Tummy ache

My computer won't shut down and my stomach's in knots. I don't know who gave it to me, and I don't know if she's worth it. I didn't know a dog could be the boss of me and I'm not sure a future of being her boss is what I want anymore, ever again. She's back in my life, and her, and things with her are confusing. Buddha stops me just at the last second and I never regret it, so I guess that means it's right.

I've been working on following my dreams and now that the hard work is paying off I feel caught up in a whirlwind I wasn't exactly sure would ever really happen. At what point did I commit? Well, I know when, if I'm honest, and it was long ago, and it had every thing to do with the absence of "I'm thinking about" and actually doing. I've been doing.

On that warm in the snow track with heavy footsteps determined behind me; no one knows my resilience. Yes, I think I better run today, and no, I still don't know exactly from what. It gets closer, or farther, depending on how you look at it. It gets better or worse too. All I have is me and it's not my fault, but it's starting to be.

Breaky Break... how predictable

I guess we all knew I'd make it back here eventually. Well, I did anyway.

It's that time of year. I feel prepared, ready, proud. What a feeling pride can be. How confusing and not like I expected.

I really might not make the Minneapolis team because of those three missed scoring opportunities. Still. I played. I went out there. I did it. It is a lot to face, my biggest dream. I didn't know it would feel so much like my greatest fear, but in this exhilarating way. Different than those other fears.

Well, that was quick. All I really wanted to get out is that I might not make the team. Not because I'm not good enough or didn't try hard enough or whatever, just that I might not. I missed those three shots. One too many touchs on the first break away. "Coach" put it well: 'trust your left foot.' Then the spin off cross. Oh fuck, and the fucking over-the-goal. Pushups Struble. 50-fucking-thousand of them. How dare I?! And at a try-out. Egh. I am disgusted with myself (and letting it go too). Over the goal. Egh.

I don't want to talk to them tomorrow. (Ever again.)

And here is what I have to say today

I miss writing. I miss expressing. I miss having time to read other’s expressions. In the few moments I steal for myself, guiltily shaming myself over complaining about my work load while grasping for moments to read blogs, or gasp, even take these minutes (it’s currently 10:33) to write on my own, I am never satisfied. I’m too busy thinking about the procards, unorganized and unedited; the vouchers, unfinished and unclear; the t-shirts, unpaid and unethical… the list continues and yet still, here I am, searching for an expression of something going on within me. Searching among other’s words and other shared feelings to find that expression that gets it right. That somehow makes sense of the helplessness of Sean Bell and racism and murder and death… and it was on his wedding day. Finding the expression that can show the utter sadness we can all get to is just put correctly that this man was a real man, with a real life, in love, probably nervous and at least a little drunk the night before he believed enough, at least for that moment, to promise his life and love to another, for as long as each of them could manage. How do I remember this man, murdered on his wedding day—the same way Amadou Diallo was murdered, violently, unimaginable masses of bullets ripping his body—how do I feel the pain, how do I feel the outrage and still continue in my day?

How do I not take it personally, then not hate myself for it, that at least he had the option to get married? How do I not remember joking with my gay male friend at breakfast about how we’ll get married for the tax breaks(because humor is always better than sadness, right) only to hear the privileged speak of his love of marriage? So unapologetically. How do I not think of Sean and Amadou’s similar murders without thinking of Matthew Shepard and Lawrence King?

How do I write these words and these thoughts without sounding like I’m comparing racism and homophobia? There’s not a hierarchy on oppression, there’s just a lot of it. How do I forgive myself for needing to look up Amadou Diallo’s name? Shouldn’t I know it? This atrocity that’s taken place, why don’t I remember his name? Not even the Le Tigre song. How do we speak of any of these unspeakable acts and still go about our days, and still stop in mere moments to go back to procards and vouchers and smiling at those in front of me?

It’s the same problem over and over again. Then it’s a different problem over and over again. How do we not get bogged down in the defeat of our rights every day? How do we talk about all of our inevitable body image issues without hating our bodies? What’s discussing emotions, what’s complaining, and what’s making any sort of difference? How do I as a white woman talk about race and racism in any sort of fair, honest or just way? How do I interact with the world talking about Mother’s Day when I hate my mom and she hates me? How do we make the personal political? How do we find peace in our own lives before we demand peace in war torn countries? How do I respond to my teacher friend teaching her 8th graders about the holocaust and that it simply tires her out? I’m tired too. How do we remember the good that exists with such a high prevalence of bad? What happens when I’m most often the cheerleader and I’m having a day where I forget how to cheer, how to see the light, how to know there’s good in the world and that what we’re all working towards makes a difference?

I could do it. Here, simply for the sake of it, for the principle, out of sheer habit alone; I could find the positive, I could list off sunshine and rainbows and soccer balls and kittens and revolutions and hate crime legislation passing and GCB being renamed Strickland and at least as many victories for the defeats. I could.

16 minutes later. I’m going back to procards.

Here is What I Have To Say Today

Shit's good.

Life is giving to me and handing me gifts and working collaboratively with me and shit's good. Shit is good right now.

I got a promotion. I am now, officially, the MU Women's Center Advisor. Y'know that feeling where it's just too easy, or you feel like you're cheating at life or something, because things are working out so well? That's how I feel right now. It's too easy.

Here's a bit of the conversation that just occurred as I turned away from the screen to talk to the real person in front of me. She said: "I love it here. There's always free food and nice people." Yes, yes there is, and now I work here full time. I know it may seem like I always have, but I worked in three other offices too, I just talked about the Women's Center the most. I'm so super excited.

It was True/False Film Festival this weekend. It was great. It was the Columbia I know and love. It's the Columbia I have tattooed as my heart on my chest. It's the Columbia where Patrick and I can go for a walk downtown for hours and hours and barely cover four blocks. We stopped and talked and saw old friends and chatted with newer acquaintances and met new people and laughed and smiled and felt the sun on our faces and backs. We were the queer ambassadors to the out-of-town true/falsers and it's a hard job to look so good and represent, but we were happy to take on the task. It's telling secrets and trying something new and finally not caring who's watching. There was dancing. Again, today, there was dancing. Again, later, tonight, there may be more dancing. Yes, Spring is upon us, and it's not just the weather that's warming.

I stared up at the expanse of the sky with her and we breathed with the world.

I just feel happy. The caffeine I'm sure has worn off, so this energy is genuine and adrenaline and I know life's hard, but damn, shit is really good right now. Spring is just around the corner. The Monologues are over. T/F is over. Women's History Month is under way. We have multitudes of practices for our upcoming Blue Note show (3/19, 8pm, Little Mama's Burly Q Revue). Friends will be here in mere days.

It's a year for hope. It's about Barack, and it's about more than that. Love Is Greater Than Fear, and Acceptance finally happened, so it's time for Acceptance Into Practice.

I got my job, and I had a great weekend, and my friends are happier again, and I have hope. I do. I have hope. I have a desire to see the during, instead of the inevitable end. If I'm going to go so far as deciding not to believe in love, then I may as weel feel it a bit longer in the beginning. I'm caught up, and I don't mind.

I accidentally said "we" and now I won't bring it up, but when I told her I had a dream that she kissed her friend Claire and told me about it, she wanted to know how I reacted, and thought it was cute I was sad about it.

How refreshing to have someone waiting for me to save her, instead of waiting for me to hurt her. How wonderful I can do it back. I'm not quite waiting for her to save me, but I'm not waiting for her to hurt me either. So simple and impossible and who knows how it occurs or when or why or with her and not her and not her and not her and not since the other herher, and who knows how long or why, but I mean it, havehope focusontheduring loveisgreaterthanfear liveitbelieveit acceptanceintopractice it'stheyearforhopeandifeelgoodaboutit JOINME.

Let's just say that I'm happy. That I looked at the stars with tired eyes, and felt a little bit rejuvenated, with it all.

The bad's still out there, and believe me, it's bad, so while the going's good, let's feel it. And today, I want to say to you, shit's good.

Why not post it? Feminism's warm again.

I'm so tired of people trying to correlate thinking of death with being deep. Ooh, I was driving, then I thought that I could get hit and that would be the end of it. Death isn't deep. I mean, in a Six Feet Under way, sure, death is this big thing that occurs around us, and when we truly examine it, not only is it a part of life (despite how silly that sounds), but it's not always a tragedy. Sometimes it's better when the death finally occurs. Sometimes it's better for the pain and chaos and madness to stop and the healing to begin. Other times, there are people that the world is better off without.

But let's not talk about them. And wouldn't it be nice if the first time I came here to post in oh so long wasn't talking about those with whom I'm annoyed? Well, sorry. I'm annoyed with people in their privileged little lives thinking that as they drive around in their big, fancy cars that the thought of getting hit and it all ending makes them deep.

I was talking to a daily person in my life the other day and the subject turned to money. I have this other knowledge of a world where money problems mean not having a boat. It's difficult and different because I also have knowledge of the world where money problems meant it was good that I was so sick because I couldn't afford food anyway, and I've promised myself to never again buy that big box of corn flakes, because even though I did, it's nothing off of which to live.

Often when I'm just trying to open up, I feel like I'm complaining about the life that I have and have had, but isn't there a way to say that shit's hard without saying I hate it? Or isn't there a way to say that shit's been hard, but it's mostly better now, and I'm not trying to lay out a trump card on your bad experiences, or be a downer, I'm just trying to be honest?

I don't know. I put these rules on myself. I don't allow myself to speak for fear of reactions, because staying silent is better. I sometimes wish I didn't know that. Because now, here I am, on my blog, chastising myself for complaining again. Maybe it's all about my own attitude on it. But, to me, if I was out there as a happy reader, Oh Shut Up Silence Is Better. But there are those of you out there, aren't there? Who know what I mean? Who understand the darkness inside and are hoping to simply find someone to look into the void with them, but hold their hand just close enough to keep them from losing sight of the light altogether.

I'm tired of everything being a sad story from childhood.

Were you in the girl scouts?
Yeah, I hated it. My mom made me stay in it for a really long time even though I wanted to quit. And then she lied and signed off on all of the badges because that one time I'd done that one thing and she made me sit on her bed with her as she justified it all to me, justified how her daughter has the most badges, and is a girl scout, and that means she's the best mom, see? See? So I walked into my new troop meeting, that weird girl with no friends anyway, with my circular, embroidered lies colorfully displayed across my chest. I may have been unhappy, but what's that matter when my mom can brag I have the most badges?

I tell those stories, those uncomfortable over-shares that change the subject from if you prefer your thin mints frozen or at room temp, because those are the good ones. Because my therapist says I should try to talk about my past with my friends. Because who cared if I had friends then anyway? They couldn't have changed anything or made it better. I have friends now, and I had soccer then. I had a soccer ball, and a dog who would play with me in the backyard, and Marla who did have a boat. I wasn't allowed to listen to the radio really, or go anywhere if there were going to be boys there too, but I never got invited, so I'd just go to practice and come home and do my homework.

When the good stories are the uncomfortable overshares, then yes, silence usually is better. I get mad with people who think thoughts on death are deep, because I've lived through death being a relief, and yeah, his still would be. And no, I don't want to talk about it. See above.

I'm tired to trying to explain myself, but I want to be understood. I'm tired of telling my stories, but I want to be known. I'm tired of trying again, but I want to remember trust. I'm tired, and I still want to be loved.

Also

Chelsea Clinton correctly used who/whom and whoever/whomever. That earned her points.

I'm in a better mood because I love my Women's Center staff soooooooooooooo much.

Three cheers for grammar and staff meetings!

Even performed privilege is real

I got mad at a friend for not understanding what trust looks like from me until I realized it meant she doesn't know I trust her, or how much.

I had a bad dream when I tried to nap on Saturday afternoon. I haven't really slept since. Last night I dreamed I had just given birth, and I was still on the table with my legs up, and I was holding my baby, but it was only his spirit, and he was starting to disappear. For a second I saw the real him, in the hands of the doctors, and I tried to yell out and scream "stop shaking him, stop shaking him" but I couldn't get it out. And then the ghost/spirit/soul version of him in my hands just vanished, and he was dead.

I don't know what it means. I don't think I want to figure it out. I'm tired.

Expectations are upon me again, but in a very different way.

I wonder about standing up for myself, because I do. And I don't. The problems come in not realizing when I'm not.

We had an amazing show on Friday night. I'm proud of who I am, and my life. I'm proud of my friends and my students and my colleagues. It's nice to be proud.

I saw Chelsea Clinton speak this morning. She was kinda boring, had a good answer to the LGBT question, and mainly I just wished she hadn't have dyed her hair. Why can't everyone know that they're beautiful just the way they are? And, of course, I support Obama. It was nice to hear her speak though. I didn't realize she was only 27.

I'm so tired. I just haven't been able to sleep since that one stupid dream while napping. Just more bad dreams have come. And the oh so familiar laying awake in bed. I hate how things are so good and the lack of sleep interrupts absolutely everything.

I also hate complaining about being tired, so I came here to do it. Now, back to work. There's a lot to do.

I'd Like To

Life feels full.

Y'know that feeling when you eat too much and you reach uncomfortably full? Then an hour or two later, you're no longer that feeling of discomfort, but you're not quite comfortable yet either. You know it's gonna be okay, you can see it in the future, but it's not there yet.

Dear Friends, I've taken off again. I'm trying to find ways to come back to you, and your love. I've written many of you emails that, in the end, I've given up and sent to myself. To even more of you I've started emails and simply deleted them.

We exist in a world where we're hyper aware of appropriateness. The downside: I always think I'm being inappropriate. I think a lot of us do.

It's cold here. When I stand outside for any length of time, I start crying. It's that kind of eye-watering cold.

School starts next week. Work's super stressful, but I'm happy for my students to be back. ("My" not "The".)

There have been birthdays this week. I left my phone charger in Texas so I haven't been able to call or talk for any length of time, but Happy Birthday my dear, dear friends. How lost I would be in this world without each of you. I'm glad you were born. I'm glad our lives crossed paths, and hope they will continue to, forever. I can almost believe they will, with both of you. That's big, and feels big in a good way.

I spent 12 days with the family this Winter. 12 days. I feel so determinedly alone when thinking of them. It's a relief to give up on desiring understanding.

The days get longer, and nights shorter, with each time the sun shows her face. I need the light. I think we're all on the up and up.

Life's very full. Good and bad. And more and less and around and in between. Expectations have the power to destroy me, and I often let them get close. Oops.

Happy three day weekend. Hey. Take some actual time to remember the real Martin Luther King Jr. Stand up. Revolt. Peacefully. And stay warm. Each day gets brighter. For all of us.