musical interludes

All aboard the Express Kundalini!

Meow-y Christmas

I had an in-depth conversation with my cat today.  She sauntered to the computer desk, yawning and ohhhhh, she can't even!  She seemed to be having an existential crisis and I could kind of relate.  Somewhat, anyway.  She was like, 'oh, life is so grand as a cat.  I can sit in any chair i want and do nothing all day and I have owners to pet me and love me and take a million pictures of me all the livelong day.  But is this all there is to life?'  And I was like, 'Penelope, don't even!  Would you rather your life be filled with panic and anxiety and worry and taking crap from people and feeling like you're just floating from one job to the next for years on end?'  Suddenly, her PTSD kicked in and she scurried to safety from an unknown fear that strikes her out of the blue sometimes.  I didn't see her for a few hours, and then when she jumped up in front of the computer again to get my attention, she had a look in her eye.  She understood me and head-butted me and meowed and cooed and snuggled.  Then I tried to pick her up and she ran like she always does.  She's an independent little thing, but even independent little things need Good Bonds in their lives.

Anyway, I told Penelope today that I wanted to get rid of the bad energy faux friend bonds from days of yore and use my animal instincts to forge more of those Good Bonds in life.  She's gonna hold me to it, I think.

community.

I've been thinking about that word a lot lately.

Community.  And not the TV show.

It seems like it was always easy to find a community to be a part of in college.  I lived in the International House, one level of a dormitory which housed people from all over the world, where we were to be immersed in all the world's cultures.  It was great fun on many occasions, but other times?  Not so much.  There were quite a few quarrels and heated debates, and we soon discovered differences in public bathroom etiquette.  I remember waking up to signs in the bathroom one morning that the shower stalls are not where we pee in the US.  We use toilets here. 

And then I participated in a French meetup group after my last return from France.  I wanted to keep my French current and continue to practice the language outside of France.  It was fun for a while, but there were several times a friend and I had to leave when 15 minutes into the meeting we realized it was a Pick Up Chicks spot.

There was another time after first being diagnosed with a mental illness that I joined a support group and went to weekly (or more) meetings.  I did it for a while and felt like I was involved in something very important, but after some time had passed, I realized it was bringing me down.  The people I met with each week were very nice folks, but I realized that I didn't want to live my illness, nor be my illness.  I was much more than that.

I tried my hand at a staff art show, still one of the most nerve-wracking things I have ever done in my life.  It was great excitement as the hype began to build and we started the installation of everyone's pieces.  I volunteered as the 'beer girl' on opening night and was amazed to see all the crowds.  We all walked around and got to discover an element of each coworker's personality that we may have not noticed before.  The show ran for a few weeks and was quite a success.  It was a great experience, but when I look at my artwork I've completed to date, I don't think I would be so comfortable showing it at this time.  My artwork makes me feel like an outsider.

I have friends who make their living writing.  Some went into journalism, some PR, others freelance.  While I have always enjoyed writing, I have not made it my community.  Take this blog, for example.  I write this more as a message in a bottle sort of way, floating while I try to organize my thoughts after a messy number of years struggling with mind stuff.  I don't workshop my stories nor do I enjoy the promotion side of things.  I write and make my art as my therapy.  If there are sinister, vulture-type people out there who prey upon my frankness on this, well, j'éspere que cette vérité makes them open their eyes a little bit about the intent of their curiosity.

So back to that word again...community.  I am trying very hard to not be that loner outsider all the time.  As time goes on and wounds heal, I feel more and more confident to dive back into the important interests and passions that fuel me.  Whether that be volunteering somewhere again or getting more involved in my new neighborhood, or taking a class, or locating new 'artistic' peers, or, or, or...well, the ideas just start to soar when I think about it.

Ho Ho Ho, Who wouldn't go....

Greetings.

Somehow twenty years just slapped me in the face yesterday.  I arranged another hangout with my former high school art teacher and brought along an amazing artist, mom, dancer-turned-psychologist friend from high school senior art class to join in the fun.  We sat and yapped and drank and ate and reminisced and laughed and yapped some more for about four hours yesterday.  This particular friend struggled with a high school pregnancy when we were young and we even meandered through the first two years of higher education after that together.  Her son is now 20.  Whaaa?!  That's crazy.  We were young and confused back then and seemed so much older and wiser as we discussed days of yore.  Still battle little hang-ups and insecurities and decisions that seem to froth at the mouth with each angle we try to approach them from.  But it was all so delightful.

....but twenty years!?!?  Really!?!?!?  Twenty friggin years!?!?

Anyway.

The holidays have descended upon us yet again.   Hanukkah is Thanksgiving this year and Thanksgiving is just the start of Black Friday.  I really feel for those poor retail workers having to cut Turkey dinner early to go punch that time clock and deal with the MANIACS again this year.  Don't get me wrong...I love shopping for Christmas gifts and live on a budget and am always seeking extra discounts and ways to save.  But it's not my EVERYTHING.  Luckily, I get to sleep in til 7:45 a.m. Black Friday morning before I go figure things out in Small Business Land.  I'm thinking good thoughts.  Feeling some positive vibrations, mon.  We shall see where this year takes us.  Hopefully a little richer so I can actually get a raise for the ten added responsibilities I have taken on since taking over as manager of the boutique.

I really could use a financial break.  Really really could.

Sigh.

turquoise

I experienced a strange day today.  Still getting used to my commute two days a week to a new suburb, I've been playing around with all the different public transport routes.  And sometimes they are disastrous.  Or maybe not.  Depends how you look at it, n'est-ce pas?

I SWEAR I read the train schedule last night and saw there was a 9:48 train.  So the Mr. drives me a few miles across town to the stop and I stand at the platform and wait.  And wait.  And wait.

An elderly grandmother walks up to me, as I was the only person standing at the platform, and asks me if I've seen her granddaughter get off the last train.  It was a scorcher, and I was sitting in the shaded hut sweating like a pig while trying to fan myself.  I told her there were quite a few folks who got off the last train and wasn't too sure if her granddaughter was one of them.  She saw me sweating and asked me if I wanted to sit with her in her air-conditioned car to wait for the train.  I assured her I'd be fine (not wanting to go into the details with a complete stranger how my medication makes me sweat profusely) and she wandered off to look for her.  A few minutes later a young girl new to the city asked me if she was standing on the right platform for the outbound.  I told her yes, and that it seemed like the train was late.  She then informs me that there is not another train for over an hour.  WHA!?!?  I immediately panicked.  Of course, I check the schedule again on my phone and I had erroneously (or subconsciously?) added an extra 9:48 train in my head.  The Mr. turned back around and drove alllll the way back to pick me up and drive me to work so I wouldn't be late.  I walked with the new girl and asked her if she was going to wait for an hour at the platform.  She was unfamiliar with the area and I pointed out a nice cool coffee shop for her to wait.  She thanked me, I thanked her, and we were on our way.

As I walked down to the street again, the grandmother was still walking around with her cane looking for her granddaughter fifteen minutes later.  Some weird strange force compelled me to look a block away, across the street and pointed, "Is that her sitting over there by the diner?"  The grandmother's panic turned to surprise and I walked a few difficult steps with her to the corner and she exclaimed, 'That's her!  You found her!' and continued to thank me profusely for being there to help her.

So somehow it was a little slab of destiny or whathaveyou that guided me there to that platform at that particular time.  I ended up getting to work with fifteen minutes to spare, just enough time to slam down an iced mocha, but broke two fingernails within minutes of being there.  Weird.  And it was busy busy buzzing all day so the day fleeeew by...

But the commute home was a two-hour one.  I came home to stare at the canvas I painted turquoise yesterday.  I was trying to watch a documentary about autism that I picked up at the library but for some reason I kept looking over at that turquoise I painted yesterday.  What is it about that color that grabs me?  I'm sure any qualified color theorist would have a quick answer.  But I stared at it for so long that I am having trouble picking up another color to complete the third part of a five-piece set I have been working on.  I dunno.  I guess the right time will appear again and I will just know when to continue on...

States of transition...

This week marks the beginning of the six week period I have left on my current job.  I am frazzled and cannot concentrate on anything but my job search.  I tried to sit down and watch Shoot the Piano Player last night, but I couldn't concentrate.  Even on a French film, which usually has me glued to the subtitles as I train my brain to notice new phrases to memorize. 

I have applied to anything that sounds remotely interesting.  I have no problem continuing my position as a shopgirl, as long as it's something I can get behind and actually enjoy selling and speaking about.  Washers and dryers--no.  Underwear--no.  But something that is creative and inventive and interesting and somehow beautiful.  I have also applied to office jobs, even though I know my twenty years of retail background does not appeal to hiring managers in a clerical setting.  I have even applied for entry-level positions in the field of mental health.  And museums.  And cute boutiques.  And record stores.

I'm in a strange limbo...squeezing in all my doctors appointments and hoarding my prescriptions while I still have health insurance.  I have prepared myself for the unexpected--that of not having health coverage.  I will probably have to forfeit my therapy sessions, which have helped me to gain confidence and be assured that I will NOT end up in one of those god awful hospitals again.  I jotted down some support group information and I am thinking about trying my first session in another week.  How I wish I had a supporter to accompany me.  Navigating the realms of mental health can be frightening.  You just never know what kind of personality you're going to encounter, or if you are on the verge of experiencing something entirely too negative to be a strive toward recovery.

So many things to juggle.

And if nothing lines up in time for my position to end, what if I don't qualify for unemployment?  I am so nervous I have invested in some bottles of wine to keep my anxiety to a minimum.

My Bumbling Job Hunt

So it's been a few days since receiving the news that I am being laid off in six weeks.  My emotions have run rampant across the board....sadness, anxious, anger, frustration, depression, fear and pessimistic.  Basically, everything you learned in college about How To Find A Job is completely obsolete.  One can no longer walk into a place of business and ask to speak to the manager.  There are Affirmative Action regulations involved in the recruiting process and most places can't even speak to you.  Calling the HR to inquire about your resume submission is no longer acceptable as the applicants have probably quadrupled in size since the dawn of internet job applications.  I have been relaxing with a glass of wine each night as I sit down to my computer to type away my job prayers after each eight hour shift and two hour commute at the current job.

I am trying to navigate my way through LinkedIn, only to find that my heartfelt hello message accompanying my connection request to former colleagues is shoved away into an e-file of lost messages as I see the former colleague has over 500 connections and OBVIOUSLY doesn't have time to shoot back a quick hello to me.  Or I guess I should have been participating in this LinkedIn game all these years.  And there is a part of me that cannot help but think some of my former directors, while giving me big bear hugs when they see me in person, have all avoidance when it comes to connecting to me professionally after bearing witness to my various medical leaves mandated by psychiatrists.  I feel like I have a big black X through my name in any organization that shares an affiliation with these former colleagues.  Discrimination?  Yes.  But nothing that I could ever prove in any way.  But I tell you what, it makes me A-N-G-R-Y and makes me think I ought to pack up and move to a land where nobody knows me.

And so I am putting one foot in front of the other as I strive for something that suits me best.  I know a lot about music...a lot about movies....a fine taste for interesting and artful wares...a supporter of arts, culture and education....an awesome force of genuine, sweet, old-fashioned customer service...a smile...prompt....a hard-worker...patient...fair...firm....creative....passionate shopgirl with so much to offer.  Now how do I roll that all up into one fine package for the next hiring manager I encounter?

I am squeezing in all my doctor's appointments in the event that I won't be able to afford health insurance, which, sadly, is highly likely.  I also need to stock up on cheap red wine to get me through these days.  There's a liquor store right by my psychiatrist's office.  Think he'd hear my bottles rattling in my recycled wine tote as I ask him for a year of Seroquel and Ativan?  Do you think he'll be concerned??

I have an interview tomorrow with a boutique.  I have prepared my ensemble and organized my portfolio.  However, my finest Ann Taylor tunic has a loose hem which I have no way to fix except with thin slices of packing tape.  Will this make me or break me?

The 25 children of Quanah Parker

Around the time this book, Empire of the Summer Moon, came out, something strange was unfolding in my mother's quest to learn more about her family blood lines.  She was adopted in Oklahoma in 1950 after her birth mother, unwed and afraid and alone, gave her over to my grandma Beth to raise.  We knew only a little bit about mom's birth mother....that she was part Indian, had reddish hair and was a nursing student alongside Grandma Beth, who was one of the instructors.  Nothing much was known about my mom's birth father, except that he was supposedly Indian and he was a musician.

So as everything in the information age percolates with each year, my mom turned to the internet in the 2000s and put a brief posting on an Oklahoma adoption board with what little information she had about her birth mother, leaving an email if anyone had any more information.  In about 2006, a random man stumbled upon my mom's message and knew exactly whom my mom was looking for.  It was his aunt.  Of course, nobody knew about this hidden pregnancy, and when the birth mother was approached about it, she flatly denied ever such thing happened.  She laughed, we were told, and exclaimed, "I never had a child out of wedlock!"  So my mom, understandably let down, didn't pursue it any further.

But my mom's new-found cousin did anything but shun her.  He connected her with other relatives and told her that her birth mother is from the line of Parkers made famous by Quanah, the half-breed Comanche chief, and his white mother Cynthia Ann Parker and her stand-out story of native captivity in American history. You know, the story The Searchers is based on:



Weird, right?  So a customer came in looking for The Searchers DVD.  I located it for him and asked if he's read the new book out on the Searchers.  He says he has, and that he and his wife are just fascinated by this story!  I asked him if he read Empire of the Summer Moon.  He says he has, and that his wife is currently reading it, too.  He just can't get over what a neat story it is.  And so I decided to tell him my strange new news, that I recently found out I am a descendent of Quanah Parker.  That I am just now slowly learning more about it.  He was so enraptured by this story of American history and he immediately became infatuated with my connection to it and asked me a few questions.  I explained what little I could, and reminded him that Quanah had at least 25 children by a number of wives.  But he thanked me and I wished him well.

Apparently, his wife came in looking for Quanah Parker's great great great granddaughter the next day.  Um, if she meant me, it was my day off.

It truly is an interesting discovery, as are so many of our rich family tapestries we continue to weave with each generation.  Sadly, my mom received word that her birth mother has passed away.  Their connection was never realized.  It's heart-breaking to me that a woman held on to her values of 1950 and denied the existence of a baby she carried in her womb for nine months.  How can a woman simply block that from her consciousness?  How could she just forget?  What was her story?  Who was my mom's birth father?  So many unanswered questions which will remain dormant for eternity.

Family histories can be as convoluted and twisted as our nation's own history can be.  I feel proud to be part Native American.  I just wish there was a way to celebrate it more, in a more communal fashion.  In a place where I would be accepted.

No wonder my mom has always liked that Half-Breed song by Cher.  

Join us for a very special finale....

So I tuned in this morning to the final Oprah. I was never a regular devotee but I do admit her impact and influence on soooooo many is definitely remarkable.

There's that one thing that always bugs me though....that we all have a 'calling.'. Is that true? I mean how does that relate to all the millions of crappy jobs that simply must be done in this world? Working as a polite salesgirl does not feel like my 'calling' in life, but rather a necessity to make ends meet and hold health insurance. Though I try to make each day the best it can be, it certainly is not the life fulfillment that I seek. And I don't have the financial means to start myself on some sort of new career path. I am stuck in my full-time situation for the time being.

The world has needs for all kinds of people. So how many are really living a life they love? I know there's more than just 'jobs' to define a person, but let's face it....jobs make up a huuuuge part of how we are defined. We often spend more time with our co-workers than we do with our own family and loved ones.

I used to wonder if writing was my calling. I remember that feeling from as early as the tenth grade when my high school English teacher pulled me aside to ask if I would consider joining the school newspaper staff. "You really do have strong writing skills," is what Ms. Thandholt had said to me. I signed up for a year of Journalism class and spent my senior year writing silly feature articles for the Inklings newspaper. I didn't much care for the roving reporter aspect and writing strict news articles, however, so I didn't continue the journalistic adventure into college.

Writing is a hobby. A way to organize my thoughts, feelings and ideas. But I'm still not convinced that it's a calling.

Perhaps if a calling hits me I can use my hobby of writing to EXPLORE the said calling. But no, I don't have one just yet.

And I guess in Oprah's eyes, or whomever else's, that signals some kind of weakness or emptiness or something.

We must be careful who we listen to. C'est nous qui sommes les proprieteres de notre vie.

In Another Time...

In another time
from Sade's new album Soldier of Love


(currently playing on rotation at work and this song fills my mind when the day is long....)


You'll be surprised girl,
Soon they will mean nothing to you
They will fall into their own brew
And take down some of the boys
With them too
There's nothing
nothing that you have to do
In another time girl
Tears wont leave a trace
In another time girl
In another place
You were down girl,
Their whispers are hailstones in your face
So tired of waiting
For something to change
They don't know what to do with
something so good
But you wouldn't hurt them,
you wouldn't hurt them if you could
One of these days they gonna fall into their brew
And they will know exactly what they did to you
Darling I just want you to know
Your tears wont leave a trace,
In another time girl,
In another time girl
in another place

mystery

i am often amazed, and i don't know why, that mystery and intrigue is such a mandatory sensation (is that the word i'm looking for?) in many people's lives.  whether it is through the films we watch or books we read or simply the LIVES we choose to live, it is always the element of the unknown that keeps people clinging for more.

i'd even go so far to say that i think there are people walking this world who simply cannot be satisfied without mystery in his or her life.

i bring this up for several reasons.  the main reason due to an ongoing conflict i have going on mentally with one person in particular in this world.  while i consider myself to be a very exploratory person and even perhaps seek inspiration in the UNKNOWN, i am just rattled to the point of CREATIVE BLOCK in my lack of clear vision in regards to this ONE PERSON.

and another reason i bring it up is that i often wonder how much mystery in the world is created with full intent. manufactured mystery.

and yet another reason i ponder all this is that why is there such great fear among some folks to let this mystery fade?

i suppose i grew up as a child and have lived a life thus far never feeling quite certain of really anything that probably seemed quite simple to others.  was i loved?  was i ill?  would i ever succeed?  would i ever have enough money to assert a comfortable life for myself?  in turn, would i ever have a family of my own?  and even more questions and uncertainties plague me each day...

so i suppose that is where the line must be drawn...between MYSTERY and UNCERTAINTY.

i won't even pretend to know science but often wish i did so i could apply some sense to the wackiness that my mind sometimes creates.  this is an interesting concept:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uncertainty_principle

hibrrrrrrnating some more

Oh the cold weather.

It gets the best of me. I never have two consecutive days off so I try to make the best time of my free days. But that dang Chicago cold!

Attempted to write some more. Fueled by coffee and warm fuzzy slippers and itchy brain cells, I 'vomited' on paper some more. Kind of like I'm doing now. Fruitless. Perhaps I need to re-read Stephen King's On Writing. Whatever happened to my copy?

There is a tale in me that I want to tell. Or as some say, perhaps everyone's got a book in 'em. What carries the stories that we hear in our lifetimes? The relatedness of our journeys? The fantasy? The hook? The character development? The dilemma? The unique voice?

I draw from a unique set of experiences. I have this itch to explain them and paint them and share them, but they will not hold any meaning to me unless they are understood. Well, not even understood, but I do ask that they have the ability to connect to the reader. I try out some of these stories/experiences in spoken stories with my husband and a few select friends, and the reaction I get is not one of connection. "Do you understand? Does this make sense?" And the answer is always various stages of 'No.' If I can't allow them to make sense for those close to me, how do I know what connection lies beyond?

I once tried my hand participating in an art show. I don't think it's fair to label myself an artist because I do not possess the God-given gift that others do. But as a creative person, I wanted to challenge myself in a new way. It was a staff show that took place at a gallery in Pilsen, joined together by my coworkers at the time of Museum of Contemporary Art. The pieces included installations, paintings, drawings, videos, you name it - coming from all levels of talent. It was a nerve-wracking experience for me. But I did it.

My piece was something I came up with as a means of connecting a conversation with other artistic mediums. Being a fan of music and such a lover of words, I often wonder what stories lie behind the reality of a song. I scoured thrift shops for the perfect worn-out stereo speaker surrounded with the perfect type of wood to which I could burn the words. I skipped an Easter Sunday with the family and sat in my old apartment by the lake listening to music on the radio as my woodburning wand spent 15 plus hours engraving a message across the broken-down sound system. The message was as ephemeral as a three-minute song and doesn't even bear repeating at this point, but it was clear to at least one person.

Someone sitting at the gallery relayed the message to me that a man came over to her to comment specifically on how much he enjoyed my piece. All of those works in that space and he chose to comment on mine and mine alone.

That's all that mattered to me, especially in remembrance of everything that had happened a few weeks later in my life.

Maybe one day I'll muster up the courage to try it all again.