Category Archives: Daily Writing

Freestyle writing, aspirational musings, singlehood, living in NYC, home ownership, etc.

morningside…

Sometimes I wonder how it is that I’ve managed to get where I am, as if I’m living in a tunnel with one exit out into the light, and the circuitous route there, is being built with each step I take.

This year, time itself is moving so fast. Each second, every minute, is less intangible than the last. The things I remember are hazy, a blur moving pictures on fast–forward. Scary. I wonder if this is what a mid-life crisis feels like?

***

Emily’s love for her home is almost obsessive: the ivy, the lilies, the cobblestone patio, the crown molding. It’s easy to have house envy with all that she has done with the space. I admire her determination to have a space that is rooted in herself that is her own history. 

When I think of what I have in my home, the memories and tokens that invoke scenes of the past are few. From having always lived in the same house, I purge the non-essential items: the books, the photos, the clothing, and the dishware. Every expert organizer guides you to believe that your memory will last longer than the object itself. I think perhaps that is a wrong assumption, what happens when it is your memory that is lost?

Kristin and I were talking about this last night: she encouraged me to start looking for my own but where? The voice of where to live, where to go is a soft whisper hiding in the recesses of my mind, if it exists somewhere how will I know where to look. This house on Stanton Street … is there one somewhere that will call to me?

***

My dream: seven of us at a tropical destination the image of untouched sand and palm trees; a dialogue about what to do next, where to go next. It is not Antigua, somewhere surreal and almost fantastical like a computer screensaver. There is a woman fallen ill, who needs a restroom. She knocks on my door and my room is my heart.

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LOST: Redemption

The battle between good and evil has ended, at least for the survivors of Oceanic 815. Their journey through purgatory, their supernatural redemption.

I’m not sure if I understand, if we’re meant to truly understand.

Much of what is experienced in life  is left unanswered in death, especially for those left behind. Those still breathing (in this case the audience) are plagued with questions, and the ideas of what the answers could be emerge based on their own personal experience with those ‘lost’.  That is a rational reaction to simple story, and once you add in parallel worlds, memory and the possibility of slipping back and forth between them all, a whole other meaning (or meanings) unveils itself.

The characters of the show, the challenges they face, their connection to one another that is the story one must revisit (because you know die hard fans will rewatch all 6 seasons just to see what, if anything, they missed). The introduction of ancillary characters, representations of the demons haunting the ‘survivors’ –some of which brought reconciliation and peace–i.e., the love affair between Shannon and Sayid (I had totally forgotten about that).

And yet so many questions remain, and I’m sure there will be much talk about all of them online and at the water cooler today.

For starters:

Why was there a ‘living’ character in that last scene: Penny (as in pennies from heaven?  A little cheeky if so….)

Why did Daniel Widmore-Farraday’s mother question Desmond about ‘taking’ him? Daniel is post-crash and Charlotte did not experience a ‘memory’ in ‘present time’ even though Daniel hints to Desmond about the feeling (I think I need to rewatch that episode.)

Did Desmond need to save Jack in order to save himself (he–& Penny of course–was the only one not on the plane that was in the church, flashback — “I’ll see you in another life, brother”)?

How does Charles Widmore that is fit into this?

—-

Recall and thoughts from last episode of LOST:

An interesting pairing, Hurley as lead ‘angel’, Ben as #2 (reference to It’s A Wonderful Life’s Clarence and his wings) — more redemption, they lead the others home as Jack learns to let go.

Kate’s reaction to the name of Jack’s father “Christian Shepherd” – “Really?”

Was the ‘smoke monster’ the devil or the demons?

trapped

I am a nester by choice, by birth, I strive to create a home, a place where people want to congregate and like, learn to love each other.  I like to cook, bake, feed the hungry. I like the light of the candles on vibrant walls, the feel of wood beneath my feet. I like the sound of an ambient melody, of fingers on paper, a warm mug. I like the idea of impromptu sleepovers. Of friends, family, lovers lingering.  I like the discovery of sand in winter, pine needles in summer shaking out rugs from the seasons before. I like open windows and knowing my neighbors. I liked, loved where I lived and now for the first time in a very long time I feel trapped.

After spending the majority of the last 2 years renovating the garden apartment in my father’s house…on my own. Ripping out the old, replacing with the new. Adding modern-day comforts to make my life easier; to make the life I had made for myself outside this house less stressful when I came home. Paint chips, granite, stainless steel, bargains and steals, investments in color and warmth, investments in me.  I had finally paid off the contractor, it seemed nothing more was needed to make it feel like home, and it was home, finally, but it didn’t last very long.

Not nearly more than a month.

That’s when the stroke came.

And now no place is my own, no place is private, no place is mine.

I thought in moving most of his ancillary belongings downstairs, by adding cable and a spanking new television he might adapt and adjust at an easier (potentially quicker pace). Instead he lives in limbo, walking stairs against instruction, sitting at tables encroaching on gray space.

I just came home from work, I don’t want to see you. I don’t want you in my part of the house. Go away. Stop reading to me, pushing the cereal box onto my keyboard, stop making crumbs on my floor.

I have a lot of patience, but I wonder if the well ever goes dry.

How long until I snap, go mad?

How long before he realizes I am losing myself in every day that he regains his strenghth?

How many daughters move out when their parents age? Reverse assertion.

An ultimatum, a decision, an offering, a piece. What will be my peace? Where will be my peace?

Will I have to force myself to make a decision, to finally leave?

Where will I live? Where do I want to live? I was supposed to be married by now, wasn’t I?

Perhaps like someone suggested today, the time has finally come for me to selfishly flee.

Reflections on Shore Road

Sometimes what you need is to stop, stand still, and listen.

Listen to your breath, the wind in the air, the heel toe tap of running shoes on asphalt, the whir of cyclists behind you, the splash of the bay against the rocks, the murmuring of voices in a language not your own.

Feel the sun on your skin, feel its warmth on your clothes. Smell the sea, admire the soft and gentle current. Remember all that which you have forgotten.

Allow it to fill your lungs, clear your head, cleanse your aura, and set yourself free.

loving the fool

I must learn to love the fool in me the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laughs and cries. – Theodore Isaac Rubin

every action, every decision we make however well-thought out however best the intention involves a certain amount of risk and the absolute likelihood of self-doubt. from the most mundane choices to the bolder than thou what did I just say leaps emotions sway pendulum-like through the gray areas, barely touching the black, the white. it is these in-between moments when we are filled with excitement, zest, uncertainty, potentially regret, that we must remember without risk there are no rewards; that until we step out of our comfort zone and embrace “the wilderness of [our] intuition…by not quite knowing what [we] are doing… what [we’ll] discover will be wonderful, and will be [y]ourselves.”*

Saltwater Remix (Chicane)

*Paraphrased quote excerpted from http://creatingminds.org/quotes/courage.htm

The Ladder Tattoo (Tuesday Writing Exercise)

Stinging. Numb. I feel, don’t feel, anything.
The crick in my neck twists in angst. My thoughts muddled, everything is unclear.
There was a black room, I think. Concrete walls, covered in soot and ash; a breeze low and warm, was I outside at one point? I remember chalk writings on a wall, facing me? Or maybe overhead? Damn it.
Music there was music, a bass player, drumming vibrations. The sounds of something familiar, the sounds of something foreign, no, that’s not right.
Where am I? What time is it?
Hello, is there anyone out there? Hello?
My head is heavy, sandbagged.
Why am I heavy? I’ve never been heavy, just a waif. Ask her, Amy will tell you. We used to talk about God together. We used to wonder where heaven was and if he answered our prayers. All that seems so long ago. Now.
Stretching hurts, any movement limited by the fabric soft like linen, like cotton. I once bought a tunic in the Platka. Broad vertical stripes, white on white.  So comfortable, boxy and roomy perfect for the beach. I wonder whatever happened to it.
I’m drooling, yet my mouth is dry.
Hello? Is anyone there?
My voice echoes off the walls.
Hello? Please, someone help me, I’m hungry. Hello?
I feel like a current of water, constantly moving standing still.
My eyes flutter awake, struggling to open wider. The room is not as black as I remember from before. There is light coming from somewhere. But there is no sound.
I feel lost.
Forgotten.
Numb has faded, throbbing instead takes it place from where I cannot decipher.  I hear whispering, they fade in and out, murmurs followed by unrecognizable words.
Where am I?
Damn it Wendy focus try to focus. Try to think, where were you last? Where were you going?
For a moment I forget that time has moved beyond my scope. I try to stand, pushing my hands against the floor. Bare hands on cold metal. Metal? Metal floor? Metal table? Where the hell am I?
I wish my mind would clear.
Has it been an hour? A day? A year? Time is the only thing that is lucid.
The sun is high and a sliver has beamed its way through the walls. Have I willed it to appear, to burn through the concrete? Is it God’s will that I should finally see?
I am covered head to toe in black gauze. I hate the color black, it reeks of death. There is a feather light semblance of white above where my hands are free. If my hands are free why am I not?
I see polka dots, splotches of color. A splotch of…oh my God, is that blood? Yes, red blood, dry and crusted.
A flash of a memory singes.
I am walking, it is nightfall; there are two faceless women flanking me on either side when another steps in my path grabbing me by the arms. I try to resist and then Darkness.
Horizontally the play unfolds.
A woman armed with an airbrush needle dripping color paints my arm. It stings, a million mosquitoes in attack mode.
An older woman holds my head, my jaw. I am biting wood.
The chanting is loud, over and over the mantra like an omen: Become one of us, and soon you will be free. Climb the ladder, soon you will see.

➳

the incentive is you

This weekend was a wash, I worked later than planned on Friday night. That over exhaustion plus the dread of the blizzard that wasn’t, left little incentive to wake up early on Saturday. Tigger was in agreement, as he let me be for hours until Dad’s shoveling scraped my eyes awake. All in all I felt as if I lost another day.

Work has been busy, with a capital B. For the most part I feel as if everyone (save a few but I’ll leave those observations to myself) is on the same wavelength. We’re in start-up mode, with leaner teams and mountains of work.  The day is like water, a real time suck. In the past, I don’t think I ever felt it before, but I had a slight epiphany and in that revelation realized to some degree I’ve lost days. Days. Not minutes or hours, full on days!

time for a change

Last week I started to break free and leave early for “fun” events–dinner with dad/friends, writing groups, getting home early to read–in those few hours alone I was able to detox just enough to re-embrace life. Realistically it shouldn’t be that hard to do (winter cold as an obstacle notwithstanding). I used to engage all the time and at one point I averaged 2 concerts a week! But like any new activity or habit one reintroduces into life, it takes dedication and personal commitment to be successful.

This morning I had a conversation with a guy friend of mine, a new friend just getting to know my idiosyncrasies and flaws.  He asked me how I was and in giving him the update I mentioned how I needed to balance my work life, how it would be ideal to have an incentive to leave the office on time. He laughed, nearly guffawing on the phone (and I’m pretty sure he cursed in that supposed cough). Then soon after taking a deep breath, he told me that my incentive had to be me, that the desire to live a better life should be enough to get me out of the four walls of the office, and back into the world.

I think in most cases it’s about being brave, brave enough to keep the promises you make to yourself. Challenging yourself to follow your gut to make the call that changes your life. It’s about flipping perception to try something new, and that first step is always the hardest.

Food for Thought

What do You Want to do in 2010?

100 Ways to Change Your Life

Embark on your Living Revolution

Sometimes, Change Happens at Home

Confidence is the Key

A tricky chore but someone’s gotta do it

This weekend was spent indoors, cleaning. It was the perfect weather for it seeing as the temperature was below freezing most of the weekend. I like my living area to be free from dust, as fresh and clean as the next person, but I personally find it hard to keep up with the day to day commitment. Sure I straighten up and go mad hatter crazy every now and again with a Clorox wipe and the Wetjet Swiffer. I’ve even gone so far as adding Martha Stewart’s Homekeeping Handbook to my library (thank goodness for the plastic book cover or the dust mite would get it for sure!); it’s right up there with my mom’s 1979 expanded and revised edition of Mary Ellen’s Best of Helpful Hints. It’s a tricky chore and there are tons of articles available about why (and how) you should go about it.

My lack of excitement (and slight aversion) to household cleaning comes from my mom. My mom was a maniac cleaner. After working a full week as a school secretary she would wake up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday and clean the house from top to bottom. Most of the time my brother and I would wake up to the sound of the vacuum cleaner just outside our bedroom doors. (Yes I was negligent even back then thinking that if my room was clean I didn’t have to do anything else.) Sometimes she would yell us out of bed and go on a tirade for us to help her. A begrudging task that we often performed half-heartedly until she yelled at us and redid the work anyway (something I never understood). It’s possible my mom was OCD when it came to cleaning.

rambling words, reading books

Last night despite an abominable week at work I stayed up well past midnight to read. I have been on a streak as of late,  voraciously reading through a book every other day. A physical book..not sure if or when I will convert to a Kindle perhaps when the price is not so astronomical, so out of reach.

Presently I would prefer to reach for a paper bound  book: touching its skin, feeling the raised print, taking in the non-odor of new books, the faded scent of the old, reveling in the  lost and found, dreaming of the journey of those crinkly, yellow pages vintage travelers, the total recall of where a phrase lives on a page dependent on its edition, finding a phrase with your fingertip, tracing the lines a recitation of the past.

Food for thought:

Book Nostalgia – Consuming Content One Page at a Time || Convenience of a Kindle – One tech writer’s POV || The Kindle vs. The Book – The Video Series – The Great Debate with interesting comments ||Bibliophilia – The Art of Collecting Books