Ohm

The newest addition to myself. I got it this afternoon. It's on my left side, on my ribs. I did so well, no flinching, no crying, nothing. The touch up of the other one, my star, hurt the worst. It no longer looks "antiqued."

Tired. We'll chat again tomorrow. 

For the record, I want to be somebody's missed connection on Craigslist. You know, or maybe you don't, that people always post random things....(it was a topic of discussion during my tattoo-inking). I browse them sometimes, because I always need more things to do when I'm procrastinating....but then I found one. It doesn't apply to me, but it made me think that maybe someday I'll have a shot at being someone's. 

Posted March 6, it said, "Chicago Misses You" and then "The title says it all." 

Cute, right? Some lucky girl and perhaps some wistful, hoping man. I wonder how many people actually get the right person. But you're right, Craigslist is creepy. 

Sleep sweet world. Know that I am going to enjoy corned beef and cabbage for breakfast tomorrow. Delicious. My green fingernail-ed self will love it, I guarantee. 

It was really nice to see the family tonight. I love everyone. Uncle Mike and Aunt Jan (always make me laugh....you were right, Uncle Mike, it was a bad hair day). Juanita and Marshall (with two Ls). Brian. Aunts Sally and Joan. Grandma. And Mom of course. Missed Fruit, but I'll see him tomorrow. 

EDIT: It's 5:28 and I can't sleep. So I thought I'd address something. Katie and I were talking about this the other day, actually, so it's something that comes up a lot. Without fail, people seem to always want to know what your tattoo "means." For my nautical star (arguably the most popular tattoo in the world), I simply say, I like stars. For my ohm, I'll be saying the exact same thing. (Well not "I like stars," exactly) Except it has a deeper meaning, obviously. As does the star. The star represents me in my youth. My restless, rebel self. The ohm is me searching, the solidification of my obsession with threes and the representation of their presence in my life. But you didn't need to know that. 

So in short, yes I know I have two of the most popular tattoos in the world. It's not that I'm incapable of coming up with something else creative (I do hope that I demonstrate a certain level of creativity in my everyday life), it's that I got what I want and when I'm eighty (and not old, just to clarify), they won't mean anything different than they mean now. They're inked time capsules reminding me of my life, in a way. 

Also, while I understand that everyone has choices and thinks certain aesthetic elements are attractive, I will always keep my body art on my torso. I want to be able to wear a strapless or backless gown and have all of my tattoos/piercings be invisible. I want to wear a one piece bathing suit (I fear I'm getting to that point anyway) and not have them show. I want to be able to wear a suit, any sort of professional attire, open toed shoes, sandals, etc and not have tattoos hanging out. I'm going to be a tattooed mother someday but you'll never know it. 

At the Oscar's (which I watched like an hour of), George Clooney's hot new girlfriend's dress displayed the popular-in-the-90s band-around-the-arm-tattoo. Not so hot now. A distraction. 

At least one day I'll probably not even be able to find mine due to wrinkles and/or body fat. (Typing that sentence out isn't as funny as when I say it out loud, but trust me, the prospect makes me laugh.) I'm staying away from small detail, color and anything else that has the potential to do anything but exactly what I want it to. 

So there. 

Again, have a beautiful day and hope I heal soon. I hate not being able to sleep on my left side. 

Moderately Redirected Life Planning

Luckily for me, Mike has been getting into Buddhist literature this year. 
Three books arrived at the house for him yesterday. I have been begging him to let me read some of them, and I keep forgetting to raid his apartment for ones that he's already read.
He handed me one about compassion, then immediately took it back, declaring me already compassionate.
Instead, I was handed one about energy. (This isn't technically Buddhist literature; it's more in the vein of self-help. Lame, I understand.) I took it upstairs, ran a hot bath and dove in. To the book, not the bath.

Ah, I read the whole thing. It's a silly parable about a miserable man whose life and marriage are on the rocks. He gets a flat tire and then is forced to ride a bus. This bus is the Energy Bus and it changes his life.
Please know that I am aware of the how ridiculous this sounds. I'm not one hundred percent on it, but I'm hoping that I can get myself behind it. All of this motivational crap (and most of it is crap) sells and sells and sells. And since I'm not necessarily in any position to give advice, I'm going to try re-organizing my life and getting myself re-situated as I prepare to start a new phase of my life.

Alright, that's all fine and well, but here's the funny part: http://www.jongordon.com/energybusticketpage.html
You can invite people to join your bus. Read all of those tickets. This is why self help is only for a select group of people. You have to know people who want tickets like that. I have all the support I need, I don't need a piece of paper to prove it. My favorite is the last one. It reads, "GET ON THE BUS." I can just imagine someone screaming that at a child. The mental image might have just given me enough positive energy to start today. (Perhaps that's not the energy he was talking about?)

The other funny part is the book jacket. It was put on incorrectly. It's folded completely off-center, so the spine of the book is actually on the front of the book. But it's all about positive energy right? So a little setback like incorrect alignment shouldn't matter.

Also, for those of you who understand MTV's "Jersey Shore" phenomenon, there was fist pumping as the main character got off the bus one day. Nothing like integration of pop culture and help culture, if you will.

Seriously. Today, I am taking a page out of Mike's book (who ever thought I'd be saying that? He's like a little sage wiseman lately, though) and getting on the bus. (Don't ever tell anyone I told you that). I'm going to collect all the positive energy I can and radiate it outward. I do believe that this might mean making lists. You know me. I'm the most unorganized person ever. I live in my own space and I control it, but that does not mean that it is conventionally organized. Perhaps I'm going to have to start setting small goals daily and then getting them done. You know, building successful life skills for, well, life.

Hah, I'm starting today off with a drive to Greeley and then Ft. Collins to pick up Mike and then run an errand for someone Mom works with. And then I hope there's going to be hiking.
Apparently, the one apartment building that looks too good to be true is. Reviews online say it's horrible. But we're going to check it out anyway, because all reviews of everything are bad.

Positive Energy! (I'll be interested to see how long this lasts.)

Edited: I get upstairs to take a shower and find that there's a broken blood vessel in my eye. I'm going to look perma-hungover or the better part of the day. Nothing says positive energy like red eyes.

Not that long.
I'm pumping myself up with Starbucks. I'm going to go throw $4 away on a delicious twenty ounce drink. And I am going to enjoy it. Deal with it and have a good day.

Rejection Date. Resume Life Planning Immediately Following Reflection

The letter arrived today. In lieu of getting my pants hemmed, I've taken to wearing heels. I click-clacked down the front steps, opened the mailbox with the little key and saw it. The thin envelope. It was already opened. I knew. I didn't need to read it, but I did. I didn't read much; I don't think they expect you to get past the first sentence. I didn't.
My heart caved in and my mind shuddered to a sudden halt. My breathing stopped. Tears swam in my eyes.

It has come to this: I've been formally and methodically rejected.

It wasn't unexpected, just so you know. I applied last minute. I didn't prepare. I have a 3.1. (This is a miserable piece of information, I know.) I had a dream in February that this would happen and it is rare that my dreams lie to me in the form of future address. (They lie about the present and the past all the time, the sneaky bastards.)

And so, in my grieving and in an attempt to remind myself that this cannot be the end (the good news is that the thought of slitting my wrists in the bathtub, although seemingly practical, does not appeal to me at this particular moment), I have resurrected the one journal I still find solace in. I opened it randomly, and found what I was looking for.

I have changed locations in order to not form any emotional ties with my space. I am currently seated in Mom's sewing room, my laptop, flanked by two irons, is perched precariously atop the ironing board and I am seated in a rolling, turning office chair of sorts from the late 80s. This way, when I remember today with a broken heart, I will not feel the pain as coming from anywhere familiar. In fact, this room is still off limits to this day.

And so, treat yourself (ha, humor me as I grieve the only way I know how) to a look into my past:

Note on the journal entries: This was for either Relationships and Sexuality or New Testament, both taught by Mr. McGuire. He was a Renaissance man himself, having not landed at a particular profession until rather late in life (and by this I mean his early 30s). He had a very Catholic family and practiced natural family planning. It didn't work.
They always told us that they didn't read our journals, they just checked to make sure the entries were there. I have little doubt as to why he called me Sister Katherine and I have a sneaking suspicion that the contents of my journals may have been an influential factor. My entries are either complete bullshit or are rather graphic and of a usually inappropriate nature. Fear not, gentle reader, I have edited them for either lack of interesting-ocity or whatever else I don't want to reprint. I do have some semblance of dignity remaining, although I have a long way to go to rebuild my self worth after today.
Well, then, shall we?

You'll notice that my love of overuse of commas was beginning. I love this about myself.
Oh, as I look down, I see bright orange marker in my handwriting: Morality Journal. (Not Mr. McGuire, Mr. Siefker, who was fired for comments to a student the year after I left. I could write for hours about him and his disgusting ideals.)

March 4, 2005:
Quote of the day: "Happiness is activity in accordance with complete virtue." -Aristotle

....Another key point was letting go. People, to be happy, need to let go of everything that is causing them pain and embrace everything. One must effectively transcend their problems and get through the pain. Happiness is not difficult to attain, but is involved with some work.
Faith is a key factor.
Suffering was mentioned as one way to get to happiness....
(This first entry is entirely me attempting to stretch the words so they look like a complete journal entry.)

myself as an adolescent critic:
March 7, 2005
2 or 3 things I learned from the Leonard essay

I thought that the essay did not hold itself up as a critical, or at least insightful, look into the lives of others. The author was obviously attempting to take an artistic view through repetition and use of words. (interjection: use of words? isn't all writing use of words?) She kept alluding to people she knew, thus creating a community. She also ties time to this essay through a weakly worded conclusion....By tying everything together, she loses her sense of simplicity, as well as the point.
I know someone who's wearing pants. But underneath, there is a leg. And even underneath that is flesh and bone. And the only reason that they wear pants, [sic] is to follow and obey the law. To be in dress code.
See even I can do it. While sitting in English. Not paying attention. Throwing my education away. At least, she tried. That's more than I would do, put my work out there. Give a mere religion teacher unlimited liscense [sic] (I've always been unable to spell license without a good deal of thought) to do as he wishes with my work.

(That entry was kept in only for the last paragraph. It's odd how that feeling still resonates.)

March 8, 2005

....I think that the search for happiness really has nothing to do with a frat house drinking death. Well, any life is in essence defined by how it is lived. Drinking is, and has always been, an integral part of the college party scene. (I love that my 17 year old self knew so much about the college "party scene.") ...

March 9, 2005 (This is the entry I read first this afternoon)
Quote of the day: "They say that practice makes perfect. Well, it doesn't! Practice makes permanent. So always practice hard and practice your mechanics correctly. Lousy practice makes your lousy. -Coach Shenbeck

 Everything I am about to write on paper is an absolute lie...Judging people on the way their life ends is a cruel practice. And then, when the life is over, you go back and criticize? How can you do that? Were you there to live out every moment, and ride out every storm Sometimes everybody has a bad habit, a bad day. And sometimes that is the last day. Everyone has to die, and no everyone can die a noble, tragically beautiful death. Someone has to have a waste, a way to go that will set an example. Keep people talking. Everyone is drawn to horror, drawn to everything that will make them realize how lucky they really are. She's only famous for the way she died, which is more than some people can say. And thus, it doesn't work. Everyone is someone, living life the only way they know how.

March 11, 2005

(I'll spare you the quotes and the thoughts, but this entry made me laugh because it's my internal struggle between agnosticism, Satanism and Buddhism. The last lines of the entry are: "don't laugh.")

March 14, 2005 (This was during a period in my life where I refused to capitalize my Is when referring to myself. The computer has made the necessary corrections.)

Despising everything I ever let you be. Turned you into what you'd never be....I know you're nothing. You still stick here, so perfect in your youth. Know that I made myself need you. I never wanted you....Keep hiding, we're all doing it, you know. So don't fail me, please keep
(incomplete)

March 15, 2005
(There are so many entries in this journal where I'm lying to myself and I know it. Watching me try to talk around stuff is funny now, but breaks my heart because I remember what it felt like. It still feels like that, sometimes, only know it's with a whole different cast of characters.)

...once said that voices, especially mine, are like fingerprints. Everyone has them...I am no longer jealous. I no longer feel inadequate. Release. Liberation. Growth....She's nervous, will they judge her? of course, they already have. And she knows it.

March 16, 2005
(This entry made me cry. I mean, there have been tears waiting in the wings so it wasn't really a stretch...)
Quote of the day: "There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a  miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle." & "The finest emotion of which we are capable is the mystic emotion." -Al Einstein

Every day we write our feelings as though they will release. Awaken inside us something that's long been dead or never quite alive. I am writing now about the fact that I feel no call to faith. It confuses me because I know that faith is a big part of the satisfaction and fulfillment in life. And I guess maybe I'm too cynical to accept any single religion. I am capable of experiencing spiritual moments, the times when you feel one with nature, and when all of a sudden, you know exactly where you stand in the universe. You stand alone, you are nobody. It's such a humbling experience. It scares me, it awakens me. It reminds me of everything, every action. It's beauty, truth, all the simplest truths of life. And my future of religion is, and may always be, nothing structured. I've been looking into everything, every religion. And I'm going to keep looking until I find something that fits me. Be is Catholicism or not. I believe...I wish I knew. It's beautiful, though, knowing nothing and being forced to think for myself. Knowledge of self is something I've always been blessed with and it is an amazing tool for being able to deal with emotions and situations that may occur during the course of one's life.


(Situations such as this. Thank you, 17 year old Katie Barry, whoever you were, for comforting your future self. Also, so fitting are my thoughts on love -- oh god, the one thing I've never understood, the one thing that motivates me...ha, these are a little hilarious.)

March 16, 2005
So today I am questioning love at first sight and everything that goes along with it. I am beginning to think it might exist, or at the very least, there can be a certain curiosity and excitement.....Because there's always the possibility that he's boring. That he has no life. That he might be boring like no other. (I'm sensing a theme.) But I still want to know. Because all these wasted days of wanting may lead somewhere, and they may lead nowhere. But either way it's worth it. (Famous last words.) Don't let the words, the thoughts, the feelings go to waste. It could be great.

March 17, 2005
I cried myself to sleep last night. I cried because of the book I'm reading (The Red Tent, at the time). I was reminded of love lost.....I cried because he'll never know how much he's affected me, how much he meant to me... (this was the first boyfriend I ever had...we reconnected our junior year of high school, not in a romantic way, but as friends)
I cried because I'm jealous. She's absolutely perfect. She's everything I wish I was. (This has also proved to be utterly false.)
I cried because I know he'll disappoint me.....I cried because I am incapable of love. I have so much anger in my heart towards (ew, I hate the word towards) so many people. I cried until I tasted my own tears. I cried until my eyes stung. I cried all my pain out. And then I cried some more.
It was a rather cleansing cry. I woke up happy. My dreams were comforting, peaceful. I did not feel scared, hurt or angry. I woke up happy calm.
That cry cleansed my soul, wiping away the pain my young heart feels. (Oh my, so dramatic)
And I'm ready for the world again. Ready to face my fears. Every day is a trial. Today is the day to make my move. Wish me all the luck I'll need.





(So wish me all the luck I'll need. I'm entering the unknown again, as usual. And I'm heading in blind and headstrong, as usual.)

Colorado conversations

Mike and I began our apartment hunt today. Of course, our rental experiences, although based on the same things, have differed drastically in the last two years. When Dad was moving into the first set of apartments post-divorce, there was a lot of looking and negotiating to be done. Finding the apartment in Chicago was actually an incredibly smooth process, and although it has yet to be entirely finalized, I'm expecting to get most of my security deposit back. Actually all of it, but we'll touch on that in September.
Mike has the luxury of living in a beautifully spacious apartment complete with a garbage disposal, double sinks, granite counters, two bathrooms, carpet and perhaps most importantly, counter space. Oh, did I forget to mention the washer and dryer IN UNIT?
I, on the other hand, live in a building that sees more crime and petty thefts than Park Vista has seen since we moved here eighteen years ago. I love my building, we have beautiful vaulted ceilings (we're on the top floor) and a sense of semi-historic charm. We also have about three cubic feet of counter space  (or less), a sink, a refrigerator and leaky faucets. Our walls are not nearly soundproof enough, nor were they primed prior to being painted. I love my apartment. It's warm and comfortable; water, heat and gas are included in the rent; I feel safe there: I can see the entire apartment from the living room and when I'm alone, I find that to be a source of great comfort.
It's a shit hole. Let's not kid ourselves. The linoleum (ew) in the kitchen comes up every now and then. The floors are separating from the walls. I wish I could explain that but I'll give you a visual instead: Gerardo, the nicest maintenance man who should have never become a maintenance man, coming by every fall to stuff strange bits of gauzy fabric in the ever-growing gaps between the dirty wooden floors and the walls. I have an ever-expanding crack in my wall that won't seem to stop creeping.
The apartments that we saw today were not way out of our price range, but they were a bit on the nice end. I would prefer, especially during my first post-collegiate year, to live on a more modest scale. Of course I've love something beautiful and stunning, but it's just not realistic in my life-view.
We're going to have to expand our search and remain diligent.

I hate the show "Family Guy." I fall asleep to it sometimes. I put it on because I know I'll be asleep in moments.

Growing up is frustrating at times. My whole life I've been begging to be older and even now, perhaps more so than ever, I find that it matters. I just wish to be taken seriously, but I feel as though there will be new challenges. I'll complain about them, get through them, and then eventually I'll be old and being young will seem like something I should have held onto.
 I hate that you can find something that seems to fit, that could have been, and then you find that it can't fit because your life is everywhere else. And then what? It's not like you can hit pause on certain parts of yourself. Wouldn't that be amazing?
I love finding a connection, a conversation, a whisper. But it's heartbreaking to know that sometimes it slips away. I wish it wouldn't. I wish there was a different way to handle certain situations. Sometimes there's not. Sometimes there's only forward, moving forward. Go. There's no holding on there's only progress.
I'm progressing. Also pouting, but progressing. It's all lame.
I'm nervous for real life to begin. I won't lie. I am terrible at dealing with change. I get apprehensive, short in conversation, withdrawn and moody.  I'm excited, I know that, but I need to work on not being overwhelmed to the point of inaction. I find that sometimes I am so afraid to begin something that I just give up. But I've identified it as a point of contention between myself and, uh, myself so it's something to move forward from.
Is it wrong that I cannot wait to furnish the apartment? I can't wait to cook. I can't wait to have my own space, where I can leave my stuff out and know it's safe. I cannot wait to ride my bike. I cannot wait to be able to drive to Red Rocks whenever I like. I cannot wait to organize all of my things and de-clutter. I cannot wait to watch the sunsets.
I've missed the sunsets.

I still hate Family Guy. I've been multi-tasking (writing the badly formed blog and trying to complicate my life with facebook chat conversations) and have not yet moved to find the remote, but this is nearly insufferable.

The remote has become my paramount concern. There were other conversation points I had hoped to touch on, of course, but my attention span as well as my annoyance have dwindled and grown exponentially, respectively.

Have a beautiful day, world.