nothing in particular

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let me begin.  for however unsure i am, let me begin.  i've been aching to write here, to feel the pleasing click of these keys beneath my fingers but then i clam up.  there's some really strange shit happening in my private life.  or, to say it better, some really disgusting shit...  and i don't know how to keep it from bleeding out here.  i don't know if speaking about certain things related to my family and our past should be spoken of here.  i still war with the urge to keep the humiliating things secret, with whether or not my feelings even matter...  just like a child.

my sister and i speak often these days of our childhood and formative years.  we trade memories and see how our perception and recollections square up.  it's interesting to be an adult now and to look back, to actually be successful at seeing things from her point of view, to be able to listen more as a sister rather than a Big Sister.  we're only 3 years apart.  at this point, we're really just the same age- 30 and 33.  it feels so strange to think of my baby sister that way... weirder still to realize that our brother is now the same age our father was when he dove into that swimming pool and broke his neck.  35.

35 has never seemed so achingly young.

i come home and stick my tips in my mama's black and white striped teapot.  i dream of germany in the summertime.  i dream of france, of standing below the Eiffel Tower in june.  i'll hardly be able to communicate in french by then but that's not going to stand in the way of the explorations i must make.  more and more, i see the luck of my life and try to stop thinking of my age.  i try to focus on this great romance i'm living, so far from the life that came before, the life which surrounded me just a year and half ago...  a life i was not meant for and how inadequate the world felt as a result.  now, i open my eyes to Hope.  i open my eyes to Beauty in spite of the horrors we confide in each other about.

tonight, Amanda said "i'm sorry" when i mentioned that the holiday season makes me sad.  i saw it in her eyes that she was thinking of my dead mother and absent father, the fact that i work every holiday because that's exactly where i prefer to be.  my siblings each live no less than a 8 hour drive away.  there is no one's home to skip off to on thanksgiving.  not that i'd even really want one after all that's happened.  i don't.  i'm finally learning how to walk passed smiling families and not bat an eye.  i'm finally becoming okay with all the normal things normal families have and do.  little by little, we heal.  little by little, i catch sight of myself standing tall regardless.  fucking regardless.  :)

this isn't a pity party.  i don't feel sorry for myself.  i feel a bit horrified at times and very confused, but never sorry.  i laughed all night with my coworkers and friends and the guests to our restaurant.  i walked, one foot in front of the other, with total assurance and power through the darkened Oakland streets, to my humble little home.  i have a roof over my head tonight and a white russian on the bedside table.  i'm wearing the matching Marc Jacobs rings Annie and i bought in late july in new york.  i am snug below my white quilt.  i look up at the postcards Becca sent me tucked in the corner of the armoire mirror and the ones i sent myself from Berlin. more often than not, i feel so impatient with myself and think i should be doing more than waiting tables and making yarnbombs and drawings.  but lately i've somehow managed to feel privileged-  it is a privileged to be an artist and it is a privilege to be learning other languages.  lately, the sweetness of my life wells up before me and it becomes hard for me to complain.  i sit back and try to relax.  i tell myself "you're good enough, little girl.  you're doing just fine."  more than fine.

on Halloween, i danced all night long with my beautiful friends.  i drank hard and shook my sequins even harder.  i felt alive and beautiful and happy in a way that is sometimes hard for us orphans to feel-  i felt normal.



the thing i like most about restaurant life is that it gives me a place where i can feel like i belong.

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this morning...

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...counting my many blessings.   

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my mama (what do they know about this love anyway?)

i get home, i take my shoes off, i pour myself a drink,  i take my drink to bed.  it sits on the night stand and i think: "maybe i should write?"  i have nothing important to say, it's true.  and maybe i never have.  maybe i just like to talk.  in fact, i wake up wanting to talk.  that's why i'm a diarist.  i've learned how to channel my waking need for conversation into a literary habit.  i remember walking into my mother's bedroom when i was 18 or 19 years old and instantly gabbing at her about the dreams i had or whatever i had planned for the day.  she'd be there, lazy eyed with her coffee, rubbing her feet together, one over the other, and she'd say, "Angela, i am not awake enough for this yet.  go away. "  hahaha!  and it would hurt my feelings so bad!!!!  but then i met other people who are like that too.  i no longer take offense.  how can i when i have a diary?  a page is always open to what i have to say no matter how boring or insignificant.

but god...  my mama.  damn, i miss that woman sometimes. she had a funny way about her.  a goofiness tempered with the allure of her height and thinness and full lips that was so endearing.  she could be so silly in such a brilliant, life-affirming way.  she really did love the world...  all the little secret, forgotten things that no one pays any mind to.  if you ever wanted to go thrifting or poking through flea markets, she was the woman to follow.  she had such a big love for the forgotten things in the world; the things other people considered to be junk or thrash.  she would take those things and arrange them, just so, on a mantle or on a window sill and it would be such a beautiful thing.  high design.  she should have been an interior decorator or just a straight up artist.  she should have never listened to the crap her husbands told her or the rest of the world either.  she should have listened to me.  really, she should have.  she should have just painted and written poetry and played her guitar and sang.  she should have been as wild as her curls.  as wild, but just as soft.  she was such a sensitive woman.  beautiful.  aggravating sometimes, but nevertheless charming.  i had the health of her spirit in mind every step of the way.  i loved her and i wanted the best for her.  i wanted her to find the strength to tell everyone to Fuck Off. i wanted her to be herself.  and damn right!  i wanted her to ENJOY being a curly-headed mess, rambling around in yummy plummy lipstick, melissa etheridge on the radio as she bumbled down the highway in her bouncy Wrangler.  i wanted her to flip people off and smile as her huge gold hoop earrings dangled against her cheek, her huge smile flashing and that damn cigarette pinched confidently between her fingers of her left hand.

how did i get on this subject?

oh, yeah, i wanted to talk.

i'm telling ya, i am the worst girl in the world to bring home or attempt to seduce.  my chatterbox ass just won't shut the fuck up. before you know it, it's 4am and i've barely taken my shoes off  :)

i know what my mother looks like driving a jeep through the southern california sun down the 10 freeway singing this song.  i know how the light catches her curls.  i know how the light catches her lips.  and i know how she sounds when she sings, "i'm coming home!"  i know how beautiful we both were in that windy, bumpy moment...  all the times we drove through the rich neighborhoods looking at big houses and dreaming together, smoking marlboro reds, and trying to hold tight to the small ache inside of each of us that told us we weren't nothing...  that we weren't born wrong...  that it isn't a sin to want something better, or at least something fitting... 

that it isn't a sin to want love not to hurt.

sigh...

oh, long day, long day. but good. slowly, slowly the next lineage canvas is moving forward and is already so pleasing and sad and beautiful. i learned the big lesson to proceed at the pace the painting sets and not to impose my own anxiety-fueled timeline during the last few canvasses. slowly, slowly i am learning patience. it is a valuable asset, for sure.

i'm also busy putting together birthday care packages and having a ton of fun doing it. it's work that is light and happy in spite of all the black paint involved. ha! i'm excited to get them finished and mailed off. i'm excited to give the work new, loving homes. i'm happy that there is endless room for kindness in the world and plan to roll around in those wide fields as often as i can. and i am especially happy that i've managed to meet people whose love for art is a big and open as my own. there's a camaraderie and soft love and gentleness in those relationships. a deep bond and a child-like reverence for curious, beautiful things... when cartwheels were turned and dandelions were blown and wishing on stars was expected and cherished and not to be over-looked... when day-dreaming was sacred and fun and the form of poetry we loved best... friendships based in discovery and mutual admiration and honesty and a fearlessness when it comes to compliments, truth-telling, and showing appreciation.

i know i say it a lot but that's because it's true: i am a lucky, lucky girl.

wonderful and heartfelt and heart-ache...

we went to the beach today. 2 saturdays in a row. our little cove. it isn't sand there, it's tiny tiny rocks, polished down and smooth. i brought home another big batch of bright white rocks and will have to track down a jar to tumble them in to. i also found a heart stone, bright white like the rest and just as precious. i'll take a picture of it tomorrow and post it here. it made my heart happy to find a heart on the shore. and i dug out my new book- frieda hughes' 'Wooroloo'. i got it during my day of despondency at the used bookstore. a lucky find and for a short moment my hand halted when i saw it... i wasn't sure if i wanted to know her words. i've got everything her mother ever wrote and a few of her father's books too and, for as disrespectful and harsh as this sounds, i didn't want her writing to be bad... i was scared to find out. but i picked it up and opened it right in the middle. that's the best way to browse for a book of poems. leap right in. and the poem i opened it to was exactly the poem i needed. isn't that always the way. a true fortune. and it was good. and so today, nestled down on the tiny tiny stones with strange little fleas making a new nest between my toes, i started at the beginning, the first blank page that spills over to the dedication: to her father who she called Daddy and my heart snapped in half. good thing i'd found a new one, bright white and made out of stone. and i read and read and read and i only stopped because the tide was coming in and my dog and man were tired and it was time to make the drive back. by the time we walked in the front door, i feel the hefty fatigue a day out in the sun brings. i lied down on the soft white comforter in front of the fan and fell right off to sleep. now, i'm drinking coffee- a decision i'll regret in a few hours but, right now, is wonderful. my sweetie, now sleeping in the exact same spot i slept in... the dog pooled on the floor, exhausted... a documentary about the kennedys buzzing on the television. i'll read another poem or two tonight before i curl up next to my sweetheart. maybe i'll even work on a few of my own that i've been ignoring. we had a good day. i had a good day. poems belong at the beach. that's where they should be read. there and in a big comfy chair under a huge quilt. those are the two places poetry works its hardest and brightest. at least for me.

my heart goes out to her. frieda. i will never, i hope, know the road she has known. i will never know the sharp corners she's fallen against. it isn't pity, it's respect. she is all poise and resilience. a woman that paints and writes children's books and good poems. she is the last of her tribe now. she is alone. my prayer is that she doesn't feel that way.

lucky little angela...

i went ahead and took two hours of additional sleep for myself this morning. i'd had some wine last night after working hard on the paintings i've got going, and when the alarm clock went off this morning i instantly decided that i'd earned a bit more rest. getting up at 5:30 in the morning for the past month or so has been great for me in terms of not only being productive but feeling productive as well so... even though i felt a bit guilty staying in bed till 7:30, it felt pretty good too. :) and after the first hour in my little studio this morning, i realized that i'm farther along with one of my paintings than i thought. in fact, it's almost done. and seeing the end of the road with a painting, knowing exactly what comes next, and how to get there always gets me excited... so i've had alot of breaks today to help me stay calm and not get ahead of myself. i know myself well enough at this point to be on guard against my tendency to do goofy things when i'm in a rush to call something "done". besides, it's another sunny, beautiful day si i'm heading outdoors to bless myself with a long hike my dog. california poppies have taken over the vineyards and i'm really starting to be aware of just how lucky i am to live where i do: deer nosing in my back yard, wild flowers on every hillside, and still a pretty quick drive to the city. lucky, lucky, lucky.

10 minutes before leaving for work...

yesterday was awesome: the inauguration, the parade, the dancing... and a big, fat, welcome sign of relief. i agree with the president's assertion that this is just the beginning, that the real work begins now - and his smile and the love that he and michelle showcase for one another feeds my drive, helps me feel resilient and hopeful, gives me a healthy serving of gumption and will. it is a brand new day and i'm happy to see it, have it, use it.

i didn't paint at all yesterday. i'd decided the night before that i wouldn't work on the new painting, i'd let it sit. i wanted to take the time to look, to just be around the work, to enjoy the day and gather a few new experiences, a few new insights, get the paint out of my eyes in a way and see passed my own desires... there's something to be said for slowing down, realizing where you are and feeling glad about it: the possibilities and opportunities around you. i'll work on the painting again tonight, brew a pot of coffee and stay up late... take my time and be cognizant of what a massive privilege it is to paint. not everyone has time to give to a pursuit like this. not everyone can afford the leisure of sitting around considering their emotions, the influences present in their lives, the goals they have, and the message they'd like to send. not everyone has the time to lay paint down carefully, consider the nuances, enjoy the process of creation and introspection. time is a wonderful asset to have. i am one lucky girl:

lucky to be a painter, lucky to have a job AND a day-job, lucky to live in a safe place, lucky to be building a warm and loving family of my own, lucky to have such a wonderfully supportive network of people around me... lucky to spend my morning writing.