else we wouldn't be able to cope, and we certainly wouldn't stay together. But if being human is hard, in and of itself, then being human with another human has to be exponentially difficult.

So to all y'all out there in long-term partnerships, more power to ya :) You are each a testament to the possibility of love to triumph.

Grad Plans #2

I am having so much anxiety about the overarching theme of graduation. Sure, the ceremony will be great, and the banquet, and the time with family and friends. But this burning in my chest is more than indigestion; it's total fear.

People in my cohort have jobs. People in my cohort are going to get paid, and soon. And I am going to continue to do the things I've been doing all along, because change would be too much for me. Is that sad? Pathetic? I'm not sure that it isn't. There are student loans to pay, and health insurance options to find. And somehow I'm stuck. My brain is stuck. I can't move. I've panicked into stillness.

The beginning of this year, for various reasons (i.e. moving), was horrific. So I'm gradually shifting into the next phase, and that has to be okay for me. I have to accept myself and all of my limitations. I have to accept that I need time and space, and piles of books from the library to ease the transition. I need to order my Slovenia: 1945 book and start to dream again about writing. I need space to move around in. I need rest, and silence, and lots and lots of hugs.

And then, eventually, when I least expect it, I can move on.

"The Hunger Games"

 

In an attempt to avoid spending the evening staring at my bedroom ceiling, I went to see The Hunger Games with my friend and her eldest son.

I haven't read the books, for a couple reasons. The first time I heard about the series, and asked about the premise, I was horrified. Later, I spoke about the books with a different friend, and discovered the philosophical nature of the series. Sufficiently impressed, I decided to read the books over the summer during my decadent book-reading marathon which will commence soon after graduation (Obviously only after I've sobered up and begun sleeping in my own bed again--Ha! As if).

The movie was wonderful, and powerful, and disturbing. The crowd was awful, and horrible, and emotionally disabled. They laughed when they should have cried. I wept all the way home. I wept for our world, where violence is normal, and a brilliant concept like Hunger Games is misunderstood by the masses as some kind of thriller series.

I am saddened by the state of our world, where a film whose cinematography gave me a migraine could draw such delighted crowds, and so many mothers with children. I feel like I should take off all my clothes, cover myself in ashes, and shave my head. I feel like nothing I ever do is sufficient. There will never be enough. The beast of greed is insatiable.

Obsessive behaviors

A friend of mine wrote her dissertation on Grace Livingston Hill.

It's been so long, but I'm back to Arrested Development. It's ridiculous the amount of television I consume. I think it confirms my status as a child of the 80s, or something like that. I definitely didn't watch a lot of TV when I was a kid. I was an obsessive reader. I loved anything serialized, because the story never ended. But television was out as an activity because it required me to be with other people.

I read the following series voraciously:

1. Anne of Green Gables (AS + GB = True Love)
2. The Boxcar Children (Um, making a boxcar into a home? Dream come true!)
3. Nancy Drew (Endless thrills down my spine)
4. Mandie (Christian series: Unloved orphan + endless mysteries = Awesomeness)
5. Babysitters' Club (Ah, the dream of being a "grown-up")
6. Babysitter's Little Sister (The step up system to addiction)
7. Laura Ingalls Wilder (Farmer Boy was always my favorite because of the food descriptions)

It's difficult for me to think about kids not having access to books the way I did. I always had books. Always. Books saved me. They kept me disassociated enough from life that I stayed somewhat sane. I read for the whole bus ride to school and back home (or snuck my cross-stitch on the bus until my illicit activity was discovered). I feel like this list doesn't adequately reflect the number of books I read, but this is all I can come up with off the top of my head.

Sometimes you're not enough

I just turned in a course reading log; it was terrible and I am ashamed of it.

The log was just supposed to be an honest representation of what was actually read. So I was honest, and it wasn't pretty. This class is at the bottom of my priority list, not because it isn't important, but because it isn't as important as my physical health, my emotional health, the quality of my work, paying my bills, making sure I have all of my medication, making sure I have enough food to eat, getting sufficient exercise, or getting sufficient rest and sleep.

Honestly, this semester, the quality of my school work has plummeted, and at the same time, I have become more dedicated to its completion. Let me explain: When I had the time to do my work, the reasonable daylight time, I did it, and I did it well. Now, I do not have that time. What I do have are middle-of-the-night insomnia, Saturday evenings after 9pm, and Sunday afternoons when I should be resting. This is when I do my schoolwork. So no, I am not a slacker. I am poor and I have an autoimmune disease. The things I do to manage those two tiny pieces of my life are all-consuming, in addition to my work, which takes up most of my time, and gives me no money, whatsoever.

So yeah, I turned in an assignment that I am ashamed of. I am ashamed that I am imperfect. I am ashamed that I am limited. But those things are true for everyone; they are true for you. We are human, and that's all we have. We can't be everything to everyone, or do everything for everyone. We will disappoint people we love, and we will disappoint people we do not love.

I have harbored anxiety about this assignment, not because I cared about the assignment so much as cared about what the teacher would think of my less-than-perfect performance. So today, instead of spending what should be my day of rest on something inherently non-restful, I chose to let go of the shame.

How did I get so tired?

I gave everything I had today. I don't think I knew that I was doing it when it was happening, but as I wandered the aisles of the rescue mission thrift store after work, losing more and more blood sugar as the minutes went by, and slowly losing the ability to focus on anything, it struck me that I was not doing well.

I casually picked up items I wanted to purchase, only to quickly tire of carrying them and set them down. Without a thought in my head, I went through books and made stacks of teen series: Sweet Valley High, Babysitter's Club, Goosebumps. I put on a cardigan and wandered aimlessly around the warehouse-sized store looking for a mirror. There were shoulder pads in the sweater. It did not look good (I am having so much trouble with loose clothing lately. Blerg.).

It struck me that if I could do research in the store (i.e. with a smart phone), my life would be so much easier. But that would entail me purchasing a new phone, which I have never done, so it feels like a decadent expense. Also, between my savings and checking accounts, I have $30, and my car doors need to be fixed before it starts to get cold (and rainy). So I'm looking around at phones. It would be an investment, after all, so I don't feel like it would be a sin or anything, but of course, the absence of funding makes it impossible at the moment.

So, you of course are welcome to donate to the cause, though there are far worthier causes to donate to. I have quite a lot of trouble getting people to give me money, in fact. There is a certain person in my life (who shall remain nameless for my sake, not theirs) who, every time I complain about money, tells me I would be an excellent sex worker. This same person also promises to find me a man, but conveniently is always too busy trying to time travel when the need arises (you know who you are).

The depth of death

So, for probably the first time in my life, I went to an estate sale on a Friday morning, at 8am. Yup. I'm that awesome. There were already people leaving. Meh. Whatever.

The house smelled like urine. It was awful. I seriously thought, "How long was this person dead before they found her?" Then, to top it off, the people running the sale happened to be professionals and relatives, so I got to talking with one of the women about the deceased. She was 97, single all her life. Once, she traveled around the world in 69 days. She loved life. This I learned while going through her books on her living room floor, wonderful art, architecture, and bird books, and of course the full Left Behind series.

I started to think about how my life would look to those closest to me if they went through my belongings right now, like if I died today, and people had to figure out what to do with my stuff. I know I'm a really honest person, but I wouldn't want just anyone going through my things. It's so personal, even if there aren't necessarily things that I want hidden. I still want the deepest parts of myself to only be known by a couple people. I still want to have special intimate relationships where the other person knows me better than anyone else does. I think I sometimes come across as someone who will tell anyone anything, but that isn't true. I think it just looks like that because I'm a complex person. There's a lot to me, so there's a lot of surface material to work with. But there's a whole hell of a lot underneath that I don't bring out every day.

I hope you know that. Because I want people to see me as an open, honest person. But I also want people to see me as I am, as imperfect, flawed, and human.

And again, I fantasized today about having my own estate sale business. Ah, a beautiful thought.

Selling Books-Bleh.

I interrupt my commie love series to bring you back to our regularly scheduled programing: recycling. I started selling used books a few years back. I did really well for a long time before I got one bad feedback and it's been slow ever since. I'm waiting out the year until my feedback score goes back up, and in the meantime, my pile of books maybe decreases by three a month. Bleh.

So this morning, I am doing something I dread, absolutely dread. I am taking photos of art books and listing them on eBay. This really is the best option I've seen to sell books with photographs inside, but it's enormously time consuming. I actually redonated a bunch of TimeLife books while I was moving because I was sick of looking at them and I knew it would be a long time before I could exert the necessary effort to sell them.

I feel almost the same way about clothing. It's bulky to store and much harder to photograph. That's why I sell shoes. They are quick to photograph, and easy to photograph well. Texture with clothing is so difficult. Occasionally I'll find something I can't pass up, but then that ends up sitting in my armoire that I'm now using for storage, and I get to it eventually, whatever that means.