Month: January 2015

Rejection: It SUCKS ASS! (and where do we go from here)

I’m sure we’ve all had this experience to some degree before. We see something. Anything. A job. A dude. A gal. An internship. A college. Something that seems so right on and so big at the same time. It’s like the Universe itself put whatever it was right then and there for just us. At first, acknowledgement comes. Ok, I know you’re there. I see you. You’re so bright and shiny and amazing and just perfect. We remain calm. Don’t make any sudden movements. Don’t want to scare it away. Smile slightly, but not a full smile. Don’t want to quite commit to something that may or may not really be yours.

Slowly, you start to feel around. It feels good. Not too bad, at all. The Universe continues to put signs out to you to come closer. Say hello. Put in your resume. Fill out that application. Sign up for that class. This is yours. Just baby jump through these hoops. And, so, what would you do? You jump. You have to. You just can’t not. If you didn’t it would feel like you were going against what already was.

And, slowly the momentum begins to build and things start to roll in that direction. The doors begin to open. Sure, I’d love to get coffee. Please come to an interview on Monday. I’d love for you to come and check us out. So, once again, you go. You go and the world around you begins to align even more so. It feels like whatever it is, is already yours. You see yourself kissing goodnight, getting that first paycheck, running those errands, sitting in that first class at the adult university. And, it feels so good. It feels so right. It feels so real. But wait, this can’t be. This is too easy. Everything just seems like it’s going to fit. This is too weird. This just isn’t it. Once again, you keep walking towards it though. You keep being open and vulnerable and hopeful and confident and all the while, deep deep underneath it all, you know it’s a farce.

Then, things begin to unravel and fall apart and none of it was what it seemed. It was all a big, huge lie. That guy/girl laughs in your face. They weren’t looking at you in that way. The sun was in their eyes. Job? Ha. They don’t want people like you. Internship? More like slavery. University? It’s community college for you babe. And, you begin to see the Universe as a real big meanie pants. Like, Universe, why would you just send me on that wild goose chase?  Why would you let me kiss that girl? Cash that paycheck? Take that class? Why????

The Universe never answers. It sits still. So do you. There’s like a wild, silent treatment Mexican standoff going on between you and the Universe. You go first. No, you go first. No, you. No, you. You. You. AHHHHHH. It’s neverending. The damn Universe always wins. What do you do though? How do you just take it and hold it and move on from the pain? You just do.

I’ve learned that most of the time my ideas of how things are or should be is far from the truth. I’ve learned that I generally don’t have the full picture set in reality and that I don’t always know what’s best. I’ve also learned to pick myself up, dust myself off and keep going.

One time, I was listening to an interview of Patti Smith and she was talking about this thunderbolt tattoo that she has on her leg. She was asked if it meant anything and she said that she heard or read or saw something about Crazy Horse and how he would tattoo or paint thunderbolts on his horse’s ears to remind him to keep going, to remember the fight, to never give up. I found solace in that. Keep going. What a powerful statement! So, I keep going.


A Letter of Love to A Dead Friend

Dear Cisco aka Sicko One,
How to start this. It has always felt awkward to start a letter with , “Hi. How are you doing?” and then go right into what I really want to say. I still have a hard time with that though. I just usually go for it. Anyhow, now I’ve made this already weird letter even more uncomfortable. So, let me start over.
Dear Cisco,
Hi. How are you? That’s right. You’re fucking dead, in some compostable, cardboard box up in Washington. Rotting. You’re rotting. You’re rotten. You’re dead.
Today is your birthday. It’s also Elvis’ birthday. We know that though. He was born on yours and died on mine, remember? Death. Dying. It doesn’t get easier. It just gets more. This letter is not going how I thought it would.
Anyways, the last time I saw you was on your birthday. Your thirty-third birthday. The one right before you died. I remember that night like you were going to knock on my door any minute right now. You had been drinking and I was no longer drinking and it was awkward. We had always been drinking or smoking or something. Remember when you would only drink Yukon Jack? Jesus, that shit was terrible. We drank so much Yukon Jack, with Mountain Dew. So much. We smoked and drank and just spent so much time. We laughed. Remember that we laughed so much. I do.
I wish we could laugh right now. I wish my door would get knocked on and you would be standing there. You used to get a look in your eyes when you had been drinking the way you were drinking the last time I saw you. It was like you had been set free and in a moment’s notice, you would be chained up again. It was a constant struggle to stay free.
Remember the time I went to jail right before Christmas and you visited me? I can’t remember if I was expecting a visitor that day. I didn’t have many. But, that weekend I got one. It was you and Nikki. I don’t remember much except that you came and we laughed. You left. But, you didn’t leave me empty handed. You put fifty bucks on my books and hadn’t even mentioned it. You were such a good friend. Way better than I knew then. I know so much more now that you’ve gone. It’s interesting how death does that. It gets rid of all that stuff that doesn’t matter and the truth rises up to the top.
So anyways, I’m writing you to tell you that I miss you. I miss the times. I miss those old days. The golden days. I miss them. Remember the time that you jumped off the cliffs in Havasu? I remember Laurel and I had just hustled a jet ski out of some guys we didn’t know and there you were. Jumping into the water. Splash. That reminds me of the time that you jumped off the cliff in Laguna, only you didn’t jump on the side where every one else did. You leaped into the washing machine. The part that the waves would crash into and just imaginably tear shit up. We had never seen anyone do that before. It didn’t tear you up though. You were in and out and up the side of the cliff before the waves had a chance to get you. Nothing ever got you. Or, at least I thought it didn’t.
But, death finally did. I remember when I heard that you were dead. It was a regular, sunny day. My phone rang. You were dead. I began to laugh. It wasn’t a nervous laugh. It was because all I could think of was any funny thing that you had ever done and they kept coming. There were so many. You were always the crazy life of the party. You had the biggest smile and the softest eyes and the longest eyelashes. And, I would never see them in person again.
Days later I was in Oregon, waiting to go to your funeral. I still had not cried though. I began to believe that I didn’t love you. I began to doubt our friendship. I began to grieve. The day of your funeral was the worst day we would ever see together. We had many great times and some days that we couldn’t even see each others faces. But, today would be the worst.
Walking into that funeral home in black, I trailed behind the rest of the group. Death is so awful and tricky. I could see you, but my mind wouldn’t process that it was you. It wasn’t your time. As I began to join everyone around you, my knees got week and I grabbed a pew to sit in. The world flushed inside of me all at once and in one instant, I knew what it really meant to know that you were dead. My dear, sweet friend was dead. This physical existence was gone.
So, now on days like today, I think of you madly and intensely and I try not to focus on those last few moments before you stopped breathing. I try to think of any other memory of you and not what you felt like in those last few minutes. I try not imagine how lonely you felt or scared or lost in the dark. I try not to. It doesn’t work very well yet. I still immediately go to that image of that rafter. I should have never looked. I don’t know how your mom did. I suppose she had to. I just can’t. I just do. I just miss you.
I guess I’m going to go now. I just want you to know that I miss you. I love you. I miss you so. And, I’m so happy to know that you’re safe and free. You’ve always deserved to be free.

Your friend,
Tre-Dogg aka Neyen Tre

Stay Free, Pony Boy!

Fear is a mighty beast. It can take the most confident of people and turn them into a blubbering, indecisive mess. Not being secure in yourself or a decision can really leave the door open for fear to come in. Take for instance what I went through this morning. I’ve been wanting to go to this gathering of women called the Spiritweavers Gathering for two years now. Last year, I was extremely close to going, but didn’t out of fear of money. It’s over a weekend and as a server, that’s where I would make my big money. So, I let it pass me by and skipped it and thought about it off and on for a whole year. This year, I had a friend who was also interested in it. We were able to kind of remind each other and excite each other.

As the website released more information, I became even more determined to go and as they finally shared a registration date, I couldn’t be more enthralled. I daydreamed about being in nature and taking these amazing classes and camping among the stars and all that stuff that my spirit yearns for. And then, the self-sabotaging fear began to mingle with all the happy thoughts about it. Slowly but surely, I began to second guess this decision that I was only so sure about just moments before. As I began to do that, I would hear from my friend and then be able to realign myself with the decision to go.
Fast forward to registration day. Today. Ten A.M. to be exact. I have spent the better part of a half hour to an hour going back and forth with the same friend about how I feel like this is the thing to do. This whole time I believe it. Firmly believe it. I know it’s part of my journey. To be around like-minded women, doing what I strive to do, inspiration and freedom all around me. What’s not to like?

Then, something big happened. Obviously, many women were having the same strong feelings of needing to go to this as my friend and I. Because of this, the registration page was down for like fifteen minutes or so. My plans were not going so smoothly and it is here where the doubt began to seep in. I began to jump ship and board my friend’s thoughts. Going on an individual trip seemed better. I don’t even know what I’m going to do with my son. The drive is going to be so long. The gas money. The cold forest. What about this? What about that? The thoughts kept coming and I was about to just throw in the towel that I had not had one problem holding onto for the last year in just a few minutes of fear and self-doubt. But, there was a part of me that I knew I what I was doing. So, I turned to the spiritual aspect of my life and my original thoughts were validated. I was to go on this trip. Whether it rained, my friend didn’t go, gas prices rose, I had to go. This reassurance pushed me back to my computer where the confirmation button was waiting to be pressed and I could continue this part of the journey.
See, everything is a process. Even if something is done irrationally or impulsively, it’s part of the process. I mean, I would like to think about things, have balance and make plans just to feel right about it. But, I’m of the variety where I just do it. So, all of this for me was a process. And, I haven’t even gotten to the camp site yet. That will be a whole other thing.
So, fear, yah! It’s a doozy. It completely can infiltrate my whole being and take away something that I truly in my heart of hearts want. I can have this beautiful picture painted aligned with who I am and who I want to be and then, I can allow fear, which is not a part of me, to masquerade itself and rip it all to shit. I’ve successfully done this so many times, in so many different ways and I just can’t allow it to happen any longer. I must be true to my inner self and not my superficial fear, even though it can seem so big and scary and a part of me. The whole part of me.
So, back to pressing that button. I pressed it. And, you know what happened? I started to tear up. Why? Because I was honoring the truth inside of me instead of the trepidation. Every time that I’ve walked towards myself instead of away, I’ve been reassured that it was the right thing to do. With that, I choose to honor this trip even more by not placing expectations on this journey. I know that it’s truly part of the process. Remember, fear has many, many forms and they’re all wrapped in bondage. So remember to stay free, Pony Boy!

Haters Gonna Hate; I Know I Do.

So, there’s this new thing or maybe it’s not exactly new. But, it’s definitely been more up in my face as of a couple of years now. I think before it was just called jealousy. Lately, it’s evolved to just haters and their hate. I know for a fact I have always been a hater to some degree. Growing up in a family where you don’t have much and get most of your clothes from the thrift store before it was cool or expensive lead me to not only recede into my little safe cave, but it also really promoted me hating. It wasn’t really something that had a meme or was cool. There was no name for it. It was just you have what I don’t, so I’m gonna hate you for it. Now, it’s been taken to a whole other level. Hating on someone or something is actually a thing. It has been fun though, I’ll admit. I mean, at the end of the day, there will always be someone better than me and someone worse off. It’s just the way life goes. And, I’m sure you can guess this already, but I’ve been on both sides of this hater’s quarrel.

I can’t remember exactly when it started, but I’ve been hating on chicks as far back as my flat chest and those other chick’s plump boobs can bring me. I know for a fact boobs were sprouting out all around me in sixth grade. However, there was this one chick, Heather McGhee, in junior high who really let the rest of us know exactly what we were missing out on. She was like three to six inches taller than the rest of us and had the actual body of a woman. She was tan and had bleach blonde hair sticking up straight in just the right places. She had all of the popular and expensive clothes. Guess jeans were regularly worn, as well as mini-skirts, acid washed everything, big hoop earrings and stirrup pants. Her crop tops always pushed the dress code too. I would constantly catch not only boys, but teachers as well, looking to get a glimpse of her perfectly flat and tan stomach when she would reach for something. She was disgusting. She was perfect. She was silently adored by many and outwardly hated by more. So, early on, I was hating on Heather McGhee, who became  a symbol of hatred towards many other girls.

Eventually, I would learn to be jealous of any girl who got “my” attention. It wouldn’t last long because I would have to come through the room like a tornado to get it back. But, it seemed like everywhere I went, I had competition. For the most part, it was some chick who had something fake. It was either her hair, her tan or her boobs. Down the road, it became all of it. Life just didn’t seem fair once fake boobs were allowed in the mix. I mean, I was already battling on a slippery slope. I didn’t have the longest hair, the biggest boobs or the prettiest face. Now, for a little bit of cash, anyone can have big boobs. It was just not fair. However, I was a lot of fun though and would do crazy shit. The guys seemed to like the notion of some chick out drinking them. Yet for some reason, they didn’t like having to drive me home because I threw up all over myself. With big fake boobs, they didn’t have to worry about anything besides getting laid, which usually wasn’t hard. One thing those chicks usually didn’t have was self-esteem. I saw plenty of them go home with dudes who did not deserve those big, luscious fake boobs.

So, for quite some time hating on those chicks seemed to work out okay. We eventually figured out how to have a balance or more like I did. I would swear off any dude who dated chicks like that. I figured we were not on the same level and poof, they would be out of the mix. Problem solved. As I look back on it, it was pretty sad. I mean I immediately not only prejudged people on their looks, but their preference of those looks and then just locked them out.  Also, I couldn’t give a compliment to another female to save my life. They were all crap. If they felt good about themselves, I felt less about myself. It was just the way it was. Their perfection pointed out my flaws. It went on this for quite some time. I mean, I would have moments in my life where I could see a woman for who she was and just be ok with it. But, usually it was some sort of weird, keep your enemies closer kind of thing or keep them way the fuck on the other side of the map thing.

Now, I am in a bit of a different place or an evolving place then before. I can see someone and find something about them that I like without having to find the thing that I don’t. I can see a woman and say, “Wow. You have really great eyes and a banging body,” and be inspired instead of jealous. After all, it’s always about elevating other women and not pushing them down. I’ve always known that a happy person is just a better person all around. So, why would I want to hate on someone? After all, that just contributes to the negative side of things and it becomes this perpetual motion of crap. I still do have a lot of work to do. A lot. I won’t even lie. I have recently been motivated by a friend. Someone who is attractive and we would definitely be wading in the same dating pool if we were both single. We’re not, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t still hate on her. Instead, I’ve become happy that I can slowly get to build a friendship with this person. And, I will strive to live a much healthier life because it seems that this person is doing so, as well. With one person at a time, I get to do things differently. I get to be the person who I want to be because at the end of the day, I love life because of the difference. I would absolutely die if I didn’t have all of you to look at. With that being said, I’m going to just keep my mouth shut on the stuff that doesn’t inspire me and allow that good stuff that does to know that it does exactly that.

I Do Not Belong To You

It was recently brought to my attention that I am not myself. That I try to be cool. That I try to be like other people. Me being me, I took offense to this. Not because it came from one of the most hypocritical mouths I have ever known, but because I am just the opposite of that and have always known that I am. With that, it did get me to delve more into who I am, who I’ve been and where I’ve come from.  I grew up with a mother and father who were the epitome of cool. My mother with her Linda McCartney hairdo complete with different colors and chiffon shirts with no bra on underneath. A mother who had pierced her own ears, belly button and vulva before it was considered cool or mainstream. I had a father who had done copious amounts of drugs, ran with rock stars and owned multiple impressive cars and motorcycles. Oh, and he had a tattoo of a wolf on his arm that I would stare at as soon as I knew it was there and before wolves were cool. My Uncle Al wore cut off jean shorts with no underwear and no shirt and seemed to always be rolling a joint. My Aunt Duke  had some sort of cool hat on and furs at all times. So many furs and shoes. So many of both and so much weed too. They listened to the music that I eventually understood as magical: Rush, Zeppelin, The Stones, Fleetwood Mac and so much more. There are stories upon stories about my family being fucking cool. Now, I’m not telling you this to brag. I’m setting up a scene here. I’m showing you what I was born into. The expectations that were placed upon me before I was even born. I was to be cool, tough and smart because my parents were all of the above. Oh, and good looking. They were good looking too.

So, I wake up one day and I realize that there is a part of me that is all of these things. There is also a big part that is not. At a very young age it seems that I have some sort of weird identity crisis. I know preteens and teenagers go through this. The pressures put on them by their friends and their parents lead them in very different directions. Only my pressures were a bit of the opposite. First off, I was always expected to get good grades. ALWAYS. It was something that was counted on. Besides that though, my father expected me to fight my own fights, steal to get lunch money and basically survive. We watched movies that were not suitable for kids my age, would be up all hours of the night and would come home to the jacuzzi being gone, but a shitload of weed by the front door. And, by shitload, I mean a pile over a foot tall on top of a newspaper spread all the way out. At the time, the kids I ran with would not think this was cool. I did not think this was cool. I did not steal any of that weed. In fact, I took my  D.A.R.E. oath very seriously and flushed my dad’s vial of cocaine a few years later. Our neighbor Joel took the beating for that one, but there was no way that I was going to give up the truth on what really happened to that cocaine or any others that disappeared. Needless to say, I was not cool.

I was the girl who would get grounded for something stupid and would be happy about it because I could ready my Judy Blume book uninterrupted. I was the girl who wouldn’t be allowed to go out with her friends to some mall and that was fine with me because I didn’t want to have to talk to the boy I had a crush on. Going to school was actually something I enjoyed because I escaped my own home. I was a prude dork who looked like she was in about three grades lower than what she was actually in. Let’s just say that I didn’t grow into my boobs until I was almost out of high school. And, this was fine with me for the most part. However, there was a very big part of me that felt out of place being a good girl who did her homework and was never late to class. There was a very big part of me that wanted to ditch third period, leave campus and smoke weed. That’s where my “other” set of friends came in.

During junior high I dated this Colombian boy who had dark brown hair and green eyes. I didn’t think much of him. Mostly, I just dated him because he liked me. It didn’t go very far. However, once we got to high school, something changed and I became obsessed with him. I began to hang out with him and his friends and they were not the kind of kids that meshed well with the class president of my high school. They were the kids who had bass systems in their cars, smoked a bunch of weed, drank even more and cared less about their grades in school. They were the kids who were always in the back of the cafeteria or one the side of the building smoking cigarettes.  I don’t know why they would let me hang out except that maybe I was the token white girl on many more levels besides my skin color, but they did. For awhile, I kept it to myself. Eventually, I decided to explore all that was around me and that was when I got it. I totally understood what was going on in my family. Drugs and alcohol were like life savers. So, was sex, stealing, hustling and just fucking anyone and everyone over. I became this weird walking and breathing polar opposite. And, I kept my two lives very separate for as long as I could.

Over a small amount of time, my bloodline of “cool” which consisted of sex, drugs and rock and roll came to the surface and I lost all that white as snow stuff. There was always a part of me who knew that it was still right there under the surface though. It was always there reminding me that I was not all one of anything. I knew very early that there were many parts of me. Some were accepted by others and some were not. Regardless, they were all me. And, because of that I never set boundaries on myself in terms of having to conform to one way of life. I allowed myself to try different hats on and see how they felt. I allowed myself to not claim one thing or the other. There is a grey  for a reason. I chose to be there. That’s why I never understood those punk rockers who dressed all one way and only listened to punk rock and said fuck you to everything else. To me, that was just so fucking stupid and ridiculous.

There’s an evolution to things, to everything for that matter. Pardon me for a second, I’m probably going to get a little deep and weird. It’s part of who I am, always has been. I remember one time we dropped acid and I wanted to talk about the Universe and how things are and what we’re meant to do and that hypocritical mouth I was talking about earlier thought I was being weird. “Let’s just look at the colors,” she said. Meanwhile, I’m being accused of wanting to be on board of the cool hippie train now. Ha. Makes me laugh. Anyways, random tangent. Sorry. So, that evolution. It’s me, it’s you, it’s music, it’s everything. Nothing can be where it’s at now, without something or many somethings coming before it. Punk rock wasn’t just created out of thin air. They didn’t come up with anarchism. It’s traced back to some Tao dudes in the 6th century BC. But, because of them, it was allowed to turn and burn and become what the Sex Pistols needed it to be in 1975. Some of you are going to say punk was around before then. Fine. I don’t give a shit. I’m just using them and that year as a place for people to bring their attention to that so they can understand what I’m talking about. I think most people know that band and can relate it to punk rock.

So, yah. This evolution. I will never just be me. I will always be evolving. I choose not to be stuck in ideas or ideals or morals. I remember I swore abortions off. I thought people who had them were vile and inhumane. And then you know what I happened? I fucking had one at 19. I’m not proud of it. I know for me, I’d never have one again. I think the people who use them as birth control are fucking lost, but who the fuck am I to judge? What I’m saying is that there is room for all of it and my only issue is the people who just stay the same. If life is grand and you’re happy where you’re at, fine. But, that’s not me. If I want to wear a 1950’s dress and pomp my hair because I fucking can, it does NOT mean that I’m trying to be a pinup girl. If I want to wear my mom’s Levi’s bell bottoms and a halter top with my hair parted in the middle, it does not mean that I’m a hippie. Just because I am sober now does not mean that I’m not still a raging alcoholic. One does not dismiss the other. It is all a part of me and all of this means that I want to explore and learn and know. There’s nothing wrong with it. The world will continue to spin and every day will be just a little bit different and so will I.