To do: Do

I suppose it’s customary, if at the least expected, to be reflective towards the end of the year. I should have picked a brighter night to pen an update on my life’s orbit, but as it were the day was overcast and it’s left a dismal shadow on my mind.

I think we’re all in agreement that none of us can hardly wait to say goodbye to 2009. With some exceptions like graduations and special birthdays, its been overall a shitty 12 months. The downturn economy has downtrodden most of our lives, and while it’s reminded us of the important and sentimental nonmaterials we treasure, it has nonetheless made escaping stress and financial burdens an enormous struggle. As recent graduates, many of my friends and acquaintances are feeling the pain of companies cutting back, taking jobs that I think most of us feel are below us. At least, this is the notion I’ve come to take comfort in.

Per my usual cycle of writing under the cloak of midnight and depression, I return again here unsatisfied and scathing self-loathing. While most days I can smile with optimism in my slow pursuit of happiness, I still find myself constantly making excuses for my life’s present state. There’s not much pride to be had in working a season job at a department store portrait studio, regardless of how well I am doing – and just to prove this isn’t a hard hit at modesty, I am top of the list in sales, receive compliments from guests and my manager raves about me to other studios. But I can’t let that make me feel good as I begin this month paying back student loans for my top-notch college education and a piece of paper that, at this moment, rests useless and unappreciated.

I’m being hard on myself again because I have to be. Because I’ve gotten lazy and lost sight of the fiery and passionate woman so many people have made me out to be. I am overpowered by a constant feeling of inferiority and self-doubt. Overshadowed by my older sister, so well put-together and the go-getter, on top of things, thinking ahead, the planner and organizer. She has so many qualities I admire and envy. I hate to let her down and I think I often do. Little things. Like today. She had asked me weeks ago to come photograph her neighborhood cookie decorating party. I told her I would. And when she reminded me of it the other day, I confirmed I’d be there. And then tonight at 7 o’clock, three hours after it had ended, I remembered about it. I had missed it. I wasn’t doing anything important, wasn’t caught up at work or helping someone out with something. I just plain forgot. And every time I think that, I can hear my mother saying, “You forgot” in that painfully mocking and scornful voice that all mothers have.

Every year I make resolutions for myself. I resolve to be a better person, to be more organized, more on top of things, I pledge to be ahead of the game and not to let people down. No one is perfect. But as another year closes to put behind 12 months of tries, failures and wins, I think all I can do is try, try again. I know at this moment I am unhappy and it has nothing to do with anyone but myself. My family is wonderful right now, things with Kris are so terrific that I’d say yes to him tomorrow, and I do have some glimmers of career latter hope ahead.

At Kris’ commencement Ira A. Fulton, from whom the college takes its name, gave a little speech. From which one anectode stuck with me. He said that when he was younger his father said to him, I want to show you your competition. And then he stood his son in front of a mirror, pointed at the reflection and said, That’s the one who will hold you back. If he doesn’t move, you won’t move.

I have opportunities. I always have opportunities because they always find me. My greatest regrets emerge from the opportunities I took, but did not take advantage of. I’ve traveled to foreign countries, worked on amazing projects, met extraordinary people. And yet I am still held back by own inability to step up and do what was necessary. I am my competition. I am my own enemy, my own anchor that keeps me behind. I don’t know what it’s going to take to light the fire under my ass and keep it lit. I’m a sprinter who sometimes makes it to the finish line. But my life is not longer incremented in a four-year race. It’s no longer about making it to the end, it’s about becoming something before the end.

Kristofer graduated with his degree in civil engineering Friday, December 18th. We decorated his cap in anticipation of his future in the army, adorning it with a helicopter towards the top. The shock of his commencement, he agreed, wasn’t that he had finally finished his degree, but that the dream he’d been harvesting was finally within grasp. It’s still a long road ahead for him, but I am privately envious that he at least has a clear map. He’ll put his thumb print on the papers, don a uniform he’s given, and directed through six years, just like that.

We’ve been looking around the house at all our things which have accumulated in our three winters here. We’re going to miss Club 33. I don’t think I have many photographs of it. I remember one of Mackenzie lying on my bed, maybe six months old, her little frog legs tangled in a hanger while Jackie helped me hang my clothes in the closet. After Christmas I’ll be pulling my clothes out of that closet to move back to the Castle Arroyo. I don’t think I’m rightly comprehending what it’s going to be like to be living back at home. I know I’ll miss it here, being on my own, the pride in saying that I live in a house with roommates. I’m not ashamed to be moving back though. We have good reason for it and I think it will be a nice break. Although Kris and I devastated at the general agreement that Santan and Joey will be going back to Jackie and Tim, rather than moving north with us. We’ve truly adopted them as our own and it’s going to be hard to give them up, even if we will still be able to see them often. We’ve grown used to them sleeping in our bed (enduring Joey’s snoring and waking up bare-assed and at the bed’s edge as the result of Santan’s snuggling), feeding them their “crack” pills, teaching Santan tricks and otherwise loving and petting them without pause.

I can’t seem to shake myself out of my little funk. I guess sitting down to write unleashed a series of suppressed feelings, some of which still unspoken. But, I guess that’s the way of it. It’s always easier for me to talk when I feel like I’m talking to no one. I want an audience for my joys and an empty auditorium for my sorrows.

Until next time, merry Christmas. And happy new year.

Let’s Play (because I’m not dead)

Having that growing dream and passion for being a photographer in the fashion industry, I’ve taken to poking through more magazines and exploring the field further on the internet. But rather than elaborating on my discoveries or insights on this new career goal, I want to take some time for some rusty writing in this very loosely tied sort of essay. thing.

We prefer to record tv than watch it live so we can fast forward through the commercials. If a good song on the radio is followed by a commercial, we change the station. Telemarketers, door-to-door salesmen, even that perky chick at the register asking if you’d like to join their membership, can all shove it. We’re tired of being solicited! In fact, there’s only one exception to the rule (when it’s not the Superbowl), one time when we’ll actually pay to be advertised upon: picking up a magazine.

After all, what is a fashion magazine without its thick entree of ads?
Fashion magazines – fashion advertisements in general – are ceremoniously criticized for undermining the natural woman; that is to say, any average-sized, curvaceous, small-chinned and big-nosed woman exposed to the ordinary dose of pubescent acne, sun damage and a many sleepless nights leaving bags under the eyes and otherwise completely virgin to the magic and cursed courtesy of Photoshop. However, there remains a level of art to it all, a glimmer of sophistication untouched by the slew of other ads in the world, all convincing us of essentially the same thing: You need this. Whatever “this” is. And as I was flipping lazily through my latest issue of Vogue, an obvious truth began to buzz. By no means an epiphany, I realized that the things I wanted while looking at the ads were rarely ever what the ad was supposedly selling.

Looking beyond the fact that the beautiful woman had arms more toned than I could ever achieve, a face more flawless than an infants’ and most often an ensemble I only dream I’ll be able to some day afford, it was most often the setting and expression that suddenly made me wary of the product. Why, for example, does a seemingly strong, proud, beautiful and successful (or at least well married) woman stand with a posture concave? I’m looking at a woman holding Louis Vuitton, standing at a negative edge pool on some lovely mountainside – a dream house beyond the photo’s frame, no doubt. So why is she bent? Why is she cramped? compressed? depressed? she looks owned.

Another ad, this one for Gucci, also at a poolside scene. Some gorgeous hunk in the background, emerging from the water with his clothes on. A skin-and-bones blond with a bag twice the size of her pretty little head in her clutches. She’s languid, eyes closed, and she looks one of two ways to me; blissfully drained after an orgasm, or (as was my first suspicion), utterly lifeless and useless from malnourishment. Powerless. A woman shut down and made mannequin for life.

I’ll turn the page and turn my focus; optimism. After a dreadfully predictable ad for chocolate bearing some beautiful broad in a bed, I flipped the photo and stopped; blinked; and brought the book closer to my face. A two-page spread for Juicy Couture. It was the bare nipple that caught my attention, first because I couldn’t believe they could expose that much in a Vogue magazine. Then I noticed the small happy trail beneath the belly button. I should explain that the model has shaggy shoulder length hair and bangs with a down-turned head, making it impossible to see the eyes or much of the face at all. Slung on one shoulder is a cheetah fur coat, a large leather purse hung from the wrist, and a tutu-like dress haphazardly fixed around the waist. It’s a man – sort of. Anyone who knows me surely won’t be shocked by now to know that I am, in a word, intrigued by the challenges against masculine and feminine. On the right side of the two-page photo is a woman (although it could very well be a man too); pale with sort of an Elvis Presley do and a black suit. I didn’t notice her. Written on her page is thus: “Do the don’ts. You can always get what you want.” The photo all together makes little sense at a glance and it’s hard for to me to dismiss it as an advertisement, rather than a piece of cultural art. What is it saying? What does it suggest? What is their purpose, this fur-clad gender-ambiguous person and the stark contrasting pale face in the black suit? I’ll bet most people will hate it. And I’ll also bet you won’t be able to stop looking at it. Does this make it a successful ad, or a conquering [political] message?

But in general, as an overall rule in all the glorious artistic genius and plethora of highly respected photographers and talented models…Where the bloody hell is pride? Strength? Life? Why do they look empty, soulless, bound, broken, used? So perfect in complexion and tone, yet utterly void of a soul. I want to look at an ad and feel good; about me, about the product, hell, I even want to feel good about that model. I don’t want to buy Gucci for the rights to be a bitch – periods do that for free. To end on a high note, I’ll actually draw attention to an ad by Chanel. Some cutesy dark-haired thing in leather with a weird head piece that I first mistook as a tiara and now wish it were because it works. She’s leaning on a faceless guy wearing fingerless gloves, looking over the rim of her sunglasses with an expression that says to me “let’s play”. And I immediately said to her, “I’d love to!”

hello stranger

As the surest indication of my failed commitment here, I went to log-in yesterday and discovered I had forgotten my password. It’s been just over a month since my last imprint here, transforming a hiccuping absence to something more permanently unattached to me. Since life has moved on with turbulent emotions and a fair share of good and sour memories, I can’t fault my lack of writing to a lack of action. No, this narrator is not silent for story’s sake. So then, why the silence?

I’m currently entranced by a tv show. This is a rare novelty. I don’t often let myself be caught up in such silly time consumptions, but when something gets in my head, it’s hard to get out. I guess it’s been playing havoc on my identity. The character I dislike the most is the one I find the most in common with. She’s a writer, albeit the abstract, artistic kind which I never got into, but the base concept that her writer’s mind sometimes gets the best of her is something I can well relate to. And as I was reviewing this one night, it suddenly dawned in me how, somewhere in the past few years, I stopped identifying myself as a writer. Me, who, as a young girl would shut myself in my room and rap away at the keyboard of my wartime box laptop, punching out my fears and fantasies, who would wake up at odd hours just to jot down a brief epiphany for a story or a beautiful passage too fragile to wait, who cried over lost pages not kept on a floppy, who pushed away love for the sake of that creative solitude of writing, the one everyone believed would grow up to be nothing else but an author…How in the heavens did I ever let that run out of me?

I recognize the past couple years writing was an enormous struggle. Even when I succeeded at sound and flowing essays or short moments of poetic brilliance, overall, I was fighting tooth and nail to maintain my strength as a creative writer. Because I couldn’t finish a novel, I attempted short stories. Frustrated by my inability to finish those, I journaled and spit out mindless poetry.

And then I just stopped.

The truth is, I’m scared for myself. I’m afraid that all my potential and glimmers of talent, not just in writing but in anything I’ve been praised for, will wither. It’s easy to forget what makes me tick when I can’t feel its pulse. And, eventually, I forget to search for it.

I’m still determined to move somewhere early next year. New York, California, I don’t care. I feel like being lost and alone in a new land will be the kick in the ass to get my candle lit again. I can’t amount to nothing. I can’t be average. I can’t be just satisfied. My attention span is too short and I get itchy all the damned time. I am ambition’s vampire, thirsty and gothic, nostalgic for my sunshine hours and hunting for a thrilling romance.

Falling pleasantly

If autumn had an anthem, it would be Gymnopedie No. 1. Soft piano keys padding the steady fall of leaves. The end of monsoon season, yet some drizzles surprise us and cool the days faster. I remember being at the bus stop when it rained as a kid, racing dried leaves down the flooded curbs. Yesterday we turned off the air conditioning, hopefully for good. The windows and doors are open, blowing in a new air. Fall came rather suddenly. One day it was summer, and the next day it was not. If I hadn’t been leaving the house before 6am I wouldn’t have known at all what was coming.

Fall is my favorite season. It’s full of rich browns, deep greens and warm oranges. Pumpkin pie and a distinct smell I know from so many years of unpacking Halloween boxes at 91st Lane.

Fall. Back to school time. But not for me. It’s my first fall since the age of 6 that didn’t send me buying notebooks and writing utensils; from crayon boxes to ball point pens. But I’m still part of it. Every day I go to work at schools, witnessing their beginnings, their innocent times, their troubling times, their happy times, their smart-ass times. Sit, tilt, smile, thank you.

I am very happy with my job. However, I do find myself itching for something different. It took me at least a week to figure out what I was itching for. Actually, a friend pointed it out to me and as soon as she said it, I knew she was right. As happy as I am with the present, I am itching for something bigger, more adventurous, more demanding and frightening. I’m still preserving my big dreams and life-long goals. I know I can’t settle for mediocre or regular. I’ll never be satisfied. So for now, I’m teasing my drive with trips to the batting cages, a run around the block, a weekend get-away to the north.

I wish I could write on my drive home. In the car at sunset, blowing past cotton farms and mountain ranges shaded in purple and clouds that tickle my imagination, I fall into autopilot and mentally recite a beautiful reflection that comes easy and eloquent and with purpose. Here, I am afraid, it’s quarter to nine and I’m not in the right mindset to write any where near as good as I’d like, or even with clear focus (no matter what music I put on). But, as painful as it is to let this go and send it out to be read, I felt it was important on some large, distant level, to know that age 23, on an ordinary Thursday, I was happy, but building a ferocious dream.

the actress pauses

There’s been so many times over the past few weeks where I’ve made mental notes of things to jot down, paused with the intention to write, if only for the sake of clarifying to the world that I’m doing well. Better than that, actually. With some hard lessons learned and some still in session, I find my life in a miraculous balance; with what I’m doing, who I’m with, who I am. Some days it spurts a little, gets knocked off kilter and I eat dirt, but overall, this teeter totter stands taught.

My job is going quite well. I’ve finally stopped making excuses for it, as if it isn’t good enough. For the time being, it’s perfect. And I know it’s for the time being. I know I’ll move on when I’m ready – when the economy is ready, when opportunity presents itself again. But for now, I’m being appreciated, acknoweldged for talent, fitting in and making friends (and also making a healthy buck). And those things are everything that matters right now.

The Torn Identity has been nominated for a cultural diversity Emmy in the Rocky Mountain Emmies. The awards is coming up towards the end of this month. My family is coming with me, to cheer on my greatest accomplishment, or pat my back when I don’t win. In any case, it is a great accomplishment already.

Things with Kris are very well. He’s still pushing through his final semester of school, trudging through a major that doesn’t appeal to him, his eyes steadfast on shipment day in February when he will finally partake in his passion. I haven’t decided yet what I’ll be doing, where I’ll be going. It’s really not something I can determine at this point.

We’ve sort of inherited/stolen Santan and Joey. They’ve been very happy living with us for the past two months straight. They sleep on the bed with us, leaving us with our legs trapped and bottoms bare while the dogs get the run of the bed. It’s easier on Jackie and Tim right now without them; their house is on the market with frequent and sometimes short-planned open houses. And with the girls keeping them on their toes, it’s better for everyone that the dogs are with us, out of the way and getting all the attention they need. Santan’s grown to a healthy weight and is getting better on a leash from going on runs with us. It also helps Kris and me because we’ve wanted a dog for so long. Kris wanted me to have a dog before he left so that he could feel more at ease about leaving me; I’d have a body to love and look after me, sort of a piece of him left behind to keep me company and protected. While Santan and Joey aren’t that great of watch dogs, at least they are great companions. And if I end up in the position where I’m traveling or can’t bring a dog with me somewhere, I at least have the ability to take them back to their original owners.

I didn’t mean to dedicate so much verbage to the dogs, but I guess it’s kind of an indication of our life’s progression to the next stage. Although I think we all struggle with, I think I have the hardest time of all not worrying and planning for the next year and just living in the moment. So I remind myself of this frequently and am striving to do all these things I say I’m going to do, the things that give flavor to the girl I always strive to be – the photographer, the traveler, the adventurer.