A new year.  A revised self. 
Less talking, more doing.  Doing. 
Doing doing.  How do I do?  I am so used to thinking about an action, which in my mind is as good as actually performing that action.  But that has only produced false realities.  For too long I have let indecision be the decision.  Clearly, my list of have-nots has accumulated to a painful pang in my chest that I cannot let exist anymore as my boundary of thought.  I must break through.  So, instead of imagining an action, these vapors of mine are collecting, growing, and forming a weighted substance.

I see what I want and I will fetch it.  But how do I get from point A to point C?  This is not something I am used to doing on my own.  I must figure out the mechanics of point B, and I am doing this now. 

I did not learn my alphabet without B. 

B smart B proactive B a doer.  Sometimes it sucks, just to B.

But for now, I will make it work.  For now, forever, I am a revised person. 
Right now, I am in the B.

archeology of self

The reality is that the excavation never stops.  The constant need to have the tools ready.... the tools that search, that dig, that aim to tap that vein of truth, of passion, of self-understanding awaiting discovery inside each one of us.

I slowly chip away at finding and knowing the structure within me.  The bones of my soul.  The calm peace of being in tune and aware and in quiet control.

But I continually feel I dig in dry places, and that my precious time in life is squandered, wasted, by my falsely-guided meanderings.  By the ticking of time my metronome clicks back and forth, one heartbeat at a time, one wreckingball pendulum swung at a time, un-doing the me I thought I was.

The renovations.  The ebb and flow of surely knowing who I was with the inevitable taste of wondering who I am, anyway.

I crumble down.
I start back up.
And I rebuild, with what I have already unearthed.
I brush away at my fossils, at my truths, that I am bringing to life.

That, again.

It took me by a slowly realized surprise. 
The hollow that creeps. 
The sadness that fills with its bold void, all four chambers of my metronome core, a temporary sense of Ugh.  I went to Target today to scope out the Mother's Day card selection.  Scanning the rows for something funny or cute (oh how I so dislike the sappy stuff!), the section labeled Grandmother caught my eye.  Then my sights lingered on the Sister assortment, especially.  Cool.  Two cards I would normally buy as well, completely eliminated from my choosing this year.  And forever more. 

I didn't even expect that I didn't expect that to surprise me.  But it did.

Unavoidable tokens of others missing from life.  I love them mostly, and hate them sometimes.... the reminders.  The encouraging note from Christine I used as a bookmark, forgotten, slips out of my novel as I thumb the pages.  My grandma's earrings that I quietly feel privileged wearing glitter through my hair.  They are there and they are not.  Life takes shape, breaks down, and reforms.  Learning to hear the whispers of them, now, is the challenge is the sadness is the beauty.

Coupling

Today?  Ask me about today. 

For the first in...shit, I can't remember, I possess a genuine happy outlook.  I can sense it from my chest, beaming outward.  It's been a while since I have felt that happy heat, that positive energy, self-generated from an inner mysterious center of who-knows-what kinda love.

It's January.  The first month of the new year and I believe 2012 will be a fresh start.  End of the world?  Okay.  The end is the beginning is the end, and so forth.  I've got plans.  Morocco and Portugal, a wedding I have the privilege of being in, Coachella, and countless other randoms to look forward to.  Again, the inescapable ying yang combo comes into play in every life scenario.  I am constantly awoken by dreams of my sister, I'm crying the energy out of me into her arms, a serene comfort, evanescent, temporary, bittersweet presence of the now of my sleep.  Is she there?  Are you there?  Is that really you?  Or just a cast shadow of what was.  No, it's you.  It's her.  I know it.

So there's that.  Life.

I feel good.

2011

2011: I shake my head at you.  I ask, WTF?  Always taking pride in my resilient nature, green and cheerful and always there, like the thickest of crabgrass to the finest of blades, I feel my spry sprig of a soul wilting in the unrest.  This year has been the swing of a nine-iron, steady and assuming at first, then bashing through my brain and gouging out divets the size of craters from my heart.  Will these holes fill up?  Or cave in even more?

Questions questions all these questions.  Where do I belong? What should I be doing right now? What's best? Who's best? Why do I keep choosing half-hearted manboys? What are my talents? How come I don't use them? Why do I keep making mistakes? What is a mistake? Since when did I become dramatic and negative? 
...I thought I was positive? 

Where's the ying to this fucking yang, cuz I'm ready for some light.

Bugged Me

I consider myself addicted to observing humanity.  Not only do I find casual enjoyment in studying people's behaviors, actions and reactions to a situation, but that shit truly fascinates me because it's real and it's daily and it's life. 

Now, I also believe that we are a creative species with good and not so good functions.

Observed experience:  I was floating in the pool today, and a mother frantically swats at a bee and smacks it dead on the concrete with her flip flop bottom.  Her 10 year old son looks at her, confused maybe, curious a little, and asks, "Mom, why did you kill that bee and it didn't do anything to you?"  Mom very confidently snaps "You want that to sting you? No. Didn't think so. That's why we kill bees."

My thoughts:  Unless you or your kid is gonna drop dead from anaphylactic shock, alerted epi-pen in hand ready to jab... the fact is that bee won't sting unless it feels threatened (i.e. swinging arms, swatting).  So tone down the hype, preserve the peace and let it go and do its bee thaaaang.  Do you know what I mean?  It's like, people create an idea that they're threatened and panic and construct a disorder that then develops into a normalcy and is functional amidst the dysfunction, a new defense lens through which much, then, becomes bent.  The bee example is only the tip of the iceberg, people living for that one small percentage of a maybe-moment in concern that they might get hurt.  Hmm.

...

Deep into the night she and I would talk.  "I'm not long for this world, Steph."  She'd take a pause of silence and for me, that void of sound with her sigh of sadness peaked the comment's drama.  I hated the drama.  I'd rush a sprinkle of "Oh just stop it, stop saying that" into the conversation but she'd press her belief firmly into the mind of mine denying credence of her thoughts. 

But she was right. 
Just dead for a day and I already miss my sister.