I hadn’t heard the phone ring yet. My heart pounded in my chest from a combination of nervousness and caffein. Why did I drink coffee before a phone interview? I was kicking myself. Read more
“I slept with this slut the other night…”
He calls them sluts. The girls he sleeps with are sluts. But what does that make him then since the term “girls” is plural. Just a man? An ordinary one? If that’s what ordinary men seem like I want nothing to do with that. Seriously, you have no problem looking for naked pictures, but the moment any girl takes her clothes off…she is just a slut to you? Read more
Is it really settling down if all you’re doing is settling?
My home has two social rooms. The first in the formal living room, which consists of two wing back chairs, a large floral couch, cherry stained furniture, lots of doilies, and a fireplace. The other consists of a large window, the television, too many TV trays, a green couch and one reclining chair….as well as plastic and unmudded dry wall. Read more
I recall once having a conversation with my Philosophy professor in college. He asked me once how I was, and I responded honestly that I wasn’t doing so well. That I felt depressed. At first a look of concern came over his face and instead of responding with encouragement or an attempt to make me feel better he looked me straight in the face and said “If you feel sorrow, allow yourself to feel it. There is a reason. Always.” So we sat and talked about sadness, and ironically I felt better.
I went to a Christian college. My philosophy professor was one of the few people I could relate to. I had at first thought it was because I had made the mistake of telling him I was a descendant of John Locke, but after some time I realized it was because we were kindred spirits. He and I were deep thinkers and seekers, who never stopped thinking and seeking. We were question askers. Poets. Writer and readers. We were souls trying to escape dying bodies, but would settle for the simple joy of blowing bubbles on street corners in Chicago for hours and sitting silently together in the woods, wishing we were lost.
His words touched my heart deeply and caused me to recall the Bible verse that brought me back to faith in high school. “The Lord is with the broken hearted, and those who are crushed in spirit.” Psalm 34:18. I was allowed my sorrow. I was allowed to be sad about the things that hurt me. God was with me in those moments, perhaps with sorrows of His own. I was not alone in my depression. I was created with emotions and an understanding of good and evil. There is much evil, and there are even evils in the good that humanity does. Selfish evils and two sides to everything. There are flaws in nature.
I have been thinking of sorrow a great deal. I have been thinking about how we can understand why things cause us pain, but mostly, I wonder why people put such a high value on happiness? I often see sorrow as a kind of gift. A means to release stress and to find authentic passion about things. To find out that something mattered….or perhaps that something didn’t matter. How would we know happiness without sorrow? How would we know sorrow without happiness? Were they not equals, both valuable for their reasons? Both having their times to be felt?
I often wonder if our sorrow is our hearts breaking for the things that break Gods heart. A glimpse into the evil that exists in the world.
I used to be ashamed of being depressed. Now I think I understand it better, and I’m not ashamed that life is difficult and the world is in a sad state of affairs. It’s not like I’m never happy, I just have a deeper sensation when I feel sadness. I don’t necessarily feel hopeless. I understand the situation seems hopeless, but my hope is farther than this life. My hope is in eternity. My sadness will not be forever. I see an end, just not here and now. I am content in that. I’m not afraid to be emotional, because as a human being I am allowed.
“Consider yourself so strong that nothing can disturb your peace of mind.”
I want my peace of mind disturbed. I want to find myself disrupted in thought and challenged. I want to lay in bed at night, awake pondering those mysterious and disturbing realities in the world. I want to be moved. I want to be passionate. I don’t want peace of mind. I want that beautiful and broken chaos that leads me to think critically and confused about my world. I want the things that can harm me to scare me. I want the things that are disgusting to disturb me.
My mind is not meant for peace. It is meant to hope in something better while my heart breaks over what is broken. It is meant to question everything. To be tested so that it can seek truth. I was created with an innate uncertainty, and I am built to strive to think my way through the ongoing onslaught of uncertainty, while experiencing the internal chaos. The comfort zone is overrated. It has only destroyed our backbones and our means of building strength. I have learned nothing from peace of mind. I have only felt numbness and apathy from it. I think it take greater strength to desire disturbance, and to want the tests of life to bother you, than to become someone who has only peace of mind.
I hope I never feel safe or comfortable in this world.
My mentor lovingly called me a Dream Caster. He himself was one as well, and we discussed it at length during quiet days in the design studio that summer. He described it beautifully, though both of us knew it as the flaw that it was. We would laugh about it very seriously, because anything silly was a serious matter in the design studio. We believed in serious fun and laughed at serious flaws.
A Dream Caster and Vision Caster are pretty much the same thing with one difference…one sounds cooler than the other. What we do is having the important job of thinking up pretty good ideas…then throwing them at someone else through a series of well planned obligations and then fleeing for our lives so as to not have anything to do with the idea, thus allowing the obligated individual to run with the idea for us. It’s quite thrilling really. It’s like a relay race.
Many will be upset hearing this, but when Oliver, my orange tabby, was alive my cats lived in my basement. Strictly. Oliver shed at least two other cats worth of fur a day, so my parents (whom I still live with) told me they had to be confined to the basement. With Oliver gone, Shelby is now free to run about the house. She doesn’t though. She pretty much just stays in my room until she fancies a good chew on the potted dwarf palm my mother inherited from my grandmother after she passed away about 8 years ago. She will then proceed back into my bedroom to throw up…on my down comforter.
Totally worth it though. It’s amazingly therapeutic to have a ball of fluff purring against you while you sleep…even if it’s laying on your butt and it’s 4am.
Waking up this morning at 7 am was a little less dreadful ( though Shelby doesn’t sleep much, so every few hours she would wake me up demanding to be pet properly) with a warm and soft living creature next to me. I only wish I could have let Oliver spend a few nights with me before his passing, and I continue to feel conflicted about having him spend much of his life in the basement . Then again, I had him kennel trained, and his kennel was his safe place. Thus…the conflict continues.
What I suppose I’m getting at is how wonderful it feels to wake up next to another living being. To have that energy there. To have that comfort. To feel that life existing in your presence. It’s really nice, and I’m sad that I had missed out on it for so long.
I wonder how different it must feel for that living being to be human? I have never had a sexual relationship, nor have I really spent much time at sleepovers in my childhood, so experiencing the sleep of another person is something foreign to me. I wonder if it is just as beautiful? Or is it more?
Time will have to tell.
Only a day after having to put Oliver down, I was back at work. The closing shift, so it would be quiet. I was thankful. I needed to be kept busy.
I inquired about the number of packages that had come on truck for me. My manager threw out an outrageous number, and I laughed. He often does that. Tries to make it sound like I have so much to do when I have maybe a hand full of boxes.
He wasn’t lying.
With Christmas coming soon, retail employees have little to no free time on the floor. Much of the time we are so busy putting the new inventory away customers get angry that we don’t notice them at the counters. Thankfully, working in cosmetics means I can stay behind my counter and put things away! But that also means people often come to my counter to check out, because they can’t seem to find another associate to ring them up.
Needless to say, things were not exactly stress free.
I had a ton of new inventory, and very little space to place it. Much of it was gift sets, and I severely lacked shelving. I kept putting the sets on the counter. Just piling them up. I used up every sheet of adhesive security tags in the store…and I’m still not finished with truck to this day. I hope to complete it this afternoon, but with my counter partner gone to Florida this week, I have to deal with these last 102 boxes myself. Not to mention we now get a new shipment twice a week, so today I will have more inventory piling up. Hopefully less than 50 boxes, but it seems doubtful.
I like the idea of keeping busy, but this is going to be a whole new level of busy.
I’m going to be honest right away, you might be hearing a lot about the transitions I am making from a proud owner of two cats to the proud owner of one.
The passing of Oliver marked a strange and poetic piece of my life. My place as care taker and nurturer has changed meaning in some ways. Oliver was my very first cat. It took me twelve years for him to stumble into my life, and I had him for twelve years there after. In those twelve years we have had many late nights and medical scares. Snuggle and scratches. I would change nothing about those years. I did what I could for my lovable fat orange kitty. But I find myself in an odd place. I am used to having two cats now. Shelby came into my life only a year after Oliver, also by happenstance. It was as if I was meant to juggle the stress and lives of two cats, and they have been worth every moment. Now, I only have one kitty to keep track of, and it’s strange.
I have never had an emergency with her. She just wants to snuggle and play. She doesn’t get into mischief. She’s pretty chill, mostly because she is too fearful to do anything crazy. Oliver, was the exact opposite. He was fearless, and therefore, a danger to himself more often.
So now I find myself a bit lost. That sounds really melodramatic, but it’s a mild form of lost. I was so distracted by the personalities of two living creatures, I find I’m rediscovering the personality of one. She is much more complex than he seemed. She has more moods than I had ever noticed. She copes differently. She adjusts differently. She has more energy than I had realized. I hadn’t realized how much she had slowed down for Oliver. I’m having trouble keeping up with her. It’s fascinating, and somewhat scary. I hadn’t know so much about her than what I have learned in the last two days, and it saddens me to think of how little I knew of my Oliver. How much I might have missed out on.
I also find myself paranoid. I feel like I no longer understand what normal and abnormal behavior actually looks like with Shelby. With Oliver it was obvious something wasn’t quite right. His lack of eating being one of them. But with Shelby, she doesn’t eat much anyway. She nibbles for days without making much of a dent in her bowl. To top it all off, she has quite a bit of energy, but also a great deal of fear, and often goes into hiding for extended periods of time. WhT if she gets sick? Will she hide? I try not to think about the what ifs, but I can’t help it right now.