Inner Critics

My head aches
And my hand cramps
Because of you
Climb back into your short yellow bus
And drive to someone else's mind
I don't need your chatter
You elect a foreman
And climb aboard a table
Like you're sentenced to a jury room
This is my mind
You fucking idiots
Come down and meet me face to face
Stare me in the eye
And tell me what you think
You are safe up there
In your short bus
Looking out the foggy window
Yelling at me
Calling me names like a 3rd grade bully
I spit on you
I spit on you and laugh at you and stomp on you
Now you are Flat Stanley
And you fit in my pocket
But not in my head
And your lips are flat
So no sounds comes out
And my head
Is quiet.

Studying

I'm so happy to be home on my couch after today. Ugh. Will I ever get better?
Anyway, I'm studying. Last night, my new coach, Miss ML gave us videos to watch that demonstrate basic ice skating "moves in the field." Things started out fine. There were 8 year old girls and boys doing edge work and I was watching them thinking, "My stroking is better! My edges are more secure." And then this little girl in glasses, a hideous floral costume and her hair pulled up with a scrunchy just turned around and started doing everything backwards without even thinking about it. BITCH! And I'm only 5 minutes into the video. Miss ML warned me not to be intimidated by the little pipsqueaks but it's hard not to be when they are half my size and tearing up the ice!
Last night was once again difficult. In my first class, the others were doing crazy moves as I skated off to the side and did my own hackneyed versions. The second class was a little better. Especially when Miss ML complimented my flow on the ice, that was a nice thing until a few seconds later she said that my edges needed a lot of work. I stayed after class for the free skate longer than ever before. I kept trying to do three turns to no avail. That is until I tried them on a different foot. What do you know, I did one. It was bad, but I did it. My right foot seems to have less trouble with things than my left. In any case, I've got a long way to go, but I'm still trying to get on with my sick self!

Blow-up?

It's easy to think that the signs of a blow up are easy to spot. You assume there will be some fireworks of some kind: snappish comments, bad moods, throwing things. But with some people it's the opposite. Instead of big signs, things turn inward. The person gets silent. Things that you would normally think would set someone off are easily dealt with. The person takes a deep breath and declares the bad things beyond his or her control. It's scary because it's rational. But when a person works against their nature, the internal suffers. It's like a pent up volcano. Things are fine while it's dormant, but when it blows, watch out.
I think a blow up is coming soon. I guess I'll have to wait in see. But people are rare to change, so when a change happens, it's usually a sign of something...

Sickly

You can really tell what a person's like when they're sick. There are so many types of sickly people. There are the martyr sickly who just want to be left alone to writhe around on the floor. You try to ask if they need help, but they want nothing except to bask alone in their sickness to show their strength and the fact that they need no one but themselves. There are the baby sickly, who revert to an infantile state when sick. They want to be catered too, taken care of and cry at any opportunity. There are the bitchy sickly who turn mean and evil. They let the world feel their pain and lash out at anyone who even asks them a question that rubs them the wrong way (which is probably any question). Their pain gives them the freedom to let out their inner devil. There are the saintly sick, who suffer in silence and offer their pain up to a better place, not wanting to be a burden on anyone. There are the crazy sick. Those people let sickness take over their better senses and can't keep it together, they get frazzled and psycho and anyone near them can tell.
There's a bug going around. I don't know who I got it from, but unfortunately I'm spreading it. I guess amidst all the sneezing, runny noses, sore throats, achy bodies, headaches and other horrible symptoms, at the very least I get to see what people are made of.

Intuition

Sometimes I sense things about people. Usually these things are right. It's not judging character. In fact, when someone says "I'm a good judge of character," I usually roll my eyes. It's something deeper than that. It's about knowing someone's intention. Day after day we say things, do things and create a personality that the world sees. But there's a lot more going on underneath. There's always words unspoken, things left undone. People can say whatever they want to, but sometimes what's really going on comes blaring out. I can't really explain it and I don't know why I'm writing about it. When I try to explain this to people, they usually think I'm delusional and making things up, but I've found that even though sometimes it might take months, things end up panning out.
There's a few things going on right now that make me think there's more going on than what people are saying or doing. I guess I'll have to see how they turn out.

6-2

I got lucky today. I was playing someone who's beat me the 3 previous times we've played. I was nervous earlier, but once we got there, I was just hitting and playing fine. Nothing special. Luckily my opponent wasn't playing his best and I was just steady. What was the most interesting thing about it was the thoughts that were going through my head.
"I haven't been broken yet."
"I always get broken, it's probably coming soon."
"He's not playing well."
"He'll probably start playing well soon and I'll get nervous."
"I'm surprised I haven't double faulted yet."
"Just shut the hell up and get the ball back in the court."
It was difficult to silence my brain, but although I had a little case of nerves serving it out, I got some easy errors and it was over.
Sometimes the hardest thing to do is just get the ball back into the court.

The Man In The Blue Jumpsuit

Today my life became a CSI episode without the benefits of Marg Helgenberg, Armani suits, and layers of sprayed on make-up. An Armenian man crashed into a tree outside our house. He fell from his white mini van with blood gushing from his face and with a stagger that would put a drunken college boy to shame. My neighbors and I, with Blackberries and IPhones in hand, stood watching, whispering...wondering if he was drunk, high, or just disoriented from his head on collision with a stationary object. "Are you okay," I asked. No response. Just some shuffling from the driver's door to the back. "Do you need me to call anyone for you," I shouted, wondering if maybe he just didn't hear me the first time. I received a grumble, some words shoved together not in any order, more just like sounds really. The airbag in his van had exploded, and white powder was filling the air, with what some around me thought to be smoke. But, I knew better. I had been the first one on the scene. I saw him open his door and scream as he fell to the pavement. I saw the white powder as it escaped from the balloon that now covered his steering wheel.
As we waited for the police..the firetrucks...the ambulance to arrive, the Armenian man in the blue jumpsuit began to walk down the street with a cell phone he recovered from the sidewalk yards away. We tried to stop him, but he just kept walking, with blood coating his face. Within minutes, the police arrived and I told them that the man in the blue jumpsuit had escaped, and had disappeared around the corner. They jumped into their vehicle and peeled away, racing down the street, in the direction I had pointed. Soon, a helicopter hovered overhead, searching the tree lined streets for the man in the blue jumpsuit.
Eventually, I went back inside the house, mainly because I was judging every other person who sat outside watching the drama unfold. It took me about five minutes to realize I was one of those people.
Twenty minutes passed and I heard a knock on the front door. It was the police. They wanted to know what I saw. I told everything I knew and he asked me to describe what the man was wearing. "A blue jumpsuit," I replied. He nodded is head and asked if I could come to the hospital to ID him. "ID him? You mean like pick him out of a lineup?" I asked. The officer, realizing my panic, and my obsession with Crime dramas, reassured me that I would simply be pointing to him at the hospital and saying, "Yes, that's him."
I'm still waiting for the officer to come back and get me. That was two hours ago. Maybe I scared him off?

Dream Come True

The dream was actually a premonition. I thought I was safe in my house. I thought I knew what was coming. I didn't know there were sinister forces at work all around me. I didn't know that someone I trusted would try to stab me and wound me and take me down with ruthless plotting and things left unsaid.
I guess there's nothing I can do about but try to defend myself. I can carry on and try to do my best while other do whatever it is the do when I'm not looking. You can't control anyone but yourself and your reactions to other people.
I guess I'll try to stay strong.
Like Roger Federer in his defeat of Novak Djokovic.
He was down, but he kept fighting and came back victorious in the US Open Semifinal. Hopefully Serena Williams and Rafael Nadal can do the same.

Violence!

I dreamed I was with A, who was meeting someone to pick up her dog. We arrived at a park and got out of the car to get her dog, but she didn't put the car in park and it started rolling. There was a cop nearby, so A motioned for me to get in the car and drive off, which I did. I ended up driving to a house where my cousins were staying and was there for a while when a crazy man broke into the house with knife in one hand and scissors in the other. He was going to attack us and I grabbed a blanket to distract him and wrap around his hands as he came after me. He ended up stabbing me in my arm and hand, but I got the items out of his hands and got him to the ground and tied him up. We called the police, but they never came and after a few hours, he wiggled loose and ran to an upstairs outside area that lead to a busy street. I couldn't find him and was worried that the cats would get out, so I had to go back.

Desire

I'm fascinated by my own want and desire. Dealing with them is like being taught lessons that I never learn. I'm always interested something whether it be little or small. I become engulfed in figuring it out how to acquire it. There are things I'll do and things I won't, but that desire is a powerful thing. Suddenly what I'm trying to get becomes THE answer. It's the cure for everything. If I get it, I'll be happy and fulfilled. Everything will fall into place.
But it doesn't.
It never does.
There's never that one cure.
But I still don't learn my lesson.
And it's not like the things I want are a big deal that often. It could be a DVD, a season box-set of some television show, some toy I remember from childhood, a rare CD soundtrack. I think I don't learn my lesson because I don't want to. The act of desiring is seductive and powerful. The actual idea that one thing could be the be-all end-all is a great thing to think, even if the thought is delusional. It's like a momentary trip to a fairytale wonderland.

The Emotion Vacumm Has Landed

Do you ever feel like all emotion has been sucked from your body? I feel like my elderly neighbor, the one who shuffles down the block in her housecoat, has hand washed me, squeezed out my emotion and then hung me on her backyard clothes line to dry. I feel numb and yet void of all feeling. (How can I be void of all feeling, isn't feeling numb a feeling? )
When I was in rehab years ago, one of our therapists sent around a feelings sheet and everyone had to pick the one that best represented how they were feeling at that moment. I could never pick one, so she always told me to guess. I would usually pick the feeling that had the best picture. Maybe I'll get one of those sheets and start carrying it around with me in case anyone asks me how I am feeling.

Death on the Ice

Ice skating took a turn for the worse last night. I started two new classes with new classmates and a new teacher. In the first class, Stroking and Edges, I was so out of my depth. The teacher asked us to do 3-turns and I had never done one. I tried and ended up falling on my ass. (It was made worse by the fact that A had come to watch me.) My edges were sloppy, my form was bad. I ended up asking the teacher if it was the right class for me because I'm at such a lower level than everyone else. She assured me she'd work with me.
Ah, my teacher. Mary Lucas. She's very direct, very no-nonsense. At first glance you'd think she'd be a strict task-master, and she is, but in the best way possible. She let's you know what you're doing wrong and tells you how to do it right and does it simply and efficiently. But she still has time to crack a joke or make a wry off-hand comment.
I was flailing in my first class and then moved on to my second, where my teacher was... Mary Lucas again. I flailed even more, but she made it seem all right. Yes, things are difficult. Yes, I realize my form is a mess and I need to get better at everything. Yes, I'm nervous and scared. But I'm excited to learn more and get better. Hopefully I don't fall on my ass too much more.

Sick

I feel a little delirious. My head is somewhat heavy, like I'm top weighted and if I lean down too much my face will just hit the desk. At the same time it feels like my brain is rattling around. My nose is dripping, my throat is sore, there's a crick in my neck, the rest of my body aches, I have no desire to do anything. I kind of want to go home and just lie down but that makes things worse. Things are actually more manageable when I'm up and moving. I sooooo wanted to call in sick the last two days, but I know there's too much to do and no time to do it in, so I come in and do what I need to do, just waiting until the time to go home.
But tonight, there is no going home. I have my first Gamma class. I have a new teacher to deal with, maybe new classmates. Maybe me being sick will make things easier. No pressure, no expectations. Just get through, get home, get something to eat, watch the Serena Williams versus Venus Williams US Open quarterfinal, jump in the shower and call it a night. I know I'm supposed to live in the now, but I can't wait until I'm home with my head in the pillow.

Flower Truck

It seems like it should be a surprise, but it isn't. I can see her, her hair blowing in the wind as she picks up the keys and races out to the truck. It's a flower truck, meant to deliver beautiful arrangements in a timely yet manageable fashion. After all, it's rare that someone needs an emergency flower delivery. She gets in the truck and races around campus. She sails over speed bumps, races past stop signs and tries to keep an eye on the road. She calls up her friends from an archaic cell phone that charges over a dollar an hour and shoots the breeze. She invites them to meet her outside their dorms and jump in and they can race around together. Six bodies loaded on top of each other in the single, long front seat. She laughs and shoves a speeding ticket somewhere where she hopes it will be forgotten. The ladies who run the flower store know she's trouble, but they love her any way. They mother her, they give her advice, try to put her on the right path. They pretend not to see the speeding ticket stuffed in the glove compartment. The make her a laminated list of things she needs to do in the order she needs to do them. They understand. She's young... and she's allowed these moments of abandon...

List of signs of...?

1. Unprovoked Psychotic Breakdown
2. Non-finished Rice Krispie Treats
3. Coke in a glass glass, with ice

No Milkshake Redux

I wanted to make the Coke cry. I wanted to make the burrito cry. I wanted them to both cry Pollack-like tears on the sidewalk, but I thought the better of it and didn't. It's dangerous when irrationality meets irrationality, but it's interesting when you're met with your mirror in someone who you don't expect it from.
When I see someone making the same missteps that I make, I so want them to turn it around--to choose the right direction. It's as if their victory is my victory, an example to follow. But when they don't, I find fault. And it's not as if I'm judging them, it's more like I'm judging myself. In the end I just hope for the best and hope we all figure it out somehow.

People Watching at the Dog Park

"She's way past the pin-up phase," Marian whispered to me yesterday at the Pasadena dog park. I squinted my left eye to avoid the glare from the setting sun and lifted my sunglasses to get a better view of the 60-year old short haired blond woman standing across the park. I had noticed her when she first walked in with her brindle colored Boxer/Great Dane mix who's gait was more like a galloping horse than a lanky, 11-month old puppy. She looked like someone who had recently had her stomach stapled and the excess skin left on her body couldn't keep up with the fast weight loss. Marian didn't think it was proper to leave your house braless with droopy boobs peeking through a white tank top or sporting Levi cut offs after the age of forty. "No one wants to see all those leg dimples. Just shoot me if I ever look like that," she added through clenched teeth. "This is a great place for people watching," Marian observed as she fished her oversized Chanel sunglasses out of the one of a kind Ed Hardy messenger bag she ordered off Ebay, and settled into back into her chair.

Carissa & The Post Office

I didn't expect lines akin to a ride at Disneyland when arriving at the Studio City Post Office at 8:58AM, but there I was, in one. Most everyone in line was morning-sour as the one clerk helped one slow customer after another. But there were two people chatting up a storm. One was a woman with long, wavy blonde hair, glasses, and a chirpy voice and she was giggling and laughing with a guy in shorts and a black baseball cap. She was discussing her upcoming trip to somewhere like South Dakota and how she was going to visit a friend. Their attitudes were in complete opposition to everyone else, including me. We were all slumped and dismal, but they were in a different world. Carissa went to take care of her postal business with the same attitude she had in line, happy and apologizing for needing different kinds of stamps. As she was preparing to gather her things and go, the man she had been talking to approached her.
"Can I get your name?"
"Carissa," she responded happily and they both scrambled to find paper to write on.
After a few moments, she gave him the piece of paper she had written on.
"I'll be back in town in a couple weeks," she said.
"Hopefully I'll see you then," the man replied.
"Yes," Carissa assured.
They parted and I couldn't help but smile as I looked out the side window of the crowded Post Office and saw Carissa almost skipping to her car.

Terrifying Rides, Infidelity, Liza Minneli & Dead Cats

I don't remember a time when I've remembered so many dreams, night after night. Last night's were perplexing. I know no one cares, but I'm writing them down anyway because it's interested to have them to remember, especially when the memory of them slips away so easily.
First, I was at a house with my family and B. I got a visit from H2, who seemed very depressed and just needed someone to talk to. He went to leave in a Winnebago and I opened the doors to make sure none of the kids had hidden inside. Well, BR was inside, trying to sneak a ride, so I went in to get her, but H2 ended up taking off up a hill at full speed and couldn't find a place to turn around. We ended up speeding up a hill with the door open, I was holding on to BR as we went higher and higher up a cliff.
Next, I was riding a bike in a neighborhood that was Studio City-esque. It was this suburban area on a hill that overlooked the entire area and I rode my bike down the hill to Ventura Blvd. A lot of the shops on the street had burned down, but I stopped at one that was still standing to get an Italian ice. I noticed someone familiar there, it was B on his lunch break. He was standing very close with someone and leaning his head on this person's shoulder. I heard them talking and immediately went crazy and ended up hitting B in the head with a magazine, but he was resolute that this had been going on for while and was happy he could finally be open about it. There was a part of me that was angry and another part that realized there was nothing I could do about it.
Next, I was watching a weird, violent but arty movie on CBS with my family and Liza Minneli. Everyone was bored, but we were still watching it until I decided to turn it off. For some reason, Liza was a little down and I had to assure her that she was brilliant and one of the all time greats. The house ended up turning into an awards ceremony where both Liza and a teenage Susan Lucci were nominated for awards. I left the house and went to a park where a light rain was falling. In the park, someone had left "X-Files" and "My So-Called Life" posters on the ground and I was excited to find them. As I was walking around, I heard this horrible screeching. It caught me completely off guard and was a horrible sound. I finally started to run towards the sound to find out what it was and looked around in all these ponds the rain had formed. In the ponds were a bunch of drowning cats. First I tried to save them with sticks until finally I jumped in, but I was too late and I could only save one. The rest were all floating dead in the water.
There was a definite progression to the dreams. I went from being happy with my family to scared, then to angry at B, then to completely grossed-out and disturbed. If I was to interpret what I was feeling, I would say there's a part of myself that I'm keeping at bay and not trusting because I think it's going to get out of control and lead to something catastrophic. I'm not sure what this part of me is, but I'm interested to find out if it's giving me this much grief.

James Franco & a Broken Bottle

Dream-Part the Firste
I was walking down a street and noticed a house that looked on the outside to be in shambles. It was for sale, so I decided to take a closer look and once I got up to it, it was amazing. It had an incredible view of the ocean and was a loft type house with tons of open space and cement floors. The outside was brick and it was kind of like a beach house that hadn't been taken care of. To the right of the structure was an amphitheater that overlooked the water. On the benches, people were sitting around filling out applications. It ended up that the house was owned by James Franco, and he wanted to sell it because too many people knew the location (I don't know if I read this somewhere or it was information from a previous dream). I remember thinking "Maybe he'll take pity on me and even though I can only qualify for a loan of $120,000."
Dream-Part the Seconde
I was on the couch. My mom offered me a drink of whiskey and I was too lazy to sit up, so my sister handed it to me and as I reached out for it and the glass fell and shattered on the floor. My sister and I both went to clean it up and among the glass shards was a single earring.
I know where part of this dream came from. As I was crossing Sepulveda Blvd. at Oxnard yesterday, I looked down at the curb and saw a broken bottle. I remember thinking "That's symbolic of something." So, I'm sure it was symbolic, but it became a symbol of a symbol in my dream. Broken glass, it's pieces shattered and shining in the sun.