Friday, March 14, 2014

The goalie to our own attempt at goal

I'll be the first to admit, wholeheartedly, that I am not a good writer. In fact, I keep this blog for no other reason than to voice out diatribes that somehow escape through my strong filter. It doesn't really matter though, I love writing.

When I was younger, let's be creative and say perhaps 15 years younger or so, I used to write in a journal. I know this sounds like the worst teenage cliche, but I wrote in a journal for health reasons. I was worried my head would explode. It was actually a serious concern of mine. I actually thought that my head would explode. I was a teenager after all. Everything of very little consequence meant everything to me. Read that again. It actually does make sense.

I was a very optimistic, unspoiled person. I believed in everything. I'm proud to report that 15 years later, I can say that that is still almost true. Anyways, I loved writing. When I wrote, it was a way for me to explore those dreams that I used to have. I used to have so many dreams of travelling. That was what I wanted the most when I was younger, to travel. I wanted to explore. I wanted to experience. I wanted so much, just to embrace wherever it was I was. I don't think of this as a dream unfulfilled, but just a dream not yet obtained.

I loved creating stories of heroines exploring, learning new traditions, with no boundaries, with no limits. I dreamed so much.

I feel like we are the goalies to our own goals. We take the shot, and then somehow block them. We strike out to do something different, and then to our own chagrin, we block our own attempts. Should I say "we"? I suppose it's pretty presumptuous for me to speak for others, but it's a rather good guess. I had a goal a decade ago, a whole entire decade ago...(seriously, time, wtf?) that I would work in travel. I would meet so many interesting characters, I would drift in and out of people's lives, just as the waters of our wild oceans meander in and our of our lives, and I would see as much as my eyes could possible allow me to see.

...and now I work a 9-5. It happens. That doesn't mean anything though. I'm not throwing in the towel quite yet. Life is not done, it's not over, no one dares write my story except for me, so we'll see. I guess this is how I remain somewhat unspoiled, because I won't let anyone or anybody take away the possibility of possibilities. (again, read actually does make sesnse).

Now if only I can stop being the all to hard working goalie against my own goals. The only doubts, the only obstacles to the goals we have in our lives, is us.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014


It's been a long time since I've been inspired to write anything of any importance. Today, being the humdinger that it was, seems to have awaken the hungry literary giant inside of me. It's not pretty, you see, it's hungry, famished, it's been longing for a purge of passion. As I grow older, to my dismay, it seems that my life has become more and more passionless. I attribute this to the 9 to 5 lifestyle, the wretched quest to be more responsible, less whimsical, and more and more sedate. 

Today, it seems as though the accumulation of my past mistakes came to a head. My realization of past actions and decisions, how they have carved out this present that I live in, it hit. Like a rude truck on a lonely, desperate highway, it hit. 

In an odd way, it was comforting, because we all know all too well, that no matter what corner on earth you try to hide, your past will remind you that you are fallible. This doesn't mean that it's to be stewed upon uncontrollably, but it is an unkind reminder, that our decisions do matter. 

I see this type of realization to be a gateway to hope. We made it this far, despite these mistakes that we made, I feel we should allow ourselves to revel in that.

But passion. I missed you my dear friend. I missed the careless strewn emotions, accompanying my every whim. I miss the feeling of taking in the cool night air, the listening of whatever music beset my many silly moods. I miss the prose of it all.

I used to go on drives, on adventures, where the solitary presence promised a feeling of freedom. I think the best way to describe it is that I felt an utter sense of me. Sometimes, it feels that as we meander in our every day lives, the sense of "me" gets lost. We become "we", "us", "them". When we are alone, no matter what setting we choose to celebrate that aloneness, we revisit that "me". I feel it is so important. So necessary to who we are as individuals. 

I'm not trying to diminish the importance of our relationships, family, friends, lovers...but that "me"...that is who we are underneath it all. It's the part of us that can rebuild, that can repair, that can remember. It's the part of us that should never be let go.

It's rare now, because I don't go on these drives anymore, it's rare for me to feel at one, just by myself. I miss it. When I have an opportunity to sense it again, I will grasp, I will cling onto it. I will remember that wild child in me, yearning to get out. I will give her a reprieve, even if just for a few precious moments. That wild child saved me, made me who I am. She sought to be brave when I wanted nothing but to give up. She forced optimism on me, when the throes of pessimism were knocking my walls down. She holds the passion that will see me through anything. The passion that will see me through more. She made the promises of a better future, even when things seemed lost. She is me, only now wanting to come out when skies are gray, just to welcome the blue skies once again.

This is my prose, of a me that I can never forget, of a me that sometimes, I just have to let out.

Thursday, November 7, 2013

17 miles to Wits End (unfinished and uncaring, just like Lady in the morning)

(this was written over 5 years ago. Though not current, it still actively reflects how going on a drive makes me feel. Writing does not have expiration dates, it can be timeless, especially to the author. This is the beginning of a day trip towards the 17-mile drive along coastal California. The destination was initially unplanned. The best things in life always seem to be unplanned.)


On weekend mornings, I usually wake still dreaming. I feverishly dream of hitting the open road with no intention of ever needing to return. Ideas reveal themselves each time I slide into my car as I ready myself for what may lie ahead. What is it about a road trip that quietly allows me to succumb to the world in my imagination (much to the chagrin of other's sharing the road with me)? Is it the feeling of impending freedom, and the open-ended adventure that never requires a premeditated destination? Is it the promise of great visual artistry in the roaming landscapes, is it the neverending quest to find that moment which might take my breath away? Oh, how I love the feeling of having my breath taken away. I love knee buckling experiences.  I love it because for some reason, this feeling is a drug that I fiend for. This will always be a part of me. This is me...and many others like me.

Before I escape permanently in this narrative of my reverie, know this, there is nothing that I have found as of yet to be so freeing and inspirational as going on an open ended drive. I have not met a time, place nor hapless circumstance where a drive couldn't clear my mind. 

The day always starts earlier than I expect, rather earlier than my physical body expects. I find often that my mind and body are not in sync. They argue quite a lot. It's annoying. I wish they would both just shut up. Though my mind was quite ready for the adventure, my body was under some serious distress, having only slept an inappropriate amount the night before.  Ironically, thinking about an adventure can deprive you of the sleep that you need for that said adventure. I had spent 3 hours the night before feverishly making the perfect mix....listening to the mix, altering the mix, coming up with a completely different mix, and then throwing my hands in the air and letting the mix make me. I choose different songs for different drives depending on what makes that drive perfect at that particular time....a drive to remember....a drive to beat all drives, that is until I go on another....

I'm nuts.

Anyways, I forge a mix of my favorite classical songs. This was not my first choice. I originally had planned on some good ole classic rock tunes that stir the heart to un-imagined boundaries. But, life, or rather a social network, threw me to the proverbial wolves and demanded that I pick another genre. I had received an alert about a piano player, a remarkably talented and passionate piano player, a piano player that only a silly person like me could fall instantly in love with (keep in mind, I fall in love at least 4 times a day, I love a lot). My attention was rudely diverted. My classic rock fell helplessly out the window as I welcomed with open arms, classical. The long forgotten and understated musical form that dominated my life when I was in my high school orchestra. I feverishly looked up my favorite pieces, Dvorak, Vivaldi, and Debussy. I playfully stalked the pieces brilliantly performed by Itzhak Rabin, passionately sung by the likes of a Sarah Brightman and of course Andrea Bocelli and declared that yes, my drive would be a classical drive.

Armed with my new mix, one that makes me cry when I listen to it as it wrenches at my heart still, I set off. But wait, I'm getting a bit ahead of myself.

Forgetting the beautiful mix, my body is still caught in a violent tug of war with the alarm clock. Let me introduce you to my Alarm clock, and it's annoying step-brother the cellphone alarm clock. They are the relatives that you invite over for Christmas, but then refuse to leave. They sit there, gnawing on their cheesecake and clinging to their tepid conversations, while your eyeballs perform gymnastics in your head and your patience level is on threat level red. It's the feeling of cold water being poured on your soul, just when you start to relish the early morning snoozefest. It's the itch you can't scratch. It's the person singing very loudy yet quite off tune. It's the bane of my existance, yet the very reason why I get to enjoy the day. It's the caustic friend with its tune of truthfulness that scratches at your conscience. It sucks, yet you need to keep going back for more.

I drag myself rather slowly out of bed, savoring those last few desperate moments I have in my "comfy" pants, an old pair of gray sweats that I will bring with me to the grave. God, I love those ugly pants. Bury me in those pants. I will be that old woman with the ugly gray comfy pants. I will get them enshrined. I will....step off that useless tangent. I look at the mirror and laugh wholeheartedly at the person standing in front of me. All I have to say, is that punk rockers pay good money to have hair like this. Party in the front AND the back. Party even in the eyebrows...and on this particular day, party in my eyes. Bloodshot yet joyful eyes that stared at me incredulously as I laugh.

I finally will myself into my driving clothes, or rather my everyday and every night clothes. Jeans, hoodie and some random tank. I wash my shellshocked face as my body starts to FINALLY wake up. I apply light makeup, because I care. I care that I don't scare the rest of humankind with my shellshocked face and my party eyebrows. I apply quickly, because it doesn't matter that much. I am driving after all, I will just be a blur.   I am making myself laugh writing this. Seriously, as far as I am concerned, if you look that closely, you deserve to see what you see. So there.

I wander out to the living room. Am I crazy? Even my dogs are still asleep. Boomer, the beagle, opens one eye, looks at me with a lazy glare, and snaps it shut as he sinks back into his heavenly dream. Lady, the pitbull, doesn't even stir. Bitch. She is not even going to miss me. I don't blame her at this point. I wouldn't miss me this early in the morning either.

My irrelevant Asian nose guides my body over to the coffee pot. My right eye perks up as my left eye still stubbornly remains half cocked. I shake as I anticipate the first sip of that luscious drink. My hands convulse as I pour that magical elixer into my snowflake mug. My giant snowflake, navy blue mug, now full of the wondrous beverage that promises to get me through the day. Lady the pitbull....still asleep, still uncaring. Oh well, you lose a dog's love, you get some coffee...some equations make sense I suppose. 

And here we go...