So I'm writing. I'm writing and I'm writing, and not worried about it making any sense until it all ends up fitting together.
Today I sat down at the computer and my thoughts returned to the dream I had last night. I dreamed of my father, a rare occurrence. I'd have to say it was inevitable because I've been thinking about him so much lately, especially since I've revisited Meat Loaf's Bat Out Of Hell. Anyone who knows my immediate family knows that my parents passed on a mind-boggling love of music to my brother and me.
It's because of them that Hammie and I will call each other at random times to say, "Hey have you heard of...?" Or "You gotta listen to this song." I truly believe that the love of music was one of the things that kept our parents together for so long. I mean, if it weren't for The Beatles, I wouldn't be here - when my father picked my mother up for their first date, he noticed her record collection and they stayed in all night talking and listening to music. They were married maybe a year later, and I was the result of the honeymoon in Bermuda.
When my brother turned 11, my parents gave him a Fender Stratocaster that he still plays. When I was 8, they encouraged me to pick up an instrument and it was then that I started playing the violin. Not to mention being taught to use the voices we were blessed with - both my brother and I were chorus members throughout our entire school careers, with a couple rounds of All State Choir stints thrown in. People still talk about my brother, my father and me doing trios in church.
Hammie now plays with Pop's band and it's like my father is standing there holding that Gibson guitar. I haven't touched the violin since high school, but it still sits in my room and once I scrape together the money to get it back up to par - violins are finicky instruments, susceptible to the elements and neglect - I will make it sing again.
So I sat down to write today and I was going to start with the dream. But it hit me - I am not ready to write about my father yet. I don't think I even addressed his death in my personal journal; if I did it was more of a statement and I stopped writing for a while. No one wants to relive the tragedy of losing a parent so sudden and unexpectedly. One day I will be strong enough, but I feel like it needs to be soon. It's not a matter of enough time passing (it's been about two and a half years,) but a matter of whether or not my head and my heart are ready.
Writing about my father will be like opening a giant can of worms. You can't focus on the good things alone when writing for your life. This can sits in front of me, waiting, beckoning for me to open it. It's only a matter of time.
Two Weeks 'Til Party Time
I can't believe summer is almost over. Damn near feels like I haven't even had one, between the issues we had opening the pool, working what feels like 24/7, and more uncooperative weather than I've seen in years. At least I've got one more month to salvage what's left of my favorite season.
August will be kicked off with my 30th birthday party - an Italian style cook out with 50 or so of my closest friends, live music, pool volleyball, and most likely late night skinny dipping for those that are brave enough to shed their bathing suits when the sun goes down.
I haven't hosted a party of this magnitude in years. I'm freaking out just a bit. Do I make 50 meatballs? Or 100? Two trays of sausage and peppers? My neighbor is going to slow roast a pork shoulder for me as well. Shit, how many dozens of Serpe's rolls will I need? Is 30 too old to still have a birthday cake with a photo of 311 and I on it? (According to my brother, yes. I beg to differ.) At least the week before the party I will be home from work by 4 or 5. No more of this 9:30 shit. I'll be able to do all of the grocery shopping, cooking and other prep without taking time off.
While most of my friends were/are not too happy about turning 30 this year, I decided to embrace it. I'm sure there is a small part of me that feels the way they do, but I'm doing my best to ignore it. It's one of the reasons I decided to have a huge party - to celebrate the end of my third decade and the beginning of a new one. I've done most of the things on my Dirty Thirty Bucket List - I cruised with 311, I improved my health and self-image, I quit one job and tried another career path. I like what Tyler responded with when I told him I had made the decision that pharmaceuticals were not for me and I was going back to photography - "You did what you had to do, you tested the waters and learned it wasn't right for you. You have to do what makes you happy. It's all about balancing work, life, and the pursuit of happiness." Ty is one of my dearest friends, and his support of my decision means a lot to me.
So the fact that I can say I've come a long way this past year is a big deal to me. What better way to celebrate than at home, in my backyard, with people I love, good food, good drinks and good music?
August will be kicked off with my 30th birthday party - an Italian style cook out with 50 or so of my closest friends, live music, pool volleyball, and most likely late night skinny dipping for those that are brave enough to shed their bathing suits when the sun goes down.
I haven't hosted a party of this magnitude in years. I'm freaking out just a bit. Do I make 50 meatballs? Or 100? Two trays of sausage and peppers? My neighbor is going to slow roast a pork shoulder for me as well. Shit, how many dozens of Serpe's rolls will I need? Is 30 too old to still have a birthday cake with a photo of 311 and I on it? (According to my brother, yes. I beg to differ.) At least the week before the party I will be home from work by 4 or 5. No more of this 9:30 shit. I'll be able to do all of the grocery shopping, cooking and other prep without taking time off.
While most of my friends were/are not too happy about turning 30 this year, I decided to embrace it. I'm sure there is a small part of me that feels the way they do, but I'm doing my best to ignore it. It's one of the reasons I decided to have a huge party - to celebrate the end of my third decade and the beginning of a new one. I've done most of the things on my Dirty Thirty Bucket List - I cruised with 311, I improved my health and self-image, I quit one job and tried another career path. I like what Tyler responded with when I told him I had made the decision that pharmaceuticals were not for me and I was going back to photography - "You did what you had to do, you tested the waters and learned it wasn't right for you. You have to do what makes you happy. It's all about balancing work, life, and the pursuit of happiness." Ty is one of my dearest friends, and his support of my decision means a lot to me.
So the fact that I can say I've come a long way this past year is a big deal to me. What better way to celebrate than at home, in my backyard, with people I love, good food, good drinks and good music?
Wasted Youth
I remember everything! I remember every little thing as if it happened only yesterday. I was barely seventeen and I once killed a boy with a Fender guitar. I don't remember if it was a Telecaster or a Stratocaster but I do remember that it had a heart of chrome and a voice like a horny angel. I don't remember if it was a Telecaster or a Stratocaster but I do remember that it wasn't at all easy. It required the perfect combination of the right power chords and the precise angle from which to strike.
The guitar bled for about a week afterward and the blood was, ohhh, dark and rich, like wild berries. The blood of the guitar was chuck berry red. The guitar bled for about a week afterward but it rung. Out. Beautifully. And I was able to play notes that I had never even heard before.
So I took my guitar, and I smashed it against the wall! I smashed it against the floor! I smashed it against the body of a varsity cheerleader! I smashed it against the hood of a car! Smashed it against a 1981 Harley Davidson! The Harley howled in pain! The guitar howled in heat....and I ran up the stairs to my parents' bedroom - Mommy and Daddy were sleeping in the moonlight.
Slowly I opened the door, creeping through the shadows right up to the foot of their bed. I raised the guitar high above my head, and just as I was about to bring the guitar crashing down upon the center of the bed, my father woke up screaming, "Stop! Wait a minute! Stop it boy! What do you think you're doing?! That's no way to treat an expensive musical instrument!"
And I said "God dammit Daddy! You know I love you. BUT YOU'VE GOT A HELL OF A LOT TO LEARN ABOUT ROCK AND ROLL!"
Jim Steinman
The guitar bled for about a week afterward and the blood was, ohhh, dark and rich, like wild berries. The blood of the guitar was chuck berry red. The guitar bled for about a week afterward but it rung. Out. Beautifully. And I was able to play notes that I had never even heard before.
So I took my guitar, and I smashed it against the wall! I smashed it against the floor! I smashed it against the body of a varsity cheerleader! I smashed it against the hood of a car! Smashed it against a 1981 Harley Davidson! The Harley howled in pain! The guitar howled in heat....and I ran up the stairs to my parents' bedroom - Mommy and Daddy were sleeping in the moonlight.
Slowly I opened the door, creeping through the shadows right up to the foot of their bed. I raised the guitar high above my head, and just as I was about to bring the guitar crashing down upon the center of the bed, my father woke up screaming, "Stop! Wait a minute! Stop it boy! What do you think you're doing?! That's no way to treat an expensive musical instrument!"
And I said "God dammit Daddy! You know I love you. BUT YOU'VE GOT A HELL OF A LOT TO LEARN ABOUT ROCK AND ROLL!"
Jim Steinman
Back In The Saddle, Again
Okay, so quick update before it's time to get ready for work.
I did it. I went and saw my old boss and I'm already back on the schedule for August. I put in my two weeks' notice at work and am counting down the hours and minutes until I will never have to see that place again. (As I write this I realize I need to write my resignation letter. HR isn't in until Monday though so I have some time.)
Come August I will be back in the midst of the chaos and couldn't be happier. That chaos is where I belong, in the middle of that big, dysfunctional yet loving family of photographers. You can't kill the creative side of your brain. I tried, twice, and failed. So I'm just going to go with it.
I have started writing for real. I have pages and pages coming together and it's blowing my mind. Granted, I'm somewhat all over the place right now, but it's just the beginning and we all have to start somewhere. The fluidity of the pace at which I am writing is astounding, when last year I couldn't get a paragraph done. I realized that when it comes to writing, get it out and then worry about structure. I had tried outlines, creating characters and organizational thinking to no avail. It wasn't until I said screw it and just started going with whatever was in my head at the moment that it all started coming together. The characters will build themselves. The story line will be under construction until the last sentence is written. But my main focus is that whatever this turns into - whether it ends up a short story or a novel - will be something people will want to read. It will be something they can relate to. It will be interesting. It will be heart wrenching. It will be heartwarming, it will be uplifting, it will be funny, it will be sexy. It will be my life, or whatever I choose to make it, on paper. Because trust me kids, my trips around the sun have been far from boring.
I did it. I went and saw my old boss and I'm already back on the schedule for August. I put in my two weeks' notice at work and am counting down the hours and minutes until I will never have to see that place again. (As I write this I realize I need to write my resignation letter. HR isn't in until Monday though so I have some time.)
Come August I will be back in the midst of the chaos and couldn't be happier. That chaos is where I belong, in the middle of that big, dysfunctional yet loving family of photographers. You can't kill the creative side of your brain. I tried, twice, and failed. So I'm just going to go with it.
I have started writing for real. I have pages and pages coming together and it's blowing my mind. Granted, I'm somewhat all over the place right now, but it's just the beginning and we all have to start somewhere. The fluidity of the pace at which I am writing is astounding, when last year I couldn't get a paragraph done. I realized that when it comes to writing, get it out and then worry about structure. I had tried outlines, creating characters and organizational thinking to no avail. It wasn't until I said screw it and just started going with whatever was in my head at the moment that it all started coming together. The characters will build themselves. The story line will be under construction until the last sentence is written. But my main focus is that whatever this turns into - whether it ends up a short story or a novel - will be something people will want to read. It will be something they can relate to. It will be interesting. It will be heart wrenching. It will be heartwarming, it will be uplifting, it will be funny, it will be sexy. It will be my life, or whatever I choose to make it, on paper. Because trust me kids, my trips around the sun have been far from boring.
I Create My Own Confusion
Here I am back again at square one in regards to what I do for a living. If a living is even what you can call it; I'm scraping by unable to save a dime. Sure, having health benefits is great, still being paid for time off is great, but the toll it is taking on my sanity is of a magnitude I didn't think possible. No wonder 40-hour-a-week drones, those who spend that time in a cubicle or at a desk, are miserable. I'm not even in a cubicle but I lose my damn mind walking into that same building every day, going into the same locker room, putting on the same scrubs, and doing the same jobs over and over again. The time just drags on, and I spend more of it there than I do anywhere else.
Yes, I know how lucky I am to even have a job. I also realize how lucky I am to have the ability to make choices when it comes to my job and what I do to pay the bills. The enormity of it is not lost on me. BUT...
I've begun to ask myself, Is this the quality of life I want? I know, I know. It's only been four months. I've applied for two different positions within the company; I didn't get the first one for reasons I completely understand, but I wanted to prove I had the guts and gusto to move upwards. Still waiting to be interviewed for the second one, or at least hear something, and it the outcome just might make the decision for me - the decision I'd never thought I'd face again and the conclusion I've already come to - that this is not for me. I walk around that place and think, I am not like these people. I can't handle this. I need to be using the other side of my brain again. At least the stress that caused me was worth it in some twisted way.
The stress I'm experiencing now is of a whole different caliber - working twice as hard for less money, missing my family, my life, popping one or two Klonopins just to get through the day. With my old job they were there if I needed them, but it was rare that I had to run to the bathroom with a bottle of water and dig through my purse in search of my prescription. (Which reminds me, I need to get it refilled for the first time in almost an entire year. What does that say?)
I don't know what the hell to do. My old job is beckoning me to come back. Come back Dana, your passion isn't dead. Come back, you can make a few small demands from your old boss that would make it worth it to both you and him.
Now that my major debt is paid off, I'd be able to sock away some money. I'd be able to repay those who have helped me out, because right now, the paycheck goes into my account and then right back out, regardless of the fact that I have slashed my monthly bills by almost a third. I've been sitting on $20 since last Monday to get me through until this Friday.
Maybe I needed a break from the photography gig to reset my mind frame. Maybe I needed a wake up call to realize how good I had it, even with all of the traffic and snot nosed brats that I had to make look fabulous. I remember cutting the grass one day, my thoughts following the trails I was making while pushing the mower, and thinking, Maybe being the Picture Lady, being the school portrait photographer, for the rest of my life wouldn't have been such a bad gig. At least there I had coworkers I looked up to and aspired to be like. At least there, when summer time came, I had the ability and freedom to express my creativity by taking actual portraits that wouldn't just be discarded the following year. Oh and the stories I had. The stories I would come home with were some of the best.
Like I said, I don't know what the hell to do. I am more confused now than I've ever been. What does my heart want? What does God want for me?
I better get my ass in gear and head to the gym to (hopefully) clear my head a bit before it's time to go to work. Shudder.
Yes, I know how lucky I am to even have a job. I also realize how lucky I am to have the ability to make choices when it comes to my job and what I do to pay the bills. The enormity of it is not lost on me. BUT...
I've begun to ask myself, Is this the quality of life I want? I know, I know. It's only been four months. I've applied for two different positions within the company; I didn't get the first one for reasons I completely understand, but I wanted to prove I had the guts and gusto to move upwards. Still waiting to be interviewed for the second one, or at least hear something, and it the outcome just might make the decision for me - the decision I'd never thought I'd face again and the conclusion I've already come to - that this is not for me. I walk around that place and think, I am not like these people. I can't handle this. I need to be using the other side of my brain again. At least the stress that caused me was worth it in some twisted way.
The stress I'm experiencing now is of a whole different caliber - working twice as hard for less money, missing my family, my life, popping one or two Klonopins just to get through the day. With my old job they were there if I needed them, but it was rare that I had to run to the bathroom with a bottle of water and dig through my purse in search of my prescription. (Which reminds me, I need to get it refilled for the first time in almost an entire year. What does that say?)
I don't know what the hell to do. My old job is beckoning me to come back. Come back Dana, your passion isn't dead. Come back, you can make a few small demands from your old boss that would make it worth it to both you and him.
Now that my major debt is paid off, I'd be able to sock away some money. I'd be able to repay those who have helped me out, because right now, the paycheck goes into my account and then right back out, regardless of the fact that I have slashed my monthly bills by almost a third. I've been sitting on $20 since last Monday to get me through until this Friday.
Maybe I needed a break from the photography gig to reset my mind frame. Maybe I needed a wake up call to realize how good I had it, even with all of the traffic and snot nosed brats that I had to make look fabulous. I remember cutting the grass one day, my thoughts following the trails I was making while pushing the mower, and thinking, Maybe being the Picture Lady, being the school portrait photographer, for the rest of my life wouldn't have been such a bad gig. At least there I had coworkers I looked up to and aspired to be like. At least there, when summer time came, I had the ability and freedom to express my creativity by taking actual portraits that wouldn't just be discarded the following year. Oh and the stories I had. The stories I would come home with were some of the best.
Like I said, I don't know what the hell to do. I am more confused now than I've ever been. What does my heart want? What does God want for me?
I better get my ass in gear and head to the gym to (hopefully) clear my head a bit before it's time to go to work. Shudder.
My Journey Back To Faith, Part 3
I am so thankful for Philip. We have both been helping each other rekindle our relationships with God. He grew up in the church much like I did, he strayed from the church much like I did, he was searching for a way back much like I was and we openly discussed our faith and our struggles. I had never been with someone with the same background as me when it came to the church. My ex had always denounced going to church and dragging him there even for special occasions or if I was performing with the choir was like pulling teeth. It made me sad because for most of the time we were together, my faith had been growing and evolving and he, indirectly or not, stunted it.
When Philip and I started dating I had already been toying with the idea of going back to church. One Saturday night as we were getting ready for bed he asked me if I would like to go to church with him the following morning, as if he had read my mind. Thus began our Sunday morning ritual of attending Gateway Church in Parkesburg. And I love it there. It's based on the same principles of the church I used to attend, but it lacks the pretentiousness I was so accustomed to. The congregation as a whole has a sense of genuineness that I missed so much, and the teachings are applicable to real life as opposed to ones that could only be so if one lived in a bubble. When I walked in the door for the first time, my fear of being judged or shunned melted away. Shit, I walk into my own church still feeling that way regardless of the fact that most of the congregation there has known me since I was five years old. I've only been attending Gateway for maybe two months and already feel at home. The pastor is a warm, openly emotional, approachable guy who one can expect a bear hug from in the foyer on Sunday mornings before the service. My first time there he seemed genuinely delighted to meet me, as did the other members I was introduced to by Philip - and to see the look on their faces when he would announce that I was the inspiration for him coming back, well, I can't really describe that feeling. It was as if someone had returned their lost puppy after months of searching for it.
It doesn't matter if we walk in there wearing the same clothes from the night before or me in yoga pants and flip flops, no makeup and hair in a messy ponytail, Philip in the shirt he probably slept in, his giant septum ring proudly on display - no one bats an eye or turns to the person next to them, whispering judgement. They're happy to see us there.
To be continued...
When Philip and I started dating I had already been toying with the idea of going back to church. One Saturday night as we were getting ready for bed he asked me if I would like to go to church with him the following morning, as if he had read my mind. Thus began our Sunday morning ritual of attending Gateway Church in Parkesburg. And I love it there. It's based on the same principles of the church I used to attend, but it lacks the pretentiousness I was so accustomed to. The congregation as a whole has a sense of genuineness that I missed so much, and the teachings are applicable to real life as opposed to ones that could only be so if one lived in a bubble. When I walked in the door for the first time, my fear of being judged or shunned melted away. Shit, I walk into my own church still feeling that way regardless of the fact that most of the congregation there has known me since I was five years old. I've only been attending Gateway for maybe two months and already feel at home. The pastor is a warm, openly emotional, approachable guy who one can expect a bear hug from in the foyer on Sunday mornings before the service. My first time there he seemed genuinely delighted to meet me, as did the other members I was introduced to by Philip - and to see the look on their faces when he would announce that I was the inspiration for him coming back, well, I can't really describe that feeling. It was as if someone had returned their lost puppy after months of searching for it.
It doesn't matter if we walk in there wearing the same clothes from the night before or me in yoga pants and flip flops, no makeup and hair in a messy ponytail, Philip in the shirt he probably slept in, his giant septum ring proudly on display - no one bats an eye or turns to the person next to them, whispering judgement. They're happy to see us there.
To be continued...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
