Holding the line.

I'm exhausted, should be sleeping, but I'm furious. So I'm writing. Furious at the choices life leaves us and furious at how much tougher it becomes to know or feel the right choice the harder, the longer, the more ferociously and loyally we love. I've talked and written much over the past two years and some about my growing pains, decisions, strengths and failures. Examined openly and privately my motives and questioned myself and my behaviors in this growth. Taking the lessons I could from all of these experiences.
 The single most helpful thing I learned in earning my mostly useless Associates degree was to ask myself, What's that about". Whether pertaining to myself, someone I know or even a stranger on the street. What's that about? Be it a feeling, emotion, thought or behavior, what is it all about, why am I judging, defending, hurting, caring, laughing, smiling, what's driving my reaction,or lack of one to any given event, person or thing. The statement has effectively changed my perception for the better and was worth every penny spent on all that fancy book learnin!

As a kid I stole, I'm not proud of it but the shit happened. My favorite thing to steal was brownie mix. Like a true fat kid lovin cake and all things cake-like I would  hide out under the bed or in a closet and eat the fuck out of that shit. Sometimes the whole box sometimes just a little. I ate it dusty and dry, or added water and once or twice when there was a spare egg I would mix it all up and it that way too. One particularly unforgettable afternoon my mother went to make brownies only to find that some run by psycho brownie mix thief had thieved half a box of brownie mix. So, my Mothadear in a rare yet justifiable fit of what I can only describe as rage and exasperation, interrogated and promptly chased my lying ass around the house from the kitchen, up the stairs (on which she nearly got me), to the bedroom I shared with my sister where I narrowly and briefly escaped, only to come full circle and be caught in the kitchen. On my hands and knees I pleaded with her through tears and snots, not to kill me, (whether aloud or silently I can't recall). My mother, mommy dearest, Mothadear herself, proceeded to beat me about the head and face with what remained of the aforementioned brownie mix. When the last of the mix had spilled out and the floor and I alike were covered, I was told to clean up the mess and I quote, with conviction, I quote, "This, NEVER, happened!"

This never happened. It's a statement, a declaration that haunted me well into my twenties. Before I began to ask, what's that about, before I made any conscious effort to grow the fuck up. This tiny statement held power, clinging to my psyche like a barnacle and driving me for a long time to question many of the things that have actually happened in my life. Forcing me to store carefully and exactly all those, You can't make this shit up moments that for many go from memory to tall tale ever so quickly. This single experience shaped and implanted a part of me that will always doubt my own memories no matter how clear and confident of them I may be. She said it never happened. But it did. Denied it for years, would probably still deny it if you asked her today. I used to bring it up around friends and family, she would laugh, tell them it never happened, convince them I'd made it up by passing it off. It did happen though, I was there, I knew it was real, factual and true. Then FINALLY at some holiday or family event later in my twenties, after I'd once again told this story and she'd once more denied it and everyone had just about cleared the room she leaned in, this maniacal mother of mine, and quietly confirmed what I knew yet still doubted was, indeed true. Mothadear admitted that she had in fact beaten me about the head and face with half a bag of fuckin brownie mix.

For over ten years I'd been made to question my own memory. Even now as I write this I think wow my mom was kind of a dick. At the same time I appreciate the lessons she taught in this among other things. It taught me what it felt like to to tell the truth and go unheard, to hold my ground on the important stuff, the stuff that really mattered such as the truth. I was no angel, I was a lying liar from Liarsville until a particularly altering relationship at 18 taught me the value and sometime necessity of a lie as a survival mechanism rather than a way of life. The brownie mix incident also taught me slowly over time that I despise and detest being lied to. I'm not talking white lies people tell to get out of helping you move. I'm talking the big whoppers, the manufactured kind of webs people weave for sympathy, jealousy, pure fucking stupidity. Sometimes loosely based on facts but lies nonetheless. These are the ones that burn me to my center, they hurt me the most because I was there and know it didn't quite happen that way or because somewhere inside I see through the bullshit I'm being fed. It hurts when people take you for an idiot. Misuse your trust and faith in them and even worse than that keep it going until caught. I hate being cheated, manipulated, or played for a fool to me they're all unnecessary risks of friendships, support systems and pieces of my life I value.

I have this terrible grey area though, and I'm not much for grey on such things hence it being kind of terrible for me. The grey area lays between the place where I see a person for what they are and love them anyways, want them in my life flaws, warts,  lies and all. That's where the hard choices come in. Thats where its been getting tougher. Some of these people I keep in my life lie to themselves more than they're lying to me, convince themselves of their false truths, but aren't fooling me. Does that forgive the toxicity or offensiveness of behaviors like lying for two years about some pretty heavy shit out of jealousy, all the while proclaiming "I just wanted to protect you." Does it excuse revisionist history about saving my ass from an extremely unhealthy relationship which makes you the hero and me some victim? Does my knowledge of the facts as well as the flaws of these people I continue to keep in my life, whose offenses seem, so minor in comparison to the their champion moments and positive contributions to a life filled with amazing highs yet also intense lows that they stood by for in what ways they were capable of, change the amount of chances they get to essentially break my heart? Like a video game where you earn extra points just by bein there for the tough times. Is my loyalty, friendship AND presence in these lives as they are in mine worth wondering when the next time I hurt will be?
 Also, what in the fuck is this need to keep these people all about? Yep, I'm finally bringin it back around, bringin it to a close. See, the fatty in the closet, under the bed, that bitch mostly died a long time ago but she left a thing or two. That girl had one booger flickin friend, we were weird lonely kids with parents who were too poor or cheap to buy us new uniforms or normal kid clothes, eventually that girl had two friends and at some point they multiplied and so forth. Recently, these past few years the friend pool may have downsized but the people with the deepest roots in my heart are the ones who accepted me for all my weird, mostly right out of the gate and didn't disappear when shit got hard. Friendship, like life is one hard badass bitch. I don't believe in giving up on people you love unless you really fucking have to, but every time one of those original weirdos sticks a little jab in there I question, What's it about? I wonder, can this person love,  accept and appreciate how far I've come and want to go from that lonely lying liar from Liarsville eating her mothers brownie mix and her feelings, under the bed? I wonder do they see the person I'm capable of being or just the person I was or even worse the person they want me to be. I question it all because I think it's rare that we ever really look outside our own realities. My mother inadvertently trained me to question my own reality in addition to others, my father taught me to see what and who people really are and accept them anyways, keep them anyways, be good to them, find the good in them anyways.


** Sidebar/ Disclaimer: Aside from this incident I don't recall my mother ever hitting me while she did make us drink soap, the liquid dishsoap, a few times, I am certain I mostly, always, deserved that shit...

You're Fucking Amazing. Thank you.

Over this past weekend I had an opportunity to see two women I respect immensely, rock out.  One fronting an extremely metal and amazing band and another thoroughly celebrating another year of living.Both of these women inspire me daily, that's right. Daily. They're not the only ones, but that's what brought on my deep thoughts on the topic and moved my lazy ass to write for this silly blog again. Don't get me wrong, I've been writing, just not on here. This seemed worth sharing though, at least to me. It dawned on me that as we grow older and apart, or even just grow really. People come in and out of our day to day or week to week lives but those who inspire us, help us, relate to us and generally give enough of a fuck about us to care even on the most basic of levels, those people are always with us. I guess there's a sliver of possibility that I'm the only one who feels this way, buuuuut I doubt it. (Anyone who reads post secret has a clue what I'm talking about in that sense.)
I wish people expressed what they mean to each other more freely, more often and perhaps a little more clearly. I wish also that all the people I love even just a little could be in one place all at the same time ever again in my lifetime. One of these is impossible, the other, get it together people.

I've worked hard and harder to reach further for the things in my life that matter. I fuck up plenty, even real stupid shit like how money really works and washing clothes, I struggle to accept the idea that to make anything of myself I should probably focus on one thing at a time. So I focus on what I'm going to do with my life.~ Aside from ROCK!...I battle with the job I hate to buy shit I don't need and the cushion to fall on if it all goes to shit. I dream, and I hope and I struggle to figure out how I'm going to afford my rock and roll lifestyle, you know, that life where work is passion and passion pays. How does anyone get through to the parts of life that really matter? How does anyone break out of the box and into the pursuance of happiness, passion, living? Not living breathing, but living just out there hustling the world and enjoying that shit for real and pure, enjoying it. How do people get there. How do we find and contribute and survive for and on whatever it is we're passionate about.

Do you call it a hobby,tell yourself "eh, someday" or daydream about it at work, on the ride home or once in a while when a famous celebrity dies? Do you drown in it, or worse yet drown yourself in booze and hookers - both cheap cause you're broke... Do you tell yourself you can't? That there's no way you could possibly, just no way, to do whatever it is that would make you, yea you, feel good about the mark you leave on the world. Or convince yourself that whatever you get paid for IS what you're passionate about. Do you sometimes, maybe in the corner, at a party facing the wall, when no one is looking shed a single tear drop over all the shit you never did. Yea me either... Seriously, though I've done some of this shit, well, never and some of it all the fucking time. Maybe my insecurities and fears of failure are all on point, possibly I am meant to work at a desk and listen to first world problems all day every day. Could be, I'm built for that shit and am simply denying my full potential as a customer service representative with every artsy-craftsy, wordsmithy thing I do. Maybe I'm not. Perhaps my fears are unfounded and wrong.
What if I am wrong? What if the books I want to write and the movie I want to build from that one book that changed my entire life that time, and the adventure with Khloe "Brickhouse" Kardashian (like a week, just hangin out like we were friends, no big deal.Cause that shits on my internal bucketlist and I think she'd be so much fun!) or A movie night with Mr. Tarantino, followed by a brief discussion of his favorite scene in Blues Brothers or even that drag club with full health benefits for employees that I always dreamed of opening, what if all of it can actually, factually, happen. Not some, all. What if it can. I can. What if we all can.

That's the hope. The dream. The reason for living. That's the reason all of these people I've collected in my heart over the years and along the way, the ones I know but rarely see or barely know but still see, ones I love but mostly never say it, (cause, who does that?), matter, mean so much and inspire me so VERY, much. They live out their dreams in whatever ways they can. They say fuck it with their yes I can and yes I will attitudes about the things that mean something to them. The epic battles the demons and bullshit they overcome to be A rockstar, A Tattoo artist, an artist at all, A Nurse, A poet, La Profesora (I failed Spanish 9 times, you get it), A Father, A Mother, A Fireman, An Audio master (Cuz, I don't know the official title for either of those two dudes and that seemed epic enough),A helicopter pilot, A writer, or even just happy. Those are all very real people who I am ever so proud to have known or know in my life. All of them and many more Inspire me daily. To be better, to be who ever it is I want to be rather than who the world wants me to be. I'm grateful for the support, encouragement, and hope they and their lives give my broke winged dreams and the motivation they give me to grow. I'm thankful for these very real people and their exceptionally rare ability to evoke change and emotion and provide proof that people can, in fact, accomplish dreams and surpass expectation. I am awkwardly, proud of these people. Some, I don't necessarily know at all anymore others are day to day, week to week or phone call to phone call, but each of them touched my life in someway when I needed more sparkle and shine, more move and groove. Each of these magical yet ordinary people have given me an extremely extraordinary outlook on not so much living but life.Living, getting by, that's what I'm doing now, surviving, learning, gettin it together. I'll be doing that shit, forever. Life? Life is green grass between your toes, love, laughter of, friends, children and family. Life is about passion too though.


More than anything I am inspired and amazed by those who find a way, a will, the time, to pursue the things they are passionate about. To live the life they ~survived~ so long to enjoy. To have little people, fans, followers, friends, readers, patients, whatever you call a person rescued by another person, students, random strangers on the interwebs, and me, all looking up to you must be pretty cool. Though, I wonder, do any of these people even know what they're worth, to each other, to those of us who haven't quite gotten there, to the world of people like me who rarely barely see or speak to them. Do they know how absolutely fucking amazing they are? I think, "How could they not?", they're fucking amazing. Then I think, what if, yep, back to the what if, what if they didn't. Well, why don't they? What kind of horseshit must that be I mean surely some of them must know they're awesome. Perhaps they are simply too humble to bust through our doors parading their amazing inspirationally awesome selves around but they know. They know.

Or do they? Would it be so strange if people just told each other the good shit like, "oh hey, by the way, you make me want to live my dreams" Or Your art, your words, your voice, your zest for life, your smile, "Light up my whole fucking world, or maybe puts a sparkle on my sparkle, or just gets me through the day." What if people said thank you to one another for the shit that really matters, the real life movin and groovin, important shit like hope and dreams and the beauty and value of life's finer moments. Imagine how much the world can change if we just taught ourselves to say thank you instead of just think it. Thank you for all the little things that matter and all the even littler shit in between. Thanks for bein a friend or just bein there, but what if we just started saying thank you. Preposterous! I know. What if it's not though. What if we start the conversation and tell people the good shit. What if everyone tried it? I'd hypothesize that a lot more people would feel good like they should (NOW,obligatory 7 a.m. James Brown reference, don't mind if i do...).  They would know that they matter very much to someone, perhaps more than a few someones, a little to others and maybe not so much to a lot in the grand scheme of things but I can't imagine a person existing that doesn't inspire some one some how and matter to them. Not in a world where serial killers and rapists can marry people from inside prison, I mean if someone cares about those folks, then some one cares about everyone. Most people mean a lot to me, some more than they should and others mean a little, but none less than they should. Still I find myself wondering how uplifting and majestic would it, could it be, this world we live in if we took the time to acknowledge the best in eachother, even just once, in a blue moon.