All the Best Cowboys Have Daddy Issues

Few things can entrance and enrapture me like a good story. Whether it be told through film, on pages, or in the lyrics of a song, I believe stories are the most powerful gifts we as human being possess. What I love most about a story is the arc that the character has to go through. It's not a straight line to the end. There are ups and downs along the way the prevent or stall the character from his or her goal. Any basic scriptwriting class will teach you that this element, a character not being able to achieve a goal, at least for a certain period of time, is the key to writing a successful screenplay. This dynamic of the story is what keeps us tuning in to our favorite television show or sitting on the edge of our seat during a movie. In a very poetic and cliche way, I like to view the course of my life as a story. New years and seasons as chapters, people as characters. I want my life to be a good story, one that I can reflect on fondly and that will be retold when I am gone. But every good story must have its ups and downs. So why am I always surprised when my idyllic plateau falls into some deep valley? That's the way of it, I shouldn't be so taken back. But I am. I think I'm just now accepting that this is the way of my story, of any story. It's funny too how quickly the ups are met with their decent. How a single email can ruin an otherwise lovely day. How you can meet a person and feel all kinds of excitement and emotion, and a few weeks later feel alone and confused. Up. Down. But what I am also learning is that sometimes the most beautiful moments in a movie or a book are those low points for the character. That's where the transformation takes place, or the lesson is learned, or the due is paid. This week I received a letter from someone who was part of my deepest descent, and I realized that even from that blackest of darkness, light can be found and beauty can come from the mire. Luckily there is no plateau, lest we ever be caught in a constant down. And at the end of even the longest valley road, there is another peak to climb. Such is any good story. So will be my story I suppose.

Confessions of an Introvert

I feel that there is an entire group of people who must think I am incapable of speech. It's a strange feeling, the desire to speak is as strong as the physical need to remain silent. Somewhere along the way, I assumed my childish tendency to retreat into silence would dissipate and a confident, witty storyteller would emerge. Like a bright, colorful chrysalis in an Eric Carle book. Instead I find I am at war with myself. A war of words.

Time Stands Still

There are days I wish time would stand still

So I could stand in one place all day long, all eternity long

So I could breathe in the sunshine

So I could hear them playing in the yard

So I could feel the breeze blowing in across the fields

Alas, these photographs are all I have.

Let's Get Fucked Up and Live

The other day, a friend of mine sent me a song by Motion City Soundtrack called "Let's Get Fucked Up and Die." He told me this song basically summed up his existence. I listened to the song over and over and poured over the lyrics until my heart couldn't take it anymore. How could I tell him that life doesn't have to be this way? That "fucking up" doesn't mean you have to die. I was so angry and hurt for my friend that he wasn't more angry and hurt himself for living that way. I couldn't take this being the only option: to get fucked up and die. So here is my response. Watch the original song. Read my poem. You can get fucked up and live.




Let's Get Fucked Up and Live

“Let’s get fucked up and die.”
The cry of my generation.
“Let’s get fucked up and die.” Because what do we have to live for really?
We live for parents, and teachers, and tests.
We live for ACTs, and SATs, and DDs on the weekends.
We live with ADD, and ADHD, and labels that we take to heart.
I am what you define me as.
I am inadequate, unmotivated, a slave to my emotions and immaturity.

“Let’s get fucked up and die.” Because we can’t get fucked up and live.
Can we?
We are the generation of Experiencers. We can’t be persuaded until we’ve pursued.
We can be told until we’ve tried.
We are the culmination of our experiences.
And when we find ourselves failing, falling, and fucking up,
Well it’s easiest just to die.

We can’t get fucked up and live, because then we might be expected to learn from our mistakes.
To live would mean we’d have to move on. To fuck up again.
And really, how much can one person take?
How much can one person change?
“I’m about to explode.
I’m a mess, I’m a wreck.”
Will you be the one to pick up my pieces?
Like the egg on a wall, will you be there after I fall?

Or will you point and say, “It’s what we expected.”
I will not point. I will not let you lay shattered on the ground.
I will not define or label you.
I believe you can change.
I believe you can fuck up and live.
That our fuck ups are hiccups, and back-ups, and turns in the road.
But they aren’t a dead end.
You don’t have to die.

I believe you can overcome this and beat everything in the end.
You have to stop choosing the abuse, the self-hate, the parent-hate, the God-hate, the everyone in the world wants me to fail so FUCK YOU I WILL!-hate.
You can win. If you decide not to die.

True Joy in Life

“This is the true joy in life - being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; being a force of nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.” - George Bernard Shaw

I find this an to be an interesting thought: true joy in life coming from being used up in a purpose you find meaningful. Too often, I think my generation believes happiness is found in the absence of work. Isn't that the goal of retirement? Isn't that why we kill ourselves when we are young, bemoaning the 8-hour (don't even get me started on overtime) work day and the (god-forbid) expectations and responsibilities placed upon us by our employers? In hopes that one day we can live the dream and not work? Now, I am not of the opinion that life should be all about work, that trivial things like family, rest, traveling, and fun should always take a back-burner to jobs and opportunities. I think there must be a balance to it all. But I also think that a lot of the people I have met who are my age, are genuinely disappointed that they are expected to work at their jobs. They expect the world to deliver happiness to their doorstep, without ever stepping out and getting their shoes dirty. I guess I just love the challenge to not become a "feverish selfish little clod," but to seek out my own happiness and to pursue those things that I deem mighty and purposeful. My happiness and my success are in my own hands. They can remain idle, or I can put them to work and make things happen.

I Believe in You, Tulsa

And so another season begins. All my boxes have been unpacked and suitcases stowed away. My room has been rearranged, and then re-rearranged. Things are starting to fall into place. I accepted a job at a production company in Tulsa couple of weeks ago. I must admit that although I blatantly, violently refused to even search for jobs in the state of Oklahoma at first, I have come to love my morning drives towards the downtown skyline. The commute usually affords me ample time to set the day's mood with the perfect music mix or a healthy dose of NPR. It's taken quite a bit of kicking and screaming but I have been persuaded to give Tulsa a chance. Having a job that I look forward to everyday and coworkers who are as brilliantly creative as they are kind, make it a bit easier. Not to mention having all of my friends within a 30-minute driving radius, instead of a 4-hour journey for coffee and gossip. Living here is growing on me. I like to describe Tulsa as an angsty teenager, who isn't really sure what she would like to be. She's tried sports for a while, but it never really caught on. She has a rich history of music, but sometimes I think she forgets her roots. Sometimes she's eco-friendly, sometimes she's eco-fallible (I must admit, that I happen to mimic her in this way. Ever hear of a reusable bag, Tulsa? I think as I stand in the Target line behind a woman with enough plastic bags to clog a small ocean. Damn, I left mine in my trunk! Oh well. And this is how it goes.). Tulsa is home to some pretty talented artists but like any moody teen, she does a good job of keeping her talent hidden from the world. Funny thing though, as I move back and begin to compare Tulsa to (what I consider) the awesomeness and adult-like self-confidence of Kansas City, I have started to hear other Tulsans echoing my sentiments. The potential of what Tulsa could be is here, she's just going to have to make up her mind as to what she wants to be. I believe in you, Tulsa. I think you can be something amazing. And since I'm committing to work and play and live in this city for a while, please do something.

Food Fight

The days you fight over deviled eggs, really aren't about deviled eggs.
They are about uncertainty.
They are about feeling insecure and like you are not in control.
It's about pent up hurts and bruised egos.
It most definitely is not about deviled eggs.