wild hearts

Wayne has always been more romantic than I am. I used to beat myself up about that. He loves to stand in line, picking out chocolates at Jacques Torres, and go out to nice restaurants and send me flowers. When I started my short lived producing gig at Waterfront last fall, he sent me flowers my first week there. I remember carrying that big bouquet back to my desk, everyone suddenly asking me who had sent them. When I said, 'my boyfriend', suddenly eyes turned a little sad. Guys started defending themselves for no reason, proclaiming how much they hated things like Valentine's Day and all fake, corporate announcements of affection. Girls started pouting that their boyfriends never send them flowers. And there I stood, in the middle of it it. My beautiful bouquet of flowers, sent to me out of love, were suddenly making everyone around me feel like crap.

That's why I have mixed feelings about Valentine's Day; some people feel really great on this day. A lot of other people feel like crap. And it's all government imposed!

What if we did Valentine's Day like Secret Santa, and everyone got a gift? How different this whole week would be.

the best part of my day

part time hos, full time bitches

Yesterday was a rough one. It didn't start off that way. I got up late, watched cooking shows in my pajamas. Had a classmate over for a few hours to talk shop, help him edit a video project. And then I decided to run a gang of errands. In downtown Brooklyn. On a Saturday.

The gruesome aftereffect of being a recent recipient of a blood transfusion, is that every little ailment I feel, I wonder if it's something bigger. Like, I have heartburn, but it's on my left side so it must be the beginning of a heart attack. Or, my leg fell asleep, must be gangrene! Anyway, after a few hours running around in the cold, I started coughing, feeling faint, not able to breathe so easily. I couldn't walk as fast, which of course made Wayne sit and stare at me for hours, asking me if I was okay every 30 seconds. I think I was trying to do too much too soon. I don't like it that my body is not bouncing back as quick as I would like it to.

To add insult to injury, on the walk home, a car passed us, blasting this lovely chorus from its speakers: "they must be part time hos, full-time bitches". And, repeat. I didn't really even hear the exact words, but Wayne pointed them out to me.

Do you ever see the world like a cartoon? Like, right in front of your eyes, things you never thought were possible start to play out and you can't believe you're seeing this? Then you realize these events are not real? Well right then, I saw myself as a cartoon character. I saw myself running up to that guy's car, sticking my head into his window and biting his @^*&$ing head off. Then taking his car and pitching it into the side of a building. Then walking back to Wayne and roaring at him until the noise made his ears bleed and his glasses splinter and fall off. Because really, sometimes guys point things out to you that you really didn't need to know and you have to wonder, what was the point of showing me that? Like, you're just walking along, having a good ole time, and suddenly a guy will say, "hey, look at the piece of human feces across the street!" And you'll just look at him and shake your head and think, why in the world did you point that out to me? But, I digress.

The feelings that came crashing into me then were completely misdirected; I was pouring rage into that moment from years past, the pain of every woman who has had to hear something like that blasted from car speakers, in front of grandmothers and babies, like a public assassination of me, my character, my gender, my body, my foremothers. How dare he judge me! I thought. How dare he think so little of me. But instead of screaming out loud, these words came out of my mouth:

"Someone must have hurt him pretty bad."

And like that, the beast returned to my body.

Imagine...what if I could diffuse every situation by stating the truth? What if politicians could? What if the world could? Just makes me think.

jealousy

pic courtesy of Bohemian Girl

I love reading Andrea Scher's blog over on superhero journal. I used to go there almost everyday for inspiration and Andrea's awesome photographs. Seeing her jewelry inspired me to make and sell my own.

But, I must say, about once a year, I get knock-down, drag out, green with envy jealous of Andrea. Once a year, she gets together with a few of her girlfriends, who are all creative, independent businesswomen, and the rejuvenate each other through sisterhood and creative spirit. Every year, they each take pictures of their time together, post them on their separate blogs. And every year I get red hot with envy. And some really awful things go through my mind:

They must be rich, that's why they have the time to do this.
They're young, rich, white ladies, and that's why they can do this.
They're all mothers who have struggled to conceive. That's why I can't relate to them. Only mothers can be in their club.
Everything is easier for them. They never have any troubles in their life.

Here's the thing; I don't really believe these things. My mind just makes up those things to protect me from the real things I am feeling:

I wish I could be that open and free.
I wish I felt that loved and accepted by other women. I wish more women loved and accepted each other this openly.
I want to have this connection with my girlfriends. I want to not be afraid that if I did propose this to my friends, they wouldn't disappointment me and a) not make time to do it, and b) think its a stupid idea.

A lot goes into jealousy, huh?

This year, I am trying to think differently about Andrea and her juicy girlfriends and the wonderful trip they have committed to take together, every year. I decided, not only did I not need to create this for myself just now, just to feel included, but I could also just love this group of women for inspiring me. Maybe I'll do something like this in the future. Maybe this will inspire me to do something even greater. Or maybe I'll just let them inspire me, every year and leave it at that. I don't have to have a conclusion about this now. But, I am trying to see jealousy for what it really is: just a wee bit of sadness, a little loneliness, and a lot of misdirected hostility.

me and heath

I tend to throw anger at everything, as if being angry at something or someone will make them go away, and protect me in the process. Like a guard dog; I only growl because I want to protect what's in the house.

I'm really angry at Heath Ledger. I'm mad that I won't be able to enjoy his amazing performances for years to come. I know anger is probably not the reaction I should be having for someone who is no longer alive, but dammit Heath! Who knew how much I cared about Heath Ledger? Even I didn't know until he was gone. His death and the way the media has handled it is so crazy; I wonder why people even chase celebrity anymore. Do they really want that many people to love them? Do they really not love themselves THAT much?

Well, he didn't know it and neither did I, but I loved Heath Ledger. And even though I'm mad at him, I'm grateful to have experienced what I believe are his two best performances (in Monster's Ball and Brokeback Mountain). We don't get to experience raw emotion and skill and human connection like that everyday, and for that, I'm really happy. I'll get over being mad at him. But, it's hard to get over the fact that I won't get to see all of his possibilities.

R.I.P

there will be blood

I spent last night in the hospital. I haven't been admitted into a hospital in nearly 12 years. It's just as pleasant as I remember.

Whenever I get sick, depressed or otherwise down, I often isolate. I think isolating lends itself to my whole fantasy that I am invincible; if others aren't around to mention that I'm not doing so well, than I don't have to face that fact. But this time, I was really sick, and there was no getting out of it; I needed help.

I have developed a genetic condition called PCOS, an insulin resistance, which is actually very common and often affects girls and women with a family history of diabetes. Just about everyone in my family has diabetes. As a side effect, I had a period that went on too long and I lost a lot of blood. I honestly never gave any thought to how important blood is, until I could barely make it from the couch to the bathroom without breathing like a heavy smoker, and my calves became cramped from anemia.

I had a moment there, sitting in that hospital bed, hooked up to machines, wearing a thin gown, when all of the things I don't like about myself and all of the flaws I thought were so big, suddenly seemed to small and so ridiculous. Honestly, who cares that I've gained weight and don't look like I used to in high school? That my eyebrows haven't been plucked in awhile and I need a manicure? That I'm still in school, fighting for that digital media degree? That I can be distant sometimes, or maybe not so nice? That I haven't won an Oscar, or I don't read nearly enough books as I think I should? None of these things really matter when you don't have your health.

I remember waking up once while I was lying there, getting a blood transfusion, with about six doctors standing over me, asking me how I was feeling. I said, "I've got someone else's blood running into my vein; how do you think I'm feeling?" And then I fell asleep again.

Sometimes I love me EXTRA much.

happy new year!

Here's me and my momma when she cam to visit in December. Isn't she cute?

I'm trying to take better care of my hair in '08. I started new dreads in February last year, but by July, they still hadn't set! Every time I washed my hair, I had to start the dreads from scratch all over again. Finally, I said screw it and took them all out. I went to the salon and told them they could do whatever they wanted with my head, just don't relax it. So, this is me with all my split ends cut off, and my hair pressed with a hot comb. There's something so nurturing about having someone else wash my hair hair, condition it, cut it and style it. I love my salon, btw, Burzh-Wa, on Myrtle in Brooklyn. Ask for Kim!