Second Verse, Same as the First

    I have my own car again, along with my own apartment in Tempe.  It all happens so fast for me- all the changes come at once and before I know it, I'm starting from scratch all over again.  But every time it happens, I am reminded how much relief and freedom come from having a space of my own, roaches and all. I also have to come to terms with how helpless and pathetic I feel when I am sharing a living space and a vehicle with another person.   I am independent, probably to a fault, and this is what makes me the happiest.  I’m better at making ends meet than I am at compromise, and I am very aware that this is not a healthy thing.

      I am scared as hell, financially, and starting over would not have been possible without the kind hearts of my friends. I really hope all of them understand my appreciation for the countless favors, and eventually I hope to help them out as much as they’ve helped me.  Right now is not easy.   This is life below the poverty line.  This is “no internet” poor.  It’s  “let’s pick which bills we pay this week” poor. It’s poor like we were when my mom left my dad, and that’s how I know I’ll be okay.  While it’s not very comfortable, I am going to try and get as much as I can out of it.  

  I've been driving around by myself in the desert a lot lately.  I just take off, usually around seven o’clock, out to the desert.  I end up around Saguaro Lake, and I blast whatever mix tape I’ve made for the occasion.  From out there, I can’t see any of the city lights.  I get a view of the stars and the moon and the desert landscape.   And the closer I drive towards the lake, the more moisture is in the air, so I roll down my windows and drive slower. I let my fingers fall out the driver’s side window.  I play an imaginary piano, the tempo changing with the speed of the car.  I hit all the right notes, and even if I didn’t, the song would just change to accommodate my crooked pinkies.  I’m nineteen again, driving through curvy country roads, smoking joints with my friends.  We used to call this “hitting a cruise”.   Nobody out here calls it that.  

      I usually hate driving.  I’m not great at it, especially at night. It’s usually a major source of anxiety for me, in all honesty.  The first time I drove out to the middle of nowhere, my intention had been to find a good spot to park, sit on the hood of the car, and look at the stars.  What can I say?  I’m a romantic.  Once I got there, though, I discovered that most of the rest stops are blocked off after dark.  And once I realized that I probably wasn’t going to have this peaceful, introspective night of stargazing and accepting my space as a tiny blip in the universe, I gave in and enjoyed the experience of driving. 

 Winding roads without city lights require your attention.  You don’t get to become lost in your own thoughts.  Navigating each curve is deliberate; it’s not like getting on the freeway and then missing your exit because you zoned out while recreating an imaginary argument in your head.  You concentrate on the task at hand or you become distracted and veer into a tree. Driving becomes forced mindfulness; it’s meditation in such a basic form.  It hits me, suddenly, and it’s so fucking obvious.   It’s such a clichéd message, this whole “it’s not the destination, it’s the journey” bullshit.  But that’s what it is.  And it hit me hard.

I’m starting over, and that means learning some of the same lessons over again, for real this time.

My apartment complex isn’t necessarily dangerous, but it is a shithole.  I moved in on Valentine’s Day and I am STILL waiting for an oven rack.  My neighbors hear me having sex through my paper-thin walls, and I hear them arguing.  I have a car because of a generous friend who sold me his for four hundred dollars.  I am so, so grateful for a place to live and a car that works.  I’m not saying that I’m not.  What I am saying is that this is not where I want to be forever.  And it won’t be.  But if I can stop looking at what I want to eventually become and just appreciate what I am right now, I can appreciate how much I have evolved already.   I am proud of the fact that I haven’t got everything all figured out.  I am not done learning.  I am not done traveling or laughing or mourning.   I’ve already lived years longer than some of my friends.  Even if I’m struggling… especially if I’m struggling… these are the times that I find out how strong I am and how it’s okay for to rely on other people for help when I need it.  These are the hard times that yield the best stories.

There are three lost continents. We are one: the lovers.

"Funny how we think of romance as always involving two, when the romance of solitude can be ever so much more delicious and intense."  - Tom Robbins



I'm not someone who can easily pick out a favorite anything.  My favorite songs, bands, movies, quotes, and even people, they change often enough for me to know that my tastes differ too much to make a solid decision.  Choosing a favorite book?  Forget it.  There are far too many books, too many characters, too many stories that speak to me.  I read "The Perks of Being a Wallflower" at the most perfect time in my life.  I was lucky.  It was published (or at least became popular) when I was barely a teenager. It made a huge impact.  But does that make it any more important than "The Secret Garden", which I read over and over growing up?  I spent years of my life reading "The Stand" by Stephen King every summer at the beach.  I still love that book.  I guess my favorite book just depends on what I need from my books at the time...

Right now, for the past few years, actually, but ESPECIALLY right now, it's "Still Life with Woodpecker".  Tom Robbins has this gorgeous way of writing.  His sentences can stand alone as some of the most beautiful things that have ever been written, in context or not. You could pull any passage out of it, and the quote would be worthy of a tattoo (or at least a time-consuming cross stitch project).  Tom is there for me when I can't accept advice or support or love from anyone else.  I keep a copy of "Still Life with Woodpecker" by my bed, like a bible, for when I need an answer for things.  It's always there.  It's a fairy tale.  It's a bit of a femenist manifesto.  It's a guide to life.  It's a reminder not to take things so seriously.  It's a handbook for outlaws.  It's a guide for how to make love stay.  It's a damned fine love story.  

I have a love affair with this book. 

I've cheated on everyone I've ever loved with this book.  

I keep an extra copy onhand as often as I can, in case I meet somone who I feel needs to read it.

It keeps me silly, young, and rebellious. 

It reminds me that magic doesn't have to go away.  

It may one day reveal to me the purpose of the moon.  
 

awakenings

I forgot I had a blog for awhile.  I journaled like hell when I was going through my kidney donation.  I think eventually I will share the entries online.  But not right now.  I need to process all of that, and it's hard when all of this other shit is going on.  I'm not sure if the kidney donation was a nice distraction for the problems in my head or if it was a catalyst for big change.  Either way, long story short, I am moving into my own apartment next month.  Gren has his own place.  I hate that I'm hurting him.  I hate that I can't just be happy being stable.  I hate that my decisions affect so many people.  But I don't want to pretend things are okay if they're not.  And change is always good.  It just doesn't always feel like it...

Perry (the fear of losing it, personified)

I had the most fucked up dream last night. It was one of those where you wake up scared, so sure that it just followed you into reality. I'm not sure why I'm even sharing it this late at night, except maybe I think it will make me feel better to get it out. Warning: I am typing all of this out on my phone, so please ignore the mistakes. This will probably be a long one, especially to type out on a tiny flat surface.

Here goes...

I'm not sure when it started. But I know that at some point I am sitting on the toilet taking a piss when I notice he's there. Just standing in the doorway, looking at me while I pee. It's the shoes I notice first, those Timberland brown boots that rappers were wearing for a short bit but now are back to being work boots for blue collar white guys. They're clean, just like everything else he's wearing. White pants, not jeans, more like scrubs. Yeah, they're definitely scrubs. Along with the white scrub top he's got on. It's all loose, and the shirt is only halfway tucked in. The guy has gotta be well over six feet, and he's pretty thin. He's got reddish blond hair, and he can't keep still. Not in a methy way. More in a anxious and impatient way. I get it. He's fresh out of the mental ward. Whether he was let out by the doctors or if he escaped is unknown, but somehow I know his name is Perry. And he scares the living shit out of me.

I try to ignore Perry sometimes. He mostly just stands there twitching over me. He never speaks unless spoken to, which is fine because I hate his voice. It's twitchy just like him, like his vocal cords are wishing they had a million other things to do. When I ask who he is, he tells me that I created him. He's in my head. And now I really don't want to speak to him.

It's true. No one ever sees Perry. I have no doubt that he's in my head. Schizophrenia has happened before in my family, so why not me? I can lose it just as well as anyone else. I realize that he only shows up when I'm alone, which is really annoying. This is why he comes around so often when I am in the bathroom. With every glass of water I drink comes the dread of having to see those brown boots when I can't hold it anymore.

I tell my friends what is going on, and while they are very understanding, it's not easy to keep me company all the time. I try going to public restrooms, but I see those awful shoes under the stalls. I beg my friend, Jen, to just stand in the stall while I go, but the sight of those boots causes me to start screaming and crying so hysterically that she had to carry me out of the public restroom. What's worse is that I've pissed myself while freaking out.

This whole avoiding Perry is only making him more upset. He's angrier, but he doesn't speak. I just see it in his sunken eyes and his violent jerky hand motions. He's in the elevator. He's in the closet. Those fucking boots clomp around the hallways at night. And it's all in my head, and no matter what I do, he won't go away. And I know that no matter how loud I scream, he is not going to just go away.

It sounds so silly now that it's all written out. I mean, how scary can a guy named PERRY really be? It's just the fear of being crazy, I guess. Uncurable. Seriously fucked up.

On a related note, I am in our new house. I've spent almost every night here alone because Gren is working overnights at the hotel all this week. The obvious symbolism of this dream is definitely not lost on me. Don't worry, subconscious. I read you loud and clear.

The Lovers, the Dreamers, and Me

Every now and then, I have these moments of sheer joy, clarity.  A sense that I am perfect the way I am and completely fine.  That I am on a good path in the universe, and that while I make a valuable impact on the world, it can go on just fine without me.  In this tiny bit of time, I am not my body or even my mind or my emotions.  I am one and the same with everyone and everything in time and space and even beyond.  My reality is only as certain and solid as I make it, and my perception of the world can be altered with new knowledge and intuition.  I am not the center of the world, and I can take solace in that, seeing as that world revolves around the sun, and the sun is just following suit of a black hole, and that black hole is one of thousands, millions, that could be connected by wormholes all across the vastness of space, which is pulling itself apart at rapid speeds.  Nothing is the center of anything, and I am here for a few years to experience as much as I can.  And I may not be a physicist or a doctor or a teacher, but I meet new people every day and have the ability to make them more confident with themselves. And while doctors are necessary for modern medicine, even they feel insignificant compared to, I dunno, the concept of dark matter.  And for a split second, I get it.  And I don't get it.  And it's beautiful. 

I've been having these moments more often lately.  And sober, which is crazy, because honestly, this is shit that usually takes some psychadelic and mind-altering chemicals for me to achieve. 

It could be that I have been more conscious of my thoughts and responses to situations.  It could be that I've been meditating.  I've been exercising on my terms, doing things that make me happy.  It could be that I have been reading up on the multiverse and string theory, atstro- and quantum physics.  I am putting pieces of my scientific brain with that creative and hippie part of my brain, and they are starting to line up surprisingly well.  I am trying to take all of this with a grain of salt and trying to make sure to laugh at it.  I think of all of this, and then I also remember that mental illness runs in my family, so this could also be a manic episode or the beginning stages of schizophrenia (which my great grandmother suffered from).

And in the end, are those two things really that far apart?
And as long as I'm being a happy, useful humanitarian... does it really matter?

We. Are. Art.

It's been an amazing week.  Part of this is due to school.  Have I mentioned that I love doing hair?  Because I do.

It's also the week before San Diego Comic Con.  It is the slowest week of the year, every year.  I try not to get too excited over it, but once the scheduling goes up, its no use trying to play it cool.  We leave the day after tomorrow, and while there is a lot to get done, I am so ready to pack up and leave for the ocean, the art, the friends, the new books, and the fangirl moments where I run into my idols dressed as a little boy with antlers.

Also, this week, I worked for the first time as a live model for a life drawing class.  In other words, I posed onstage under a bright light while perfect strangers drew (or painted, or whatever) me.   I was completely nude, and it was not only fun (I kind of assumed it would be), it was also the most liberating thing that I have ever done.

I've made it pretty obvious, especially in the past year or so, that I have a lot of body image issues.  I have always looked up to the women who could bare it all for the sake of art, no matter what size.  Actually, I respected the women more, the more they had to bare.  The bigger the person, the older, the more scarred, the more they had that was conventionally unacceptable, the higher I held them in my mind.  Yes, it is judging someone by the way they look.  I'm not saying it's right.  I'm not saying that the conventionally gorgeous women who modeled were not as brave or nervous or anything like that.  But this is my blog, and I have to be honest, especially about the things I am wrong about and not proud of.  Changing history to avoid blame is one of the most dangerous things on the planet.  The Egyptians had it right.  But then again, do we really know that? 

I digress.

The idea of being naked in front of other people, it's the stuff recurring nightmares are made of.  Granted, it is Arizona, and I am usually in my underwear the entire summer, but that is at home with my daughter and husband.  They have gotten used to me sitting at the dinner table in nothing but my panties, and they know they are also welcome to follow suit.  It's over 100 degrees outside.  The doors and windows are closed.  Home is safe.  Being nude in front of strangers gave me the vulnerability to be judged by people I didn't trust, people I couldn't explain my scars to, people that could go home and call me chubby or an exhibitionist whore who gets off on the whole thing.  Slut-shaming, not even, the PROSPECT of slut-shaming, in my own fucking head.  How dare I assume.

As much as I love being naked, I don't know if I could have done it a year ago. 

I came across the opportunity, originally, on facebook.  I was offered a single-pose modeling job last winter, posing in costume for three hours at a local bar.  They have a program called Anti-Art school that recruits interesting people, usually in costume, to model for them.  Local artists show up, pay their fee, and they can sit, talk, sip cocktails, and do what they love.  It was very hard to hold to a pose for three hours, even with the breaks.  Everyone there was very supportive, and I learned a lot about my own body, particularly my back.  Holy shit.  But I liked being a part of art, since I can't draw or paint, and I consider myself a performance artist more than anything else, I felt like I was doing my part.  I thought briefly about applying at different art schools for more modeling jobs, even the ones where I was nude, for extra money.

But I didn't.  I got busy.  I had a job.  I worked a lot.  I started school.  I began my battle to love my body.

Then I quit my job.  I held onto it for far too long, and life eventually pushed me out of the cafe.  That week, I attended the Phoenix Comic Con (which was incredible, even with the insanity of cell phone service and fire alarms), where a Scottsdale art studio had a space set up for patrons to sit down and try their hand at drawing a live costumed model at the con.  The woman in charge was so sweet, and while we talked, I mentioned that I had modeled before and that I would be interested in doing it again. She got my email address, and that was it.

Surprisingly, she emailed me.  Most of the time, people don't follow through with promises at conventions.  It's not their fault.  Cons are hectic, and you meet hundreds of people and get more emails and phone numbers than you could possibly keep up with. Long story short, I was scheduled to show up at 4:00 this past Wednesday, prepared with a robe and my self-esteem.  So I did.  And once the timer started, I dropped the robe and started the two-minute gesture poses.  And my belly, my legs, my small, low breasts, my nose, all of the things I had HATED about my body for so long,  they were mine to twist, turn, contort, and control, all of the sake of helping out fellow artists.  They weren't there to judge.  They were there to do what they do.  It could have been any person up there, and it just happened to be me.  And once I started the twenty-minute poses, I got to peek at the art on my breaks.  And it was beautiful.  They all drew my belly rolls and my big thighs and my stern brow and big nose.  They didn't ignore it or change it to make it smaller a la Photoshop.  It was all there, staring back at me, on giant pads of paper held to wooden benches.  All of these people had seen everything I had.  And they made it art.  I was now suddenly the person I had looked up to for years for baring herself to a room of strangers, both confident and selfless.  I was not a goddess, nor was I a whore.  I was a human being in a body, and that body was used to make something that I found beautiful. 

When it was over, I got dressed, said goodbye to everyone I had met, and they told me I had done a great job holding my poses.  And I appreciated it.  And I will do it again.  I sang the whole way home. 

It's been a few days, and I still catch myself smiling and laughing at myself because I did get so nervous and make a big deal of it in my head.  I also smile because of how it made me look at myself, and how I haven't felt that waver yet.  I'm sure it will.  But right now, this belly is still pretty artistic. And I will continue with my quest to love it and take care of it and respect it and keep it clean and healthy. Obviously, this is not the end of my journey; that would be a little too easy.  I want other people to experience this. 

And, no, I'm not telling you to go stand naked in front of strangers.  It's not for everyone, I don't think.  Some people are not comfortable being nude, and it's a common fear.  For me, it worked.  And I think the reason that it worked is because I have always found the human body and art of all kinds depicting the body something that I found amazing and wonderful.  So my advice for you is this.  Find something that YOU find amazing and wonderful.  And be that.  If you find lingerie photography beautiful, then find a trustworthy photographer, pull out your favorite stockings, and have a photo shoot. Do something that puts you, "flaws" and all, in the middle of something that you have always admired.  Drop the fear, drop your proverbial robe, and get really uncomfortable for a few minutes.  Hold as still as you can, feel the eyes on you, and take it all in.  Count to 60 as many times as you can until you forget how much time has passed ,and get lost in your mind.  Then look at the result, fall in love with it, and surprise yourself.  Because I am beautiful.  Maybe not to a lot of society, and maybe not to myself for the past thirty years, but I am.  And we all are. Skinny women, fat women, chubby in-between women.  And men.  And everyone.  We are all somebody to look up to.  We are all art.


As I end this entry, I would just like to thank the people who I have found so inspiring so far in this body positive revolution.  They have never met me in person, but they have done things for me that no one else has.  If you follow milkyrobot, honorcurves, or tessmunster on instagram, you know that they are some of the most beautiful women (inside and outside), that are huge supporters of people of all sizes saying FUCK YOU to the beauty standard.  They are also on Twitter, Facebook, and you can follow their blogs.  I can't tell you how many times I would squeeze my belly in the mirror, feel bad, then get onto my phone to feel supported by other human beings that have struggled with the same feelings.  I also want to thank all of my "real-life" friends, who are always there for me.  And my husband, who loves me at any size.  And my daughter who would, in a perfect world, never have to worry about being an ideal size or face or being called a bad name for her appearance.  May she and her friends inspire other young girls to love themselves and start a revolution of their own.

Until next time, be respectful, be responsible, and take care of one another.

Internet Findings

I need to keep this on hand every time I feel big.

John Mayer says my body is a wonderland.

How is any human anti-masturbation anymore? I mean, really?

How profound such profanity can be

Fuck yes.