After 32 years I am finally experiencing what so many others have had to go through earlier in life, the loss of a friend. The loss of anyone, really. I've never been close enough with someone who has died to have it really take it's effect on me until now. Death has been this abstract notion, this feeling of "oh well, it was their time" or "it's an unfortunate part of life", but now that the feeling is so close to home I'm overwhelmed with emotions. And not even really for myself, for my loss specifically, but for the loss of those who were really actually very close to Candice; for her husband and daughter, her parents and sister and the rest of her close friends and family, it is for those who I am so saddened for, who I'm angry for, who I feel have been so hugely wronged. I almost even feel guilty for feeling so emotional about her death because we did not remain close friends and I don't feel like I should be taking up so much pain. But Candice was one of the very first people who I consciously decided I wanted to become my friend when we were 7 years old. We were in the first grade and for some reason I decided that I really wanted to be friends with the two girls who sat in front of me, Candice Crider and Ashley Anderson. So while coloring one day I broke my favorite red crayon so that I could ask to borrow the one they were sharing...luckily they said yes and we became the best of friends. Sleepovers, after school play sessions, trouble-making, we spent countless hours together. As we grew older we made new friends but never let go of the early friendship we had created. Candice is, was, and always will be one of the truly good people. The kind of person you only wish the best for. Her death is such a loss for us all.
I am desperately trying, and eventually will be able to get over the hurt and sadness and anger and let Candice's life be a reminder to not take life for granted. Life is hard and full of pain but it is too short to not focus on the good aspects of it, the things we do have, the good people in our lives, the things we have worked so hard for that have paid off, and keep in our hearts the people we have lost who will never be forgotten.
Farewell, Candice. May whatever lies ahead be exactly as you had hoped.
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
I Am Never Alone
Feeling the weighted effects of a heat wave and watching "Parts Unknown" featuring Anthony Bourdain traveling the world to places I have never heard of or could find on a map, eating food that looks exactly like what I want to shove in my mouth for breakfast, lunch, dinner...snacks...whenever...I am restlessly thinking about all of the creative things I could be doing. I should be working on the painting I started 6 months ago that I am still very much interested in finishing. I should be writing in the journal which is collecting dust and is more of an old relic than a journal considering the neglect and underuse it suffers. I could be designing cakes or writing a business plan or thinking about my business in productive ways instead of just panicking about what I'm not doing or thinking or planning or designing. I think about how old Anthony Bourdain looks and realize that I will also look very old some day, but today is not that day, and then I realize that I'm 31, and I am not 20 and I am not that young anymore...but I am so much less of an asshole than I was when I was 20 and for that I am thankful.
Then I realize that I am not doing any of these things because I am relishing my time spent alone, doing nothing but watching something that I love to feast my eyes and my brain upon, and thinking. Perhaps a few hours, every two weeks, I get time away from my beloved husband...and during that time I am usually with Dexter, who while not acting like a lump on the floor is begging me to tend to his needs...whether it be rolling his ball across the floor for him to fetch and refuse to give up for me to roll again until I give up and relocate and then he pushes his ball off of his bed across the floor and under the couch, where he then lays on his side and scratches at the leather couch until I get up and get his ball for him....repeat. His needs are few. But still, I relish my time spent not tending to them.
How many hours are there in a year? Subtract 2 of them and whatever that number is, there is no one I would rather spend them with than Jesse. But still, those few hours I get to myself are few and far between and when I have them, only then do I realize how sparse and cherished they are. I used to spend so much time by myself, before I was really an adult with obligations and a partner in life, and I would write and draw and paint and CREATE! Oh how I would CREATE! And it was all shit, all of it, but I loved every minute of it, every juvenile, talentless minute of it, and I thought it was so important. The problem with being an artist is that no matter what you are doing, you think it matters. Guess what kids, it doesn't matter to nearly as many people as you think it does. But that doesn't matter, all that matters is that it is important to you. And now that I don't have time to do anything that I actually want to do....it is all the more important to me. To hear my own thoughts, even though I don't really like all of them, it is a thing of beauty to have thoughts that are not shared, that are not worth sharing, that if Jesse were here I would tell him about and he would either care or not care, and it doesn't even matter, because he will never hear these thoughts. Nor will he read them, because someone so close to you does not need to read your thoughts in a blog, he knows them already. Because I am never alone.
Then I realize that I am not doing any of these things because I am relishing my time spent alone, doing nothing but watching something that I love to feast my eyes and my brain upon, and thinking. Perhaps a few hours, every two weeks, I get time away from my beloved husband...and during that time I am usually with Dexter, who while not acting like a lump on the floor is begging me to tend to his needs...whether it be rolling his ball across the floor for him to fetch and refuse to give up for me to roll again until I give up and relocate and then he pushes his ball off of his bed across the floor and under the couch, where he then lays on his side and scratches at the leather couch until I get up and get his ball for him....repeat. His needs are few. But still, I relish my time spent not tending to them.
How many hours are there in a year? Subtract 2 of them and whatever that number is, there is no one I would rather spend them with than Jesse. But still, those few hours I get to myself are few and far between and when I have them, only then do I realize how sparse and cherished they are. I used to spend so much time by myself, before I was really an adult with obligations and a partner in life, and I would write and draw and paint and CREATE! Oh how I would CREATE! And it was all shit, all of it, but I loved every minute of it, every juvenile, talentless minute of it, and I thought it was so important. The problem with being an artist is that no matter what you are doing, you think it matters. Guess what kids, it doesn't matter to nearly as many people as you think it does. But that doesn't matter, all that matters is that it is important to you. And now that I don't have time to do anything that I actually want to do....it is all the more important to me. To hear my own thoughts, even though I don't really like all of them, it is a thing of beauty to have thoughts that are not shared, that are not worth sharing, that if Jesse were here I would tell him about and he would either care or not care, and it doesn't even matter, because he will never hear these thoughts. Nor will he read them, because someone so close to you does not need to read your thoughts in a blog, he knows them already. Because I am never alone.
Friday, April 20, 2012
A Brief Summary
This morning, while drinking coffee, and perusing through some extremely inspiring stuff on the internet, I find myself embodying the very essence of this blog title. I am restless, feeling a tad pushy and quite optimistic. I feel antsy like I need to create something, anything, to get my head out onto paper or canvas or whatever. But instead, my head will be stuck inside my head all day, leaking out in little scribblings on my notebook in the way of "things to do" and "waiting for this" and "need this from that person" and so on and so forth until my brain will likely just start seeping out through my eye sockets, down my shoulders and arms and my keyboard will become coated in a sticky mess of lost hope.
Insert optimism: Today is Friday. Tonight I create.
Insert optimism: Today is Friday. Tonight I create.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
1200 Miles and a World Apart
I recently spent 10 days in my hometown of Helena, Montana. There once was a time when I would have rather lived just about anywhere else, the thought of returning to Montana to live the simple life was completely revolting. But with every visit my heart melts a little more and over the past 10 years my little icy rock has turned to warm squishy muscle. The livin' is easy, the weather is unpredictable, and time seems to move at a slower pace. The standard speed limit is 25 mph and no one seems to have trouble driving this slowly; I couldn't drive 25 in California if I even wanted to, no one else would allow it, I'd be run off the road. But the truth is, I would never want to drive that slowly, anything under 40 is just wasting time.
Whenever I'm in Helena I find myself walking all over the place, and not because I have to, but because I see no reason not to. While in Helena I accompanied my mom and dad on their regular daily walk of about 3.5 miles. This walk goes up through the historical district to the base of Mt. Helena, then down through downtown and back to whatever neighborhood my parents live in. On this entire walk there are only 2 dogs who bark behind their fences, minimal traffic, garbage free sidewalks, deer feeding on chilly winter grasses, clean air, and frankly it's just a pleasant experience. It's a real time-out from the annoying work day; pretty much the complete opposite from my daily walk with Dexter.
Montana is beautiful, there is no doubt about that. Everything that is not man-made is completely stunning. Standing on top of the mountain that hosts the Discovery ski area, my Dad and I looked out over the frozen lakes below, the green trees sprinkled with snow, and the mountains that go on forever and ever until they fade into sky which then proceeds to expand overhead into the biggest sky you could ever imagine.
In Helena, at least, there is no city planning to speak of. Business come and go too often, old buildings are left abandoned for years while new ones are built with no regard to their setting. Helena is starting to expand outwards, strip mall type atrocities are being constructed farther and farther out from the center, and the businesses that are going in are unnecessary replicas of giant chains. What sucks about this is there are so many empty store fronts and abandoned buildings within the largely populated center of town that expanding outwards like this is pretty unnecessary. I'm remembering this while driving through Hollywood on my way home from the airport, looking at businesses stacked on top of each other and billboards everywhere and hundreds of people walking about and traffic and really just a sensory overload...while driving with the windows down, soaking up the 75 degree sunny weather and loving every minute of it.
Montana and California really couldn't be more different in every way, and I am completely in love with both. I can't decide if I want to spend the rest of my life among the hustle and bustle of sunny CA or in a cabin on top of a mountain under the Big Sky... why can't it be both?
Whenever I'm in Helena I find myself walking all over the place, and not because I have to, but because I see no reason not to. While in Helena I accompanied my mom and dad on their regular daily walk of about 3.5 miles. This walk goes up through the historical district to the base of Mt. Helena, then down through downtown and back to whatever neighborhood my parents live in. On this entire walk there are only 2 dogs who bark behind their fences, minimal traffic, garbage free sidewalks, deer feeding on chilly winter grasses, clean air, and frankly it's just a pleasant experience. It's a real time-out from the annoying work day; pretty much the complete opposite from my daily walk with Dexter.
Montana is beautiful, there is no doubt about that. Everything that is not man-made is completely stunning. Standing on top of the mountain that hosts the Discovery ski area, my Dad and I looked out over the frozen lakes below, the green trees sprinkled with snow, and the mountains that go on forever and ever until they fade into sky which then proceeds to expand overhead into the biggest sky you could ever imagine.
In Helena, at least, there is no city planning to speak of. Business come and go too often, old buildings are left abandoned for years while new ones are built with no regard to their setting. Helena is starting to expand outwards, strip mall type atrocities are being constructed farther and farther out from the center, and the businesses that are going in are unnecessary replicas of giant chains. What sucks about this is there are so many empty store fronts and abandoned buildings within the largely populated center of town that expanding outwards like this is pretty unnecessary. I'm remembering this while driving through Hollywood on my way home from the airport, looking at businesses stacked on top of each other and billboards everywhere and hundreds of people walking about and traffic and really just a sensory overload...while driving with the windows down, soaking up the 75 degree sunny weather and loving every minute of it.
Montana and California really couldn't be more different in every way, and I am completely in love with both. I can't decide if I want to spend the rest of my life among the hustle and bustle of sunny CA or in a cabin on top of a mountain under the Big Sky... why can't it be both?
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Chango Coffee
I love my neighborhood. Have I mentioned that any fewer than a hundred times yet? I like to reiterate this every time some new thing tickles me, and today, I was kinda tickled.
I agreed to meet someone for coffee for a sort of business meeting/possible new friend/I don't know why we were really meeting but I obviously couldn't say no, and since I'm confined to my part of town all day every day because who want's to take the bus(?), I chose the only coffee shop I could think of. Insert Chango Coffee.
This place is on our walk route so Dexter and I pass by on a regular basis and stop at the water bowl while I check out all the hipsters looking miserable, smoking cigarettes, wearing stupid hats and drinking coffee. I've never actually stopped inside so when I suggested the place for the meeting I thought I should probably do my homework. Yelp is the best place to go if you're looking for really jaded reviews of somewhere you thought you would like to go. I found SO MANY bad reviews, and not just bad, terrible! The kind of reviews where the reviewer gave one star because they had to in order to give a review. Reviews slaughtering everything from the coffee and food to the service, decor, chalkboard menu, to even the hipsters sitting outside! One reviewer said the guy working there hit her in the face with a bag of garbage on his way outside then told her she was in the way. The reviews were so bad I just had to keep reading until my eyes burned. Most of the reviews slashed the service, stating that you had to be a die hard hipster to even be looked in the eye, and even then they wouldn't be nice or give you any sort of courtesy.
Don't worry, there were at least three good reviews in the lot of, oh, 70 bad ones. So...what did I do? I leashed up my dog and arrived promptly at 1:55 pm outside of Chango to wait for my meeting, duh.
Anyone who knows me knows that "hipster" isn't really a word that anyone would use to describe me. Although...a hipster would never, EVER, admit to being a hipster...so who knows, maybe I am. But probably not. Hipsters are the people who live across the street who I am just completely amazed by on a daily basis. I've mentioned these folks in previous posts, they are who I like to call Rock n Roll Hipsters, you'll never find a guitar or tambourine too far away from one of these guys.
Dexter and I finally make it to Chango after sniffing every damn thing we pass and peeing on every other thing we pass, petting Warrior, watching Warrior lick Dexter's face, and making new friends at the dog store. I decided to wait on the corner so my new friend could see me from whichever direction she was coming from. The first person I see inside Chango is, guess who, one of my Rock n Roll Hipster neighbors! I think he works there but was just hanging out because he came outside to drink his coffee and smoke cigarettes in a stupid hat. He smiled and said hello on his way past (we've never formally met). Then out came the guy who was working there, he was super friendly and stopped to pet Dexter and tell me how healthy and happy my dog looks. Everyone else who was sitting outside said hello and pet Dexter and let him lick their toes and sniff out their dog with the creepy blue cataract eyes.
Why was everyone being so damn nice? Why did the disgruntled hipster barista smile AND talk to me? What was going on here? The coffee had better be burned and terrible and taste like mud or I'm going home.
Skip to my friend arriving, soy latte placed in front of my face, Dexter on my lap... and... hey, this latte is delicious! Once again (and again, and again, and again) Yelp got it wrong. Because Yelp sucks. Realistically it's the losers who posted the reviews who suck, but I have a small hatred for Yelp due to past experiences, so I'll just go ahead and blame them.
I will definitely go to Chango again. I loved it there. If I were to leave a review, which I won't, I would give it 5 stars. And this just adds another star to my neighborhood because now I know that my stupid Rock n Roll Hipster neighbors are actually really nice and I know where I can get a good soy latte when the need strikes. And I'm not even a hipster! Who knew such luck would strike!
I agreed to meet someone for coffee for a sort of business meeting/possible new friend/I don't know why we were really meeting but I obviously couldn't say no, and since I'm confined to my part of town all day every day because who want's to take the bus(?), I chose the only coffee shop I could think of. Insert Chango Coffee.
This place is on our walk route so Dexter and I pass by on a regular basis and stop at the water bowl while I check out all the hipsters looking miserable, smoking cigarettes, wearing stupid hats and drinking coffee. I've never actually stopped inside so when I suggested the place for the meeting I thought I should probably do my homework. Yelp is the best place to go if you're looking for really jaded reviews of somewhere you thought you would like to go. I found SO MANY bad reviews, and not just bad, terrible! The kind of reviews where the reviewer gave one star because they had to in order to give a review. Reviews slaughtering everything from the coffee and food to the service, decor, chalkboard menu, to even the hipsters sitting outside! One reviewer said the guy working there hit her in the face with a bag of garbage on his way outside then told her she was in the way. The reviews were so bad I just had to keep reading until my eyes burned. Most of the reviews slashed the service, stating that you had to be a die hard hipster to even be looked in the eye, and even then they wouldn't be nice or give you any sort of courtesy.
Don't worry, there were at least three good reviews in the lot of, oh, 70 bad ones. So...what did I do? I leashed up my dog and arrived promptly at 1:55 pm outside of Chango to wait for my meeting, duh.
Anyone who knows me knows that "hipster" isn't really a word that anyone would use to describe me. Although...a hipster would never, EVER, admit to being a hipster...so who knows, maybe I am. But probably not. Hipsters are the people who live across the street who I am just completely amazed by on a daily basis. I've mentioned these folks in previous posts, they are who I like to call Rock n Roll Hipsters, you'll never find a guitar or tambourine too far away from one of these guys.
Dexter and I finally make it to Chango after sniffing every damn thing we pass and peeing on every other thing we pass, petting Warrior, watching Warrior lick Dexter's face, and making new friends at the dog store. I decided to wait on the corner so my new friend could see me from whichever direction she was coming from. The first person I see inside Chango is, guess who, one of my Rock n Roll Hipster neighbors! I think he works there but was just hanging out because he came outside to drink his coffee and smoke cigarettes in a stupid hat. He smiled and said hello on his way past (we've never formally met). Then out came the guy who was working there, he was super friendly and stopped to pet Dexter and tell me how healthy and happy my dog looks. Everyone else who was sitting outside said hello and pet Dexter and let him lick their toes and sniff out their dog with the creepy blue cataract eyes.
Why was everyone being so damn nice? Why did the disgruntled hipster barista smile AND talk to me? What was going on here? The coffee had better be burned and terrible and taste like mud or I'm going home.
Skip to my friend arriving, soy latte placed in front of my face, Dexter on my lap... and... hey, this latte is delicious! Once again (and again, and again, and again) Yelp got it wrong. Because Yelp sucks. Realistically it's the losers who posted the reviews who suck, but I have a small hatred for Yelp due to past experiences, so I'll just go ahead and blame them.
I will definitely go to Chango again. I loved it there. If I were to leave a review, which I won't, I would give it 5 stars. And this just adds another star to my neighborhood because now I know that my stupid Rock n Roll Hipster neighbors are actually really nice and I know where I can get a good soy latte when the need strikes. And I'm not even a hipster! Who knew such luck would strike!
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
And a Bucket of Fried Chicken
We live across the street from a KFC/Taco Bell combo. Because sometimes you can't decide whether you want Popcorn Chicken or a Spicy Cheesy Grande Supreme Taco.... or both. Luckily I have only succumbed to this desire once, and I ordered one taco off of the "fresco" menu. Why do people think that because something is listed on a menu labeled as "fresh" written in Spanish, that its healthier? It is neither fresh nor healthy when coming from a fast food chain such as this. And judging by the amount of large cockroaches I see roaming the streets nearby, I can cross sanitary off its list of attributes. That taco however, was amazing...doused in hot sauce sporting some hilarious quip on its tiny packet.
There is a stretch limo parked outside my house right at this very moment, and the person I'm assuming to be the driver has also succumbed to his KFC/Taco Bell desires. He purchased himself a bucket of chicken. How many calories are in this bucket of chicken I cannot guess, nor can I assume there to be much nutritional value allotted to such a bucket, but that is obviously of no concern to Limo Driver. He got in the back seat to eat his bucket, I'm guessing because the windows are tinted back there and he didn't want anyone to see him eating an entire bucket of fried chicken himself. But I know, Limo Driver, I know your secret. I know you have grease on your chin and wiped your fingers on your pants.
Do you remember the days when a limo was enough of a status symbol that it didn't need to be doubled in length? Unless you're carting around 12 people, is a stretch limo really necessary? Or maybe you need that much space between yourself and your driver because he has bad fried chicken gas and you'd rather not smell it.
I've come to the conclusion that Dexter makes me look like a nicer person. Whenever I'm outside with Dexter, wherever we go, everyone wants to talk to me and tell me things about their life they probably wouldn't be telling other random strangers. They want to show me things they own and give me advice about how to live my life. Dexter is my alter-ego. He is adorable and extroverted and overly friendly. He wants to say hello to everyone he sees and will thrust himself in their path to do so. He stops to smell the roses and sniffs the air as if hope is the scent being carried in the breeze. Dexter would eat an entire bucket of chicken with fury and show no remorse. He has no regrets.
Upon further inspection, I've decided that Man With Chicken Bucket is not the driver at all, but someone who is too embarrassed to give in to his KFC dreams in his own neighborhood. Secrets cannot be kept from someone who works from home.
There is a stretch limo parked outside my house right at this very moment, and the person I'm assuming to be the driver has also succumbed to his KFC/Taco Bell desires. He purchased himself a bucket of chicken. How many calories are in this bucket of chicken I cannot guess, nor can I assume there to be much nutritional value allotted to such a bucket, but that is obviously of no concern to Limo Driver. He got in the back seat to eat his bucket, I'm guessing because the windows are tinted back there and he didn't want anyone to see him eating an entire bucket of fried chicken himself. But I know, Limo Driver, I know your secret. I know you have grease on your chin and wiped your fingers on your pants.
Do you remember the days when a limo was enough of a status symbol that it didn't need to be doubled in length? Unless you're carting around 12 people, is a stretch limo really necessary? Or maybe you need that much space between yourself and your driver because he has bad fried chicken gas and you'd rather not smell it.
I've come to the conclusion that Dexter makes me look like a nicer person. Whenever I'm outside with Dexter, wherever we go, everyone wants to talk to me and tell me things about their life they probably wouldn't be telling other random strangers. They want to show me things they own and give me advice about how to live my life. Dexter is my alter-ego. He is adorable and extroverted and overly friendly. He wants to say hello to everyone he sees and will thrust himself in their path to do so. He stops to smell the roses and sniffs the air as if hope is the scent being carried in the breeze. Dexter would eat an entire bucket of chicken with fury and show no remorse. He has no regrets.
Upon further inspection, I've decided that Man With Chicken Bucket is not the driver at all, but someone who is too embarrassed to give in to his KFC dreams in his own neighborhood. Secrets cannot be kept from someone who works from home.
Monday, October 17, 2011
The End and the Beginning
Well, Jesse and I got married. It was amazing. By far the most surreal day of my life thus far, I'm glad it's over, and I'm glad we have over 500 photos to remember the day that flew past and refused to end. I am now legally bound to the one person I can bear the company of every day of my life, and I plan to enjoy his company for the next 1oo years, wherever we may be.
Now that we are really adults, husband and wife with a little furry family, we decided the next step was to relocate to southern california, where the sun always shines and the glitz and glamour is totally hidden beneath the pile of garbage on the corner, crawling with cockroaches and a stray cat, who lays peacefully underneath a parked truck, bearing a permanent snarl and reddish eyes. Tiny barking Chihuahuas race back and forth behind chain-link fences, bearing their miniature teeth and barking at Dexter as we walk past, sniffing out the neighborhood. Physically fit men wearing snug-fitting activewear strut to the gym in pairs and size up the competition behind dark sunglasses. It seems that 99% of the people in Los Angeles are between the ages of 25 and 38, the young and old are sprinkled about behind closed doors and tan faces.
We moved to Echo Park. Technically Los Angeles, Echo Park is one of those hipster neighborhoods occupied in general by poor hispanic families and people like me. Whatever I am. Directly across the street is the neighborhood handyman, Victor, his son, also Victor, is probably 9 years old and likes to tell me all about the neighborhood animals and visit with Dexter, but Dexter knows better than to trust someone with such small hands. Victor's family has a yard sale every Saturday, enticing the passersby with junk that Mr. Victor has picked up during the week or collected from new tenants moving in who don't want the stuff that was left behind. Next door to the Victor family live the hipster rock n' rollers who provide me with endless entertainment. I have no idea who actually lives there, there used to be a white fluffy dog who I haven't seen in a while, but I am guaranteed to see some skinny guy wearing dirty black jeans that appear to have been painted on, no shirt, although maybe an open black vest, and long greasy hair. It's not just that his hair is greasy, it's more like his entire body is just dirty and the grease from having not showered in however many days sticks to him in the hot L.A. sun. There is also a girl, who I would assume to be kinda pretty if I could get close enough to really see, but that's of no interest to me. It's her stupid trendy hipster outfits that humor me the most, such as high-waisted bellbottoms paired with a big floppy sun hat and sunglasses... at midnight on a Tuesday. I get to watch them hang around with their friends who stop by and smoke cigarettes and strum on the guitar or tap a tambourine while Dexter farts around in the yard. They used to have a couch on the front porch, the maroon velveteen type that resides on every front porch of anyone who ever lived in a house during college, but that disappeared a week ago and I can't stop thinking about what reason they could possibly have for getting rid of it.
Los Angeles is proving to be pretty awesome, I'm learning all sorts of things about human nature and the way people live who aren't me. The food so far is amazing, the people Dexter forces us to meet on our walks are proving to be great acquaintances, and every where we go my thoughts are reaffirmed that I love it here.
I would still classify myself as restless, pushy and optimistic; I'm reminded of my nature on a regular basis. My intentions are to impose my thoughts, beliefs, and L.A. findings on you, my reader, whenever I can find the words.
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