Words...

She Remembers...

Fri, 01 Jan 2010 17:23:00 -0500

... sweet nothings and midnight walks.

A rose on her bed that almost pricked her fingers.

A silly note left on the table.

Her attempts to poetry and verse.

Bad sex in the mornings, worse in the afternoon, and the worst song that ever played on the radio

during the worst possible time (a circus tune that chilled her).

A muffin half eaten that she was planning to save.

Cold coffees and dry paint all over the floor (wall half finished).

And finally, a goodbye half muttered through a bad connection (because there was no other way) and the peace in her soul as she walked away to catch her train.

LRL

She Remembers...

I'd rather be sleeping

Sat, 05 Dec 2009 16:41:00 -0500

I put my socks on one at a time. Carefully. No rush. Simon and Garfunkel have been playing on the radio for the past twenty minutes, but I’m only half aware of the music playing. I’m half in trance. My socks are soft and plushy. Walking in them is like walking on clouds, but I don’t want to walk today. It’s 15 degrees outside and all I want to do is stay home.

I retrieve my sneakers from the corner where I threw them yesterday. They landed on a pile of dirty clothes. I put them on, also without rush. I look at myself in the mirror, and see that my skin has dried more than usual and that my nose looks kind of wrinkly; it always happens during this time of the year. I have thousands of hairs on my head, each of them a mess, so I decide to wear pigtails today. I know I’m too old for that, but I’m out of conditioner. I do and redo the pigtails several times until I finally decide to pull my hair up in a bun, instead. I think buns make me look fat and older, but it makes more sense today.

I turn the music off, and I have the strange feeling that I’m the only one up at this hour. I look at my cat that rests belly up on the sofa and doesn’t seem to notice that the day has already started. I look at her for some time and wonder what it would be like to be like that; to rest and eat all day, and sleep all night. I look back up and notice that I’ve wasted ten minutes. I know there’s no point in delaying things. I’ll still have to go outside. I have no other choice; work needs to be done and I must do it. I don’t mind doing it, really, but it’s cold outside; winter’s here, and I would rather be sleeping.

I finally get the energy to walk out after giving myself a last look in the mirror. Not a sad sight, really, not a happy one either. I know I’ll be late if I don’t hurry. No worries. Once the cold air hits my face I’ll start moving faster. I don’t want to think about the weather outside. Instead, I try to imagine that it’s summer, but I know it won’t work. I remember I’m supposed to buy a cake for Susan’s birthday, but that’s not until Sunday; I don’t have to worry about it right now. She’s such an understanding kind of person; always in a good mood. I wonder how she would describe me if she was asked. How would I describe myself?

I imagine that if I ever wrote about my life I would never get past page 5. Not because I don’t have much to say, but because my life seems to happen in short contained phrases. Morning… Coffee? Lunch? Afternoon… Go for a drink? Night… See ya! Sometimes that’s all that’s necessary. In fact, when I think about it, 5 pages seem plenty.

I finally get to work, and it’s earlier than I thought. I should’ve known, late doesn’t seem to be in my schedule. Some days I wish it was. Late people get to make an entrance. I’ve never made an entrance; I would like to know what it feels like… Here comes Ally. She’s wearing that tight shirt again. I wonder if she knows that it’s a size too small for her. I guess I should say hi.

“Hey, morning” She’s wearing sandals, too. Does she know it’s cold outside?

“Hey”

“What’s up?”

“Not much.”

“Well, have a good day.”

Another successful conversation, which reminds me, I have to visit Lilly. She’s a good friend, but I think she’s a frustrated match maker. If she ever decided to write her story, it would probably look more like a dating portfolio of all the friends she has attempted to set up over the years: Brian, 42, single, great personality; Lisa, 35, secretary, successfully matched… I remember the last time she tried to set me up on a blind date. The guy spent 30 minutes explaining why the plural of “fish” was “fish” and not “fishes”.

“I know it appears in the dictionary, but it shouldn’t be. It’s like the word color. Its original spelling was colour, and look at it now. The same thing happened with “favourite”. That’s the reason why language is declining, the minute half the population starts using a word incorrectly they add it to the dictionary. We should go by the dictionary, not the other way around.”

“I understand.”

“It’s just tragic. The way we use words, I mean. We use them all the time, but we no longer think about their real meaning. We hardly question our choice of words anymore. Until one day someone decides to give it a new meaning and post it in Wikipedia; then everyone’s a linguist. Within a week everyone can tell you how words have changed in our contemporary world...”

Interesting guy; I wonder if perhaps he was a frustrated linguist. I guess that the book of his life would look more like a dictionary; or perhaps a list of words that have meant something special to him. Maybe words like “tennis shoes” or “thrice”.

I’ve been sitting at my desk for a while, but I have no idea how much time has passed. All I know is that for the last five minutes my finger has been pressing the “enter” key on my keyboard, but nothing’s happening. My computer’s acting up again. I think it was working fine five minutes ago. I guess I just hoped it would not freeze up on me today. Maybe if I give it a minute or two… No, it won’t work. That means I’m going to have to go find Herb, and he will not be happy about it.

Herb’s job was not really to work with computers originally, but he seemed to know more than the technician that came in every now and again. He also worked faster, so the boss unofficially decided to lighten his work load and make him the new “computer guy”. Everyone looks him up when there’s a problem, which usually only makes him angry. He argues that he’s busy, that he has too much work to do to be helping everyone with every small thing. I think he likes to be angry; it makes him feel important. When you talk to him, you have to be gentle and let him know that his help is greatly appreciated. Many people hate doing it, but they do it anyway just to get their problem fixed.

I finally find him sitting at someone’s desk. He looks at me and knows why I’m there. There’s only one reason why I would be there.

“Stop right there! I see you coming!”

“I need your help...”

“Of course you do. Everyone does. But do you think they ever say thank you!”

“I always do, Herb… but whenever you have the time, I know you’re busy…” He sighs.

“Alright, let me take a look, but I can’t promise anything.”

I thank him and we walk together. I wonder if he is always this temperamental. It’s hard to imagine him being sweet and loving. It’s hard to imagine that anyone would fall for a man like this. He must have a sweet side, though, everyone does… I think…but it’s hard to imagine it, especially because he is now cursing at my computer.

“Let me tell you something, this is the reason why Bill Gates is rich. He doesn’t sell a lot of computers because they’re good, it’s ‘cause they’re crap! You know how often you have to replace these things? At least every couple of years. Or you’ll have to pay some jackass half your age to fix them! That’s why I learned to do it on my own, you know. The problem is that now I get aggravated with every little problem everyone has with their computers.”

I let him get it out without interrupting. He doesn’t really expect me to respond. He’s not really having a conversation; he’s giving a monologue, and I’m not even sure I’m supposed to be hearing it. I’m sure that if he ever stopped yelling long enough to tell about his life, his story would be titled “This is why, damn it!” and it would be a long list of reasons why people bother him with their problems, every sentence ended with an exclamation point.

Even though Herb made no promises, he finally managed to fix my computer. I thank him profusely for his help and promise that next time I will bring him a batch of those muffins he loves. He smiles slightly and goes on to insult whoever is unfortunate enough to be next on his fix-it list. My hands return to the keyboard and glide slowly through it as I finish my work. I’m a methodical person; I don’t like to make mistakes. Or maybe, it’s just the weather that makes my hands stiff and difficult to use. Everyone else seems to move at a fast pace; but I seem to be running five seconds behind the clock.

When I’m finally finished I load paper into the printer and hit print. This printer is an old model that makes so much noise that I can swear I hear a quiet “yabba-dabba-doo” over all the racket it makes. The boss keeps telling me that she needs to get me a new one and that she’ll order it as soon as possible, but I don’t mind this one. Not really. I like to imagine that Fred Flintstone is the one etching letters on the paper as he would on a piece of rock, it makes me laugh. I also like the way the printer spits out the paper once it’s done, like it’s too busy to be bothered with old news. If a sudden surge of energy ever turned this printer to life, I bet it would have a lot to tell. It would start as a one page story with a polite “Welcome to the wonderful world of…” or “Congratulations, you’ve acquired a…” and end with “Enjoy!”; but that wouldn’t be enough. Eventually it would want to tell more stories; stories of its own. Maybe that’s why it makes so much noise; it’s protesting its lack of time and freedom. I wonder what it would call these stories… Maybe “The Font Chronicles”, typed using Times New Roman to start and then switched to a different font every two pages. On the other hand, it could all be gibberish with a nice font…

The printing’s done. I retrieve the papers from the printer and organize and staple my work and place it on my desk. That way I won’t forget to file it later where it belongs. Time seems to have gone by quicker than I had expected. It feels like coffee break, but it’s actually lunch time. Funny, I’m not really hungry. I walk to the Coffee Break Room, and as I near the door I hear a loud and clear: “¡Me cago en ná’!” That must be Mari, I’d know her voice anywhere. She’s slipping into Spanish, which means she’s angry. That’s how you know not to bother her that day, because she’s cursing in another language. She notices my presence and apologizes.

“Sorry, girl, I didn’t mean to scream. I hope I didn’t scare you or anything.”

“That’s ok.” I never mind her screaming; she doesn’t do it very often.

“It’s just one of those days.”

“What happened?”

“Frank, he’s an idiot, that’s what happened. Do you know what that little, pendejo did?”

“What?” A story’s coming, I know it.

“He comes to me and asks if I can help him translate something. Now, I know that little rat knows Spanish, ‘cause I know he does, but he says he’s a little rusty and I know it better…”

“I didn’t know he knew Spanish…”

“Yeah, well, he does. So anyway, I’m helping him translate some stuff and he has the nerve to tell me that I’m pronouncing my words wrong. Can you believe that? He’s telling me I’m not rolling the ‘r’ enough and that I have to put more emphasis on the ‘s’. You know, ‘cause it’s the proper way. I swear to you I almost smacked the shit out of him. But then I told my self: Mari, mija, cógelo con take it easy, you know that what goes around comes around, y este quiere cagar más arriba del culo…You know, one day that little fart is gonna trip in his own shit…”

I can’t help but laugh. Mari always makes me laugh, even when she doesn’t mean to. She’s an interesting person; she always has something to say. If she ever decided to put any of it on paper, her story would be written in two languages, which she would alternate depending on how she felt. Some of it would require translation, but all of it would be funny and exciting. It would be filled with proverbs and expressions and little snippets of wisdom that nobody but her own family could really understand, but that you would want to read anyway. It would probably be named “The rooster goes ‘kikirikí’ not cock-a-doodle-doo”; I don’t think anyone has used that title yet…

“Hey, girl, are you ok? You look all spaced out.”

“What?”

“You’re in another world, girl.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine...” I didn’t realize I was staring into space.

I take a cup of coffee Mari has offered me and I take a sip. I like the smell of it more than I like the taste. I drink it because it’s a waste to throw coffee away, but its sour taste doesn’t match its aroma of sunny mornings and home made breakfast.

I realize that the room has started to fill up with people. It seems like the whole office has decided to gather in this tiny space. I find out why: the boss has asked everyone to gather around, she has an announcement to make. There seems to be a gas leak somewhere in the building, and firefighters have been called. Nobody knows how long it’s going to take to check it out. Since its Friday she’s decided to let us go early; she’ll see us all on Monday. Everyone’s happy about that. It’s one of the reasons why people seem to like her; sometimes she’ll squeeze really tight, but then there are other times when she’ll relax her grip and give us some freedom. It’s all in the small details…

People want to go celebrate early this Friday; have an early happy hour.

“Wanna come?” They ask.

“Nah, thank you.” I decline the offer. Drunk in 15-degree winter is not my thing. Plus, I’m tired today, and all I want to do is go home.

Outside the walk is not as bad as I expected. I guess the sun has warmed up a bit. I miss the bus by a second; I’ll have to wait for the next one. Maybe I could have gone for a drink with the guys after all, but it’s too late now. I wonder what kinds of things they’ll talk about. I wonder what kinds of stories they’ll tell each other after a couple of beers. With each drink they have, will they start blurring the line between what’s real and what’s completely made up? Will they start embellishing their stories until all they’re telling are lies just so that they don’t feel left out? Maybe they’ll write a collective story, something intoxicating; an exaggeration of their lives, because they don’t think they’re interesting enough. “When the molehill turned into a mountain”, that’s what they should call it. Or maybe… maybe they won’t want to write a story at all, because when the alcohol leaves their systems they won’t want to remember being loud, dancing on the table, or telling that story about the time they had to pee outside because they couldn’t find a bathroom.

It took me double the time to get home than it did to get to work in the morning, but I feel relaxed. I walk into my apartment and I find my cat belly up in the same place where she was this morning. It’s past midday already, and she didn’t seem to move an inch. Sometimes I think she has the perfect life; she has food, and shelter and she doesn’t have to worry about the cold outside. Then again, I couldn’t imagine my life being stuck inside all the time. I rub her belly and she purrs a little; maybe she is content after all.

I go to my room. Everything’s in the same place where I left it; right where it should be: piles of papers to one side, a pile of books on the other and my bed in the middle. It reminds me I should clean soon, but not today. I take off my sneakers and throw them to the same corner where they always end up: on a pile of dirty laundry. I take my clothes off and put on my pajamas, but I leave my socks on. They’re soft and plushy, like clouds on a summer day. I let my hair down and remember that I still have no conditioner. I wonder when summer will be here. I wonder when I’ll feel the smell of sun and sand in my nostrils or the sound of muffled water in my ears. It doesn’t matter anymore, because now I’m under my covers, tucked all the way to my neck. I know it’s way too early to be in bed, but I don’t care, because it’s warm in here, and it’s winter outside, and I’d rather be sleeping.

LRL

[I'd rather be sleeping]

The little green woman

Fri, 04 Dec 2009 19:26:00 -0500

The little green woman screamed. She screamed louder. So loud that her throat hurt and her lungs burned. But nobody heard her. Not the three men sitting on a bench, arms tightly crossed across their chests; not the three women on the following bench, legs tightly crossed together. They were too absorbed with nothing. A red robin appeared above their heads and flew in circles several times, then it dropped to the floor. Nobody noticed it except the little green woman. This bird that suddenly dropped from the sky didn't even turn their heads.

The little green woman looked at this strange scene, it never occurred to her that she might be the strangest thing in that place. She was surprised to find that she felt sorry for the robin, after all, she thought, nobody should take a fall like that.

The little green woman had a sudden urge to step closer. She wanted to see that red robin up and close. She wasn't sure if it was still alive, but she wanted to know. But every time the little green woman tried moving forward a powerful wind picked up and pushed her back. She could see the bird from afar, but could never get close enough to it. She could observe, sure, but never participate. 'How strange' thought the little green woman, 'that nobody notices this bird lying on the floor, motionless'. They didn’t notice the powerful wind, either. And if they noticed her, they made no attempt to show it. The little green woman wondered if they even noticed each other or themselves.

Again the little green woman felt like screaming. This time she tried yelling louder. She threw rocks, she jumped up and down. Perhaps this would wake them from their slumber. Maybe the red robin was just in shock and would wake up as well. But they didn't notice. The men held fast to their chests; the women held tightly their legs. The robin motionless on the ground. The little green woman did not want to give in to despair; in fact, she was determined not to. She closed her eyes and focused on this so intently that she didn’t notice when she clenched her fists or when her jaw tightened. She didn’t realize that she was holding her breath and that every muscle in her body was tense. She opened her eyes again hoping things would be different, but they weren't. She felt like a child, the little green woman. But she was a woman; a little green woman. And neither this vision, nor any other, could ever change that.

LRL

[The little green woman]

She

Sun, 29 Nov 2009 09:50:00 -0500

I am a storyteller.

I want to tell a story today.

I don't know where it came from, but I can see this woman when I close my eyes. Not all the time, but often enough that it needs to be said.

Imagine her. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown-olive skin, and bright white teeth. She loves mini-skirts but never wears them. She adores pink, but owns not a thing that could be remotely compared to that color. She's wearing a pair of ragged jeans and a t-shirt with the picture of a fish jumping out of the water. The clothes hang loose on her, and that's just how she likes it. Her favorite pair of shoes are clogs that have a fuzzy soft lining inside and a yellow ribbon outside. It all seems to have been chosen from three different wardrobes randomly, but oddly enough, it all seems to go well together.

She has no name. Or at least, I have never heard anyone utter it. So I'll just call her She.

She is out for a walk. With no particular purpose in mind. She walks 10, 20, 30 blocks. In one hand She is clutching a cupcake, and in the other a debit card.

She enters a store, complete exhaustion settling in. She hasn't really walked any more than usual, but today She feels utterly exhausted. Her mind wanders and lives in a state between a complete blank, and a frenzy of random thoughts. There is really no better way to describe, and even if She tried, it would be a waste of time.

To the store clerk She gives the impression of loneliness. Why, I don't know. She's not actually sad. It's impossible to be sad when so many thoughts, and none at all roam through somebody's head. Sure, there are things She could definitely change in her life, but nothing that makes her so totally miserable. But the clerk -or in today's fancier terms, the "customer assistant"- is not her psychologist, or a therapist, or even qualified enough to quantify and label her state of mind.

She wants to say a few words before she loses her mind. Maybe She'll scream them and then completely forget them. It's the only way She'll finally get it all over with. So She says the first words that come to her mind: trance, color, caudal peduncle.

Jolene (according to the clerk's name tag) doesn't know what to say. Jolene doesn't know that She has been reading about fish recently, or that She watched an existentialist movie about the power of color. So to Jolene this woman seems just plain crazy. But I know better, do I not. I know the dimensions of this woman's thoughts. Or, at the very least I think I can understand them better.

The truth is her coming in this store has nothing to do with color, or fish, or being in any kind of trance. She is just trying to give a name to what She's feeling today. The cupcake didn't tell her, and it didn't make her feel any better. After all, She wasn't really hungry. Retail therapy didn't help her name things, either. In the end, she just wants to keep her hands occupied for a little while. Just enough to help her figure out what is going on in her mind.

A couple of red hand-made papers catch her attention. They remind her of Christmas, and Saint Valentine's put together. She doesn't particularly like either holiday, but she does love red. And this paper is red in the way that red should be: deep, beautiful, involved.

There aren't many people in the world who would understand this. Red is not just read. Just as pink is not just pink unless it's perfect. Spend all the time and money you want, but if it isn't the right shade, you've just wasted your time. There are more important things in the world, of course: getting yourself a nice wardrobe to impress a potential employer; get a second degree so that you always have something to fall back on; date people who you're not entirely interested in so that in the future you can look back and say you dated enough in your younger years. But this doesn't matter to her. It never has.

She asks Jolene to give her $200 worth of paper. I is all she's got left in her bank account. She's not sure what she'll do with so much paper, or what she'll do for food later on, but this kind of compulsion usually works itself out into something useful. Once you create that kind of momentum, things are bound to go somewhere special.

Jolene is happy to take her money. Jolene doesn't work on commission, but certainly this will impress her bosses. No matter that a purchase like this doesn't seem to make sense. Jolene is just happy to get rid of this woman, who doesn't seem to be all there.

She takes her deep/ beautiful/ involved red paper out of the store. Her hands now fuller than before, her head still empty and in complete disorder. It is not clear what these things will accomplish. If she'll actually use them at some point, but all this exertion of energy must be good for something.

I want to write about this woman. I want to paint her in a canvas. Her, and her mind deserve to be immortalized somewhere. Not for any particular reason. But just because that's the way it should be. That is what makes me a storyteller. Not a painter, not a dancer, not an actress. Simply a storyteller. And not a good one at that. But who the hell cares. Just as long as I get to tell her story.

LRL

[She]

Love letter to no one

Sat, 07 Nov 2009 19:45:00 -0500

A love letter to no one in particular... I've had this thought in my head for the past three days, and I can't seem to get it out of there. I've tried several times to write that letter. To rationalize the reasons why it should be written, but I find none. I thought, there must be a connection between my art, and that sort of feeling; that sort of burning desire. But there's really none, is there? That sort of fire comes and goes by itself. It shows its face unannounced, without permission, and it grabs you. It is not dependent on what one does or who one is. It's completely independent, and quite honestly, a nuisance most of the time.

So why talk about it. Why write about it. There must be a connection between who I am, what I love to do, and that sort of passion. But, what is it? There's no rationale that will serve me here. Unfortunately.

I should be sitting in a garden pondering these things. As if they were the most important things in the world. As if by some chance sitting next to a pretty flower or plant could help. Instead, I sit in front of my computer staring at the monitor. Or in front of my aquarium staring at my fish; or in front of the terrarium staring at my geckos, but they don't like that. Animals don't seem to have this kind of urge. They have feelings, for sure. God knows my dog has the eyes of a little girl: just waiting. But I don't know that they know anything about obsession, or infatuation, or passion... It is so human. So human, that Van Gogh sliced his ear to show that side of his humanity. Of course, he had a someone in particular in mind... Did it mix with his paints? Does this thing mix with a canvas; does it get impregnated on fabric, or the sheets on a bed, or paper and pen? Does it have a smell, or a shape that is characteristic of it? Is it the heat of my island following all the way here?

To be honest, I feel more than ridiculous saying these things. It reveals a little too much about my nature, and the nature of my work and process. I hear drumming is a great way to get rid of unwanted thoughts. Or at the very least reduce stress. And the truth is, this idea of love stresses me. It stresses me to think that there is a feeling out there that is so powerful that it can move mountains, and dry oceans, and make the most beautiful works of art humanity has ever seen. And it especially scares me to think that I can feel it. It just seems so irrational. So forbidding. Why can I not fight a feeling like that. Why is it so hard to let that kind of feeling go settle somewhere else?

I don't know. For all the things I know, I'm completely in the dark about this one.

LRL

The nature of chaos

Tue, 03 Nov 2009 17:26:00 -0500

I wonder if blogging is more effective when you count it off. Or if I can start this second one without numbers so that it doesn't feel like there's a goal or an end place that I'm trying to reach. Of course there is. There always is when you're trying to express something. But mine is the mind of chaos: not knowing what to do in any specific order. It's pure chaos, that's what it is. Life is chaos, feelings are chaotic, everything tends to chaos. Read it up, I learned that in chemistry, not that I enjoyed my time there too much.

My friend Donna said to me that my writing is crisp. Crisp: what does that mean? Crisp like a leaf of lettuce? Like an ear of corn? Crisp like the morning air? There's a difference between all of these, you know. I'd rather be the morning air than a leaf of lettuce. I guess, just like Simon and Garfunkel would "rather be a forest than a street". But crisp, that word is not haphazardly uttered. It is orderly in its fashion. It has a specific meaning, and shape. Or, at least, it sounds like it should.

I use this chaos, when it gets very intense in my head, I use it. I paste, and pull, and print, and throw it, and then magically something appears right in front of me. It's like the disorder in my life has a specific purpose. A reason to be. So everything happens for a reason, and it happens non-linearly and it makes sense...

How can chaos make sense? In what world does chaos make sense? In our world for sure. But, is this me trying to control everything? Is that the chaos my chemistry teacher talked about? Maybe this is what she wanted me to learn: Everything has an order that is disordered by nature... Or something like that....

Every year, and bear with me here, I make my own costume for Halloween. There's no particular reasoning behind it. I just take things I have around me and put them together, and shape them into something. Out of the mess in my closet I pull a couple of clothing pieces, maybe take some paper and make-up, and turn it into something identifiable.

Last year I was dressed as a sage. The year before I was the love child of V and Zorro. This year I didn't dress as anything. Is that because I didn't have enough chaos around me? or is it because there was so much of it that I couldn't make sense of it? I guess it doesn't matter when you dress up as the love child of two gay super heroes (relax, I know they're not gay, but in my world, that year, I was happy to imagine they were).

And then, if that's the chaos of life, what happens to the chaos of death? There must certainly be chaos in death, too. Bodies rotting; falling apart. That to me spells pure unadulterated chaos. But there's order there, too. When my grandmother died, she shriveled slowly. When I finally saw her, right before her death, she was so old and frail. I thought at that moment that I never wanted to be that old or frail. But, when she finally left, when she finally took her last breath, there was no struggle. There was no disorder, only peace. She died with the same peace that she lived. In that case, the chaos of dying cannot be such a bad thing because it's natural. It happens whether we want it or not. The more we resist disorder, the more it settles in our lives.

Maybe that's why I write, and paint, and dance. To have a place to put the disorder in my life; to have an excuse for it. But disorder requires no excuse. It needs no reason to be, it just is.

Hmmmm.... so that's it then. That's just it... Don't worry, if you didn't understand. If you think I rambled and never made my point you're probably right. After all, that is the nature of chaos.

LRL

Of success and human nature

Sun, 01 Nov 2009 10:10:00 -0500

This is the first time I write a blog, or an article. And I wanted to write something that spoke about me; about who I am. But you can clearly see that in my work. Then I thought, I want to write the best article in the world; win a Pulitzer or a Noble prize. Then I realized: it may be a bit too much to ask from a blog -especially a first time blogger. This is all to say that I want to be successful. I want to feel the happiness and fulfillment of success; everyone does, I suppose, but in what terms do I define success? I have a steady job, true, but I wouldn't exactly count that alone as success. I have a dog that I adore, but that isn't it either. I can walk, I can think, I can dance (sometimes fairly well), I have my health, if I don't count that tetanus shot that had my head swimming and my muscles sore for a week not so long ago. So what is success? How do I define it? Truly and honestly, what does that mean to me? What does it mean to anyone, for that matter? Success is just such a personal feeling.

I guess the question is, what comes easiest to me. What is that thing that I would do, if I could do it for free.

Art is one. God knows I'm not getting paid for it at the moment, yet I come home and I still do it. Art in all its forms. Well, maybe not all of them. I like to paint, and work with my hands (get your minds out of the gutter). I like expressing my thoughts with my body, my movement. I love being able to observe and understand and learn. The question is, what drives me to do these things: is it a narcissistic feeling about the world? Is it narcissistic or vain to want to express ones feelings? My aunt would say, if you have nothing nice to say about something, don't say it. But sometimes I must say them. Sometimes I must take the burden off of my chest. It brings me closer to the world and everyone in it, because I think we all feel the same way, but are afraid to say it out loud.

So, what comes next... that's always the real question, isn't it. To be honest, there is no real answer to that question. Probably there will never be. You may think you know, but let's be honest, how many times have you made plans only to see them vanish in front of your very eyes. It's certainly happened to me. I plan, and plan, and plan, but the truth is I don't know really know what will happen next. I'm told that's what it should always be. That's how life shows itself and its better face. That is perhaps the meaning of success, being able to give up our need for planning and controlling, and accept that we don't really know what's next in our path, and we probably never will. Oogway said in Kung Fu Panda (and excuse the lameness of my allegory): Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift, that's why it's called the present. Someone more important and far more enlightened may have said these words in history, but I remember them from him: a cartoon. Let's just not hold that against him (or me).

*Sigh*

Now I've reached the end of what I wanted to say. This doesn’t make for a great article. Not even a great blog, if truth be told. But I'm sure someone out there understands exactly what I'm talking about. Maybe more people than I care to admit. Probably. Because let's face it, there’s nothing original about being human.

LRL