sometimes...

i am grateful that i can feel much of anything.

i am glad that people worry, even if it's worry over me.

i am glad for latenight/early morning phone calls.

i am glad that i live alone.

i still want to bite my nails.

i wish my hair was short.

i stay up all night and work on projects.

i wish my cat could talk back to me.

i wish the book i'm reading now were 500 pages longer.

i want to grow up and be a doctor, so i can make people better.

i want to grow up and be a hospice nurse so i can help people have a good death.

i want to be a midwife so i can help bring healthy babies into the world.

i want to make cds all day long.

i regret eating a salad for lunch.

i wish people didn't tell me so many secrets. they are sometimes hard to carry.

i wish i could sleep for a week.

mil besos--rmg

morning grind

"almond blossoms" -vincent van gogh

i have at last vanquished the remnants of wallpaper in my kitchen. my kitchen is a pristine (ok, except for the little tiny slivers that i couldn't pry off the corner between the wall and the ceiling), wallpaper free zone. thank you, Jesus. now, all that's left to do is paint the countertop, and i'm done with the kitchen. that little chore will have to wait til i get back from mexico on the 26th. but, i think the last of the all-nighters was pulled last night. i know, i know, it's bad to do that. however, i just could not stop. and i didn't feel sleepy until about 15 minutes ago. it's going to be a long day, kids. wowza.

1. hands--the raconteurs
i am reasonably sure that if a man ever wrote a song like this, and wrote it about me, i would marry that man. plus, the bass line is amazing. i think i am one of the last 50 people in the free world to have bought their first album. thank goodness i finally did.

2. yellow--cold play
you have no idea how much i hate that i actually LIKE cold play. this song, although chronically over-played on every radio station in the free world, is pretty great. the acoustic version is equally good, if more mellow.

3. what's the story, morning glory--oasis
nothing reminds me of the summer before my senior year in high school as much as this song, and this album. good memories...sad memories...lots of growing up. and to think, i owned the TAPE of this! i can see the interior of my white ford contour, and feel every bump driving down bonnie's street to pick her up. and i vividly remember that summer as the one in which i learned to pee outside.

4. ophelia--the band (from the last waltz)
the band, like so many other bands that i inheirited from my parents, is one of my all-time favorite groups. and yes, i love "the last waltz". i think it might even be martin scorses's finest work. yeah, i said it. and one day, before i hang up my traveling shoes, i will go to woodstock, and attend a midnight ramble at levon helm's house.

5. anchorage, alaska--michelle shocked
another song from a mix that ryan made me a couple of years ago, a mix he entitled "autumn will kill us all", from an onion news bulletin. that kid makes a good mix. such a good song, such great lyrics. a nice way to start the day. alaska is kind of magical, in my mind. it's on the list of places to see before i bite the big one. the northern lights are such a mystery to me, and (nightowl that i am) i want to see them in real life, real bad.

6. the distance--cake
1995-1996, i had a tv in my bedroom for the first time,ever. in between watching sports center, and trying to find something to wear, and fighting with my brother over the bathroom, i listened to this song almost every morning. even when we couldn't talk about anything in a civil tone, we could both agree that this was a great song.

7. somewhere beyond the sea--bobby darin
my nephew is crazy about "finding nemo". we can almost sing this one together. and when he's fussy, i can slow this down, and sing him back into a rational state. it's kind of awesome.

8. use me--bill withers
i know, the morning seems like an odd time to listen to bill withers, and this song isn't one you'd normally associate with, uh, daytime activities. however, if you are looking to put a little funk into your day, and maybe dance a little in the car, this is the money horse.

9. in me--casting crownsthis is a great song. period. it's a good song to put your head on right for the day. love it. love it. love it.

10. three little birds--bob marley and the wailers
for me, bob marley will always conjure up good memories. and summertime. there is nothing better than putting the top down, finding a back road, sliding in a copy of "legend", and getting lost on your way to nowhere.

11. what's up--four non-blondes
another trip down memory lane...all the way back to 1992. it conjours up memories of band trips, actually finding out that real people DID drink scope and jack daniels, at the same time, and major crushes on boys way the hell out of my league. holy crap. if i knew then what i know now, i would have been seriously dangerous.

12. mysterious ways--u2
while "zooropa" is a nice album, it still is pale in comparison to "joshua tree", in my book. i remember hanging out in my bedroom, in my old house, and talking about boys with my friend cindy. some things never change. i think celeste actually bought the cd, and i remember dancing around my bedroom for hours like wild banshees. and i remember going to the kitchen in the middle of the night to get celeste real cheese. seriously.

13. here comes the sun--(beatles cover) richie havens
such a good way to start the day...and such a great cover. the drums are amazing, and the vocal track is delivered with wild abandon. so nice for a traffic jam. i listened to this non-stop my freshman year in college. i will always associate it with feeling a) a little homesick, b) that surging sense of freedom you only have when you are 19 and away from home for the first time, and c) knowing that a whole new part of my life was beginning, and that it was good.

14. anyone else but you--the moldy peaches
juno is one of my favorite semi-new movies, and this is, by far, my favorite song on the soundtrack. simple and sweet.

15. maggie mae--rod stewart
the mandolin solo on this song makes me want to run around in circles. rod stewart's voice is so melancholy and upbeat, at the same time. and that raspy scotsman can still wail with the best of them. it's so good. SO good. and i am a sucker for a story song.

16. 30,000 pounds of bananas--harry chapin
speaking of story songs, this song is one of the best and brightest in that genre, if you ask me. harry chapin, like james taylor, plays heavy on the soundtrack of my childhood, as does the entire libretto to "jesus christ, superstar." thank God my parents loved good music!

and that's it, for today, my darlings. enjoy the day!

mil besos,
rmg

you'll never guess...

**still life with mandolin**--pablo picasso



"when the going gets weird,

the weird go pro."
--dr. hunter s. thompson




and that is for damn skippy, friends and neighbors. and the going has definately gotten weird, lately. i kind of feel like my insides, like the part where "you" really live, has been invaded by some outside force. said outside force seems to have wrapped me up in a bedsheet and beat the living sh*t out of me with a baseball bat, kind of like willie nelson's ex-wife did to him one night when he came home really really drunk. i haven't been really really drunk in AGES, so i'm not sure exactly what i've done to merit such a beating. nevertheless, a beating has occured/is still occuring. the upshot is this...i am in no way, shape, or form bored, at all. in fact, i could be a study in over-stimulation, at this point. and if let myself look at things from the outside, it's damn near funny.

take today, for instance. i spent like 900 hours last night talking to some friends last night about their summer job, which was once my summer job, so i get the frustrations, etc. i was a little tired this morning when i got to work...a little later than normal...but still in good fighting form. until one of my nosy (and when i say "nosy" what i secretly mean is mrs. kravitz from bewitched) little old ladies tried to come into my office with one of my other little old ladies (the thursday morning "receptionist", who can't hear anyone on the phone, and always sends all the calls to me, and who is moving to the coast to live with her son...) so that mrs. kravitz could measure mrs. talks a lot for "some new panties, since she's moving, and all."

yeah. that's right. "some new panties, since she's moving, and all."

WAIT. WHAT? EXCUSE ME...WHAT? i'm sorry...i thought you said you were going to measure someone for NEW PANTIES...IN MY OFFICE. i must have had an acid flashback, because who would say something like that in A CHURCH OFFICE? not to mention, i hate Hate HATE the word panties with the white hot intensity of ten thousand suns.

for real and for serious and for super-duper true, mrs. kravitz was all set to measure mrs. talks a lot IN MY OFFICE. can you imagine what would have happened if i hadn't been here??? if i hadn't been sitting at my desk, minding my own business, i could have avoided even knowing about the discussion of fittings for...underpants..., much less have had any idea that my My MY office was being targeted for such a...delicate...undertaking. and i feel bad that my office might have been subjected to that. i know nothing about measuring for...underpants...bras, sure. but...underpants? REALLY? wouldn't you just match up sizes with whatever you wear in a pant or skirt? do you really have to measure...and do you have to do it IN PUBLIC...AT CHURCH...WHERE PEOPLE TALK TO JESUS?? is nothing sacred?

this happened at 11:30 this morning. i haven't really been able to concentrate on anything since then. i think i may have some post-traumatic stress disorder over this. i definately wish i had gone psychosomatically deaf at the first indication that my office might be used for something like this--you know, like how if a person sees something really traumatic, their brain just shuts off their optic nerve for a little bit... i can hear the reverberating echo of mrs. kravitz in the back of my brain, like the hateful mother on "carrie", only instead of "their all going to laugh at you!", all i can hear is "paaaaanties...aaaaaanties....aaaaanties...neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew paaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaanties...aaaaaanties...aaaaaaanties...for the moooooooooooove..."

a lady need a stiff drink, ya'll.

i think, after today, i may have officially heard everything, and may potentially be unshockable. however, i still have the capacity to be extremly grossed out. yay!

mil besos--rmg

3.7 hours...a car-trip play list...

i know i promised you guilty pleasures this week. i will do my best to make good on that one, and give you two (yes, that's right...two) installments this week, if the Good Lord is willing. and now, for a story before the tunes...

i spent a huge chunk of the weekend in the car...with my mom, my grandmother, and my great aunt sue, on the way to a family reunion in greater metropolitan texarkana.

let me state for the record that while i bear arkansas no ill will, inbreeding and the rise of hillary clinton notwithstanding, it is not my favorite state in the union. and texarkana seems to be the worst of two possible worlds, all smushed into one slightly urban reality: the absolute pit of east texas redneckery and intolerance mixed with the overwhelming idiocy and assbackwarness of arkansas. i had a hunch that the weekend was going to get a little weird. and it did. if you want the unabriged version, i'll be happy to fill you in on the down-low.

for now, let's just get to the part that made me happiest...three cds full of some of my favorite driving music. even mom and grammy and aunt sue liked the selection...or at least most of it!

appalacian spring--aaron copeland
this is the quintessential american road trip starter, at least in my book. i love the swelling french horns in the middle section of this arrangement. the last half of this tune is so majestic, so lovely and soaring. i still tear up when i listen to it, sometimes. cheesy? yes. timeless? you bet your sweet bippy.

tatoo--aimee mann
i love kevin smith movies. always have, always will. from "clerks" to "clerks ii", i just think the man is a genius. he used this song on the soundtrack to "jersey girl", which was panned during the whole bennifer craze. that's a shame, because the movie was really good. at least, i thought so. and this song is fantastic. agonizing, but fantastic.

pavement cracks--annie lennox
annie lennox is one of the greatest soul singers alive today. period. "bare" is one of the best albums i've ever listened to. this song says so much that i wish i had words to say. it's spare, and beautiful.

lewis boogie--jerry lee lewis
the killer, oh the killer. this is rock and roll at the very beginning. listening to jerry lee lewis, elvis presley, and johnny cash at this stage of their development, and the development of a genere is equivalent to catching the big bang on film, and watching evolution from the very begining of everything.

vincent--don mclean
this song makes me want to throw myself under a bus. and i love it. vincent van gogh is one of my favorite artists, ever. and i know everyone says that, because his work is so recognizable, and so timeless. this song is so sweet...and sad.

lucy in the sky with diamonds--the beatles
i don't care what the underlying message is behind this song...i just like it. and the ben harper cover of it isn't bad, either. but for my money, the old original makes excellent music by which to drive.

tiny dancer--(elton john cover) ben folds
one of the top five covers of all time, hands down. i love this song..."almost famous" and cameron crowe have changed my life in multiple ways. no kidding. for real. and ben fold's voice is so nice and smooth.

vienna waits for you--billy joel
i have this friend-in-law who claims that billy joel and elton john are secretly the same person. while i refuse to buy that theory, right along with lee harvey oswald acting alone, i agree that both men have added something irreplaceable in the mix of music, especially my own personal library. this is one of those songs that i continually find myself putting on repeat. one: the song is a good song...nice melody, nice structure, excellent lyrics, and two: i keep finding myself inside of it. i like that.

don't think twice, it's alright--bob dylan
this is my mom's favorite dylan tune. we saw him together two years ago, and he sang this song. that was a good night.

cannonball--brandi carlisle
again, i can't say enough about brandi carlise. i just think she's a genius, and this song is a shining example of that. backing vocals by amy ray don't hurt a bit, either.

you're so vain--carly simon
irony is a real s.o.b, you know? i love that mick jagger sings uncredited background vocals on this song.

mrs. potter's lullaby--counting crows
laura jane and k.sluder and i went on a wild adventure to the davis mountains three summers ago. we got lost. we got found. we had some nasty rat-tail man try to sell us contraband. we peed by mailboxes on the way to big bend. we saw the marfa lights. it was awesome. i want to go back.

heart of gold--neil young
i would be hard pressed to overstate the depth of my affection for neil young, and particularly this song. all my favorites...harmonica solo, slide guitar, intense feeling. love it. love it. love it. seriously love it. this song makes me feel like my hair is on fire, and i just don't care.

babylon II--david gray
good friday 2001. ryan came to dc to see me, and we proceeded to work our way through the zoo, right over to adams morgan, and the loriol plaza, which claims to serve mexican food. the mexican food was somewhat lacking, but the margaritas were excellent. at least i think they were. things started to get hazy after the second pitcher. we almost got kicked off the subway. we sobered up on my backporch by singing church and camp songs and smoking turkish cigarettes for four hours. and then we listened to this cd and the rain for hours. HOURS. and then next day,we took our hungover selves to mass, and i recieved my very first plenary indulgence. YEAH!

levon--elton john
jon bon jovi says that this is one of those songs you hear and wish you had written. i would have to agree.

waiting in vain--(bob marley cover) annie lennox
again, with the annie lennox...and such a great song to cover. bob marley IS summertime.

ruby with the eyes that sparkle--dirk powell and stuart duncan
from the "cold mountain" soundtrack. i am somewhat obsessed with the book and the movie, and i think this is such a great bluegrass tune. it immediately conjures up the blueridge, and watching the sun come up in the spring time.

babylon--don mclean
don mclean is getting a lot of airplay from me. this is a round, with a live audience. i remember singing this round at camp, my very first time as a camper, on the slab. the concrete was still hot from the heat of the day, even though it was full dark when we were having chapel. i remember laying on the slab, and looking up at the stars, and realizing how much God really did love me. that was a big day...

killing me softly--(roberta flack cover) the fugees
picture it: b-tex, 1996. i am 18. i am head over heels for a complete tool who is not worth my time. i can't stop listening to this song on my way to marching band practice. yes, i was THAT girl. and i still have anxiety dreams about not being able to remember the routine or find my uniform. wow.

sugaree--the grateful dead
my nephew loves this song, and will actually "shake it". don't act like that's not cool...

danceband on the titanic--harry chapin
i love harry chapin. psychotically love him. this probably stems from the fact that between the ages of birth to 17, harry chapin was played in our house at least once a day, and usually at length. i can name every song on the "greatest stories" live album. this is on one of the anthologies that i have...reminds me of a bad day at some places i have worked...

mona lisas and mad hatters--(elton john cover) the indigo girls
ugh. love it.

say hallelujah--tracy chapman
tracy chapman is one of my heros. she's so great, and totally uncompromising. i have been in the t-stop in boston where she was discovered. that was a major moment.

mad mission--patty griffin
this song says how i feel, right now, at this very moment. seriously.

goodnight, irene--jerry lee lewis
my aunt sue's former husband, uncle leo, loved this song. he loved this song so much he had it played at his funeral. we love it.

time is on my side--irma thomas
this is a great song, no matter who sings it. for my money, i prefer this version. just enough funk to make you wiggle around in your chair...

solsbury hill--peter gabrielone of those songs to which many memories are attached.

wagon wheel--old crow medicine show
i could seriously listen to this song on repeat for about a year. in college, i had this group of friends who introduced me to bluegrass. and i never quite got over how much i loved the music, or them. still do.

one less set of footsteps--jim croce
this is the ultimate "oh no, it's not me...it's definately you" kind of song. empowering in a very kick-ass kind of way, i think. "if that's the way you want it, that's the way i want it more..." nice. very nice.

my sweet lady--john denver
an excellent apology, "let's make up, and let me buy you a new pair of shoes for making you cry all day long, and then i'll empty the dishwasher and do all the laundry and let you have the remote" kind of song.

church in the wildwood--june carter cash
we all sang along to this song: me, momma, grammy, and aunt sue. at the top of our lungs. that's one of those memories i will hold in my heart for a long time.

cinnamon girl--neil young
neil young...again. this one rocks a little harder than the other neil young selection. i'd be hard pressed to say which i like better, neil young with crosby, stills, and nash, or neil young and crazy horse. give the option, i would probably always pick neil young and pearl jam.

thrice all american--neko case
i want to be neko case when i grow up. i feel like she's my generation's version of patsy cline. and that girl can freaking sing a torch song.

feeling good--nina simone
totally wierds me out that i like this song, because it's kind of creepy. for lots of reasons, not the least of which is that it sounds like one of those new orleans jazz funeral songs.

and i love you so--don mclean
this song is the aural equivalent of a can of squeeze cheese. so melodramatic. so overblown. so co-dependent and in need of some therapy. and it's awesome.

you belong to me--patsy cline
you belong to me is one of those standards that pretty much everyone has covered, including that jason what's his butt from lifehouse. this is my favorite version, ever. i will dance to this song at my theoretical wedding.

new shoes--paolo nutini
this song makes me want to dance. and go shoe shopping. paolo really gets what it's like to have a new pair of shoes...it's like a new haircut...you feel all-powerful and ready to throw a party.

take me home, country roads--john denver
i learned how to pick out harmonies listening to this song when i was in junior high.

chief--patty griffin
i would give patty griffin both my kidneys. at the same time. i am reasonably sure that she helped me maintain my sanity my senior year in college... you know the one when i took 21 hours one semester because i was in such a hurry to move to dc and take over the world?

red rain--peter gabrieldid you catch the redsox game last night? it was a doozy. man, i love baseball.

angel of the morning--(cover) the pretenders
this is a timeless classic. my mom likes the original, but i like this one. which is weird, because chrissy's voice isn't one of my favorites. this is another dc song that caro and melissa got sick of hearing in the mornings. at least i didn't play it non-stop for six weeks like i did with "hook".

like a songbird that has fallen--reel time travelers
another track from the "cold mountain" soundtrack. if i close my eyes, i can see the train trestle across the shenendoah, as it's bleeding into the potomac. and smell old woodsmoke from fires that haven't burned in a hundred years. this song stings like moonshine.

myriad harbour--the new pornographers
such a good driving song. thank God for cruise control. reminds me of new york, right after a good rain, and before the city starts to reek again.

your long journey--robert plant and allison krause
my grandmother loves this song. the older i get, the more music she and i have in common. i can remember listening to hank williams and old willie nelson on her record player, while we would be in the kitchen making cookies.

i'm going home--sacred harp singers
you have to hear this song to understand the depth of musicianship it brings to bear. it's one of the most unusual and beautiful songs i think i have ever heard.

good is good--sheryl crow
i did promise you a guilty pleasure...this is such a track. really, really guilty. i feel like i hemorage cool points every time i sing along with this one.

the promise--tracy chapman
great song. just really great. reminds me to keep the close ones close, and not to worry about the rest.

all that i want--the weepies
i can't say that this is my absolute favorite song ever...but it's up there. and yes, i know it's a christmas song and this is the middle of summer. sometimes, you just need a little christmas.

nobody knows you when you're down and out--eric clapton i will always remember p. hall playing this OVER AND OVER on the junior high retreat from hell. i had a cover of this by janis joplin, but can't find it for the life of me. my mother has an unhealthy obsession with all things eric, so this one is for momma.

happy listening!

mil besos--rmg

all these songs kind of have reverb...sort of...

i'm trying to spend more time listening to music. it's good medicine. and on facebook, i've been putting up themed lists. but, i realize not all of you are on facebook, so i'm blogging it here, as well. forgive the repetion, if it applies to you.



also...check out the new look!! do you like it? i'm still trying to decide. thankfully, changing the template is lots easier that painting a room. and by room, i mean kitchen. and by kitchen, i mean that i have been painting mine. i think i should take a look at my coffee intake...wow.



at any rate, this is kind of a long list...and not nearly exhaustive. pretty much none of these songs have anything to with each other, except that i find a consistant sound that runs through each of them--at least they sound that way to me. they aren't ranked in any specific order. and they fit on two cds...if you want one, let me know...



1. everyone gets a star--albert hammond, jr.
the drummer from the strokes makes a pretty good front man, himself. this song caught me the first time i listened to the album, and i think i had this song on repeat for a week.


2. dreams--the cranberries
the summer i learned to drive, my grandfather bought a p.o.s. vw rabbitt convertible, that took a quart of oil a week. i learned to drive on the lot next to our house, and i played this cd, bob marley and the wailers, and neil young over and over. it was the greatest summer of my life.


3. just like heaven--the cure
the cure was emo before emo was real. i love this song. LOVE IT.

4. we're not right--david gray
i discovered david gray the year i lived/worked in dc. his first american album always reminds me of the smell of snow, and being on my own for the first time, ever.


5. ordinary world--duran duran
this song is in a class by itself.


6. in my room--(beach boys cover) grant lee buffalo
great song, great treatment. i like the super distortion on the guitar track.


7. goodnight and go--imogene heap
summer 2006, i worked at my old summer camp. all summer long...it was hot, and hard, and i cried a lot in my room at night. this song made me want to dance. still kind of does...


8. choctaw bingo--james mcmurtry and the heartless bastards
james mcmurtry is unapologetically monotone. and that drives some people crazy. i just love the story he tells.


9. you are trying to break my heart--jonatha brooke
ryan and i discovered her at almost the exact same time. this is a great song, because it's simple. and her voice is great. and i know just how she feels on this one. just.


10. van lear rose--loretta lynn
this song woke up an entire generation to the genius of the coal miner's daughter. she's always been a favorite of mine. and the fact that jack white is on this one makes it extra super good. LOVE jack white...


11. no need to cry--neko case
one of the best voices out there, i think, neko case reminds me of patsy cline, and her lyrics are outstanding. furnace room lullabye is one of the best albums i've ever purchased...not a bad track on it.


12. go places--the new pornographers
favorite. song. ever.


13. failsafe--the new pornographers
i cannot listen to this car on the way to work, because i should never drive that fast on 410.


14. sunshine (cover) paul westerberg
GREAT song, and paul westerberg has such a distinctive voice, and does a great job on this cover. and yes, i know it was on the "friends" soundtrack. how do you think i heard it...i hate that i own that cd...


15. prince caspian--phish
senior year in college...there are a lot of stories. this song is featured in two or three of them. it's definately on the soundtrack of the movie of my life.


16. here comes the flood--peter gabriel
this song...wow. peter gabriel is one of my favorite artists, because he's musically literate, and he writes some incredible lyrics. this song reminds me of a line from thomas merton, about the voilence that's inherent in the lives of activists. it's really amazing.


17. what's the frequency, kenneth?--rem
this song and "go places" would definately make my desert island album, hands down. it's old vintage rem at their college radio finest. and i can't understand 80% of what's being said.


18. killing the blues--robert plant/allison krause
i kind of hate that this song is now a clothing store jingle, but am stoked that more people are being exposed to this great single. such a sweet harmony...makes me want to snuggle up in my down comforter and take a nap.


19. dear chicago--ryan adams
another song that kind of makes you hurt so good. like someone is pulling your guts out of your nose, but in that good way. i know...bizarre.


20. always on your side--sheryl crow
i always feel like i need to apologize for liking sheryl crow...but i really do like her, and i really do love this song. it's kind of like how i felt about my ten year high school reunion.


21. day too soon--sia
hopeful, happy, and one of those songs that i needed to hear 7 or 8 times before i really liked it. i really like it.


22. last day of our aquaintance--sinead o'connor
i can't overstate my emotional attachment to o'connor's music. seriously. it's not something i'm terribly proud of, because she's kind of a freak. but man...wow. and the last quarter of this song blows my mind.


23. smoke and ashes--tracy chapman
this song makes me want to cry everytime i hear it. it's so good. and i get it.


24. running to stand still--u2
the joshua tree is one of those albums that i can listen to and never skip a single track. and every song reminds me of something. this song reminds me of driving through mississippi and hatching out a plan to restart my life.


25. you are my face--wilco
i heard this song for the first time at austin city limits festival last summer. i thought it was one of the greatest songs i'd ever heard performed live. the studio track is a shade less good, but still wonderful. i secretly want to have jeff tweedie's hippy granola babies.


26. shotgun willie--willie nelson
this, oddly enough, is my favorite willie nelson song. no, really. it is. i remember hearing this song at floore's country store with my mom the night before my nephew was born. it was a good show made better because the tickets were free.


27. new slang--the shins
yeah, yeah, i know, freaking garden state changed my life, too...whatever. i hate that i like this song. but i do like it. a lot.


28. jane says--jane's addiction
another college track with stories of it's own...and a marimba!




next week...a whole list of songs that are firmly in the "guilty pleasures" column. get ready to lose what respect you have for me...there are some doozies...




mil besos, amigos--
rmg

the things we carry...

yeah, yeah, i know it hasn't been all sunshine and baby farts around here, lately. cut me some slack, please. i'm one month off my anti-depressants, and after seven months of having the edges medically blunted, i'm back to feeling all my feelings at full strength. it's been interesting. and i have to say that i have missed the edges, hard and sharp though they are. they are my edges, and i don't want them blunted, because i would hate to miss anything.

in the spirit of feeling my feelings, and trying like hell to be the girl i so want to be when i grow up, i'm really going to try and not self-edit so much. even here. even though huge chunks of my family read this. i'm going to tell the truth, all of it, even when it's ugly. i figure if someone gets sick of it, they don't have to follow the links, right? right.

so my little friend mary died this afternoon. and i can't stir up a single reason to be sad about that. not a single one. i spent four hours with her yesterday. i read her some sonnets, because she used to be an english teacher, and we spent a big chunk of the early evening just talking. i knew we were getting close to what i can only affectionately refer to as mary's departure time because she was talking a lot about stairs, and bright lights, and beautiful round blue rooms. she said she was just too tired to climb those stairs, right then. and then, that sweet old lady began to make her confession. like a real one. like the kind you see on tv or read about in a novel. a real confession. to me...not a clergy person. this is the part where i just started thinking "holy shit, man. this is big. don't screw this up..." and put on what my kindergarten teacher used to refer to as my "listening ears".

she told me a story that i will not repeat. not here, not on the phone, and not to anyone. it was mary's story, and she told it with candor and no expectations, and since she can't retell it, the story is closed, for better or worse. for better, is what i hope. i comforted her the best i could. i absolved her, even though canon law says i'm not allowed to do that. and i promised her that everything was going to be ok. two rules i try never to break...and i broke them both in the span of 45 seconds, with zero regret and zero thought. and they aren't small rules in my world, either. i'm heavy into rules, at least for myself, but you already know that. and now, less than 24 hours later, she is gone to someplace else, where ever it is that we go when we leave this place. i'd like to think that breaking some rules made the load she had to carry up those stairs she saw at the foot of her bed a little lighter. i hope so, anyway.

when i was little, i used to want to be a baby doctor. in fact, until i was 16, i don't ever remember even thinking about being anything else. and then i took chemistry, and had my ass and my dreams handed to me. i mean, i suppose i could have become a doctor, but that would have necessitated becoming a total hermit and costing mom and dad about a million dollars in tutoring fees. now, i kind of have the total opposite end of that job. sometimes it feels so opposite that it almost comes all the way back around and is the same thing, sort of. that makes sense inside my head, anyway.

confession is good for the soul. and this is a story i'm sick of carrying...and i have been listening to this bruce springsteen song on repeat for a week. indulge me, ok?

***

"Well now, evrything dies, baby, thats a fact

But maybe evrything that dies someday comes back

Put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty

And meet me tonight in atlantic city" -atlantic city, bruce springsteen



we haven't talked in years. truth be told, i don't really have anything to say to you. i could have made nice and bit my tongue til it bled and said hello to you in the park. but pride, or the devil, or God, or the fact that at a relatively late age, i finally learned my own self-worth kept me from even meeting you eye to eye.

remember that night we drove to atlantic city because you were appalled that i had never seen the atlantic ocean? it was freezing cold, and i remember standing on the board walk on atlantic avenue, and climbing the fence to see out to see. all i could see were the waves breaking, but i could smell the salt in the air. we had spent all day on I95, and on the gettysburg battlefield, and i was so tired i could barely hold my head up straight. i didn't want to go anywhere that weekend, but as always, i bowed to your will. we ended up in ceasar's, and i won $60 on a dime slot machine. we ended up in some sketchy motel in white horse. when i called my mother to tell her where i was, she immediately asked if we had gotten married. i was glad you were in the bathroom and didn't hear the conversation. i was also glad our beds were at least a foot apart. i didn't sleep a wink that night.

if i had the chance to talk to that 22 year old girl with the blue eyes and the brow hair, so quick to believe everything that anyone told her, i think i would have just patted her on the head, and told her that everything was going to be just fine. because it is, and it was, and it will be.

mil besos--rmg

gifting...

Imagine if you’d kept every gift you ever made or bought for someone. Imagine if everyone else did the same thing. I’d be missing half my cd’s, three quarters of my books, almost all of my clothing, and almost all of my furniture. Actually, all of my furniture, except my couch. Even my beds and chairs and tables have been gifts. My favorite stuff—my bedroom suit, my dining room table and chairs, the lamp on my bedside table, my cedar chest/coffee table were all gifts to me, and they all have stories. My pots and pans were wedding presents to my parents. There’s not much in my house that wasn’t given to me or to other people. I like it that way.

I’ve spent the better part of seven years working for the church or working for almost free. As a result, I’ve gotten very creative in my gift-giving. Give me a blank cd, poster paper, some markers, and a ruler, and I can make a tailored gift for almost any occasion. And I have. I have made photo albums, happy thought cards, really bad water-color paintings, and cd’s for pretty much everyone I know and love. Even when I go out and buy something, I try to personalize it for the person receiving the gift, except for wedding presents, because the couple already knows what they are getting.

Giving gifts is an important expression of our mutual affection, I think. Granted, we’ve let those traditions get kind of out of hand, if you ask me. I can’t imagine knowing that someone in my family went into hock to give us all fabulous and expensive Christmas presents. I mean, what’s the point? I have every single thing I need. In fact, I’m in the process of going through all my closets trying to get rid of the excess. I think about people who don’t have any excess to get rid of, and I feel guilty. Something like a billion people live on less than $1 a day, so who am I to horde my stuff? Who am I to expect all new stuff at Christmas, on my birthday, or some random Tuesday? Yuck.

I can’t remember what I got for most of my birthdays. I mean, there are some exceptions—like I remember that my grandmother gave me her old high school ring when I turned 13. I remember my mother gave me the ring her parents had given her when she turned 21 on my own 21st birthday. My mom and dad gave me a Ronald McDonald doll that blew a whistle on my 3rd birthday. My mom and dad gave me a portable cd player for my car on my 18th birthday. And that’s really about it. Sounds crappy, huh? Maybe. But my favorite parts of my birthday weren’t my presents. They were my cards. I have them, believe it or not, all of them. Mom and Dad were great about writing notes, letters really, in all my birthday cards, from the very first one down to the ones I still get every year, on my birthday and at Christmas.

Those letters are the best gifts, ever, hands down. Their wisdom and their love are a gift to me every single day of my life. I went through the whole pile a few months ago, and even as a small child, my parents were writing to me about how much they loved me, how proud they were of me, what their hopes and dreams were for me and the world they were passing on to me. Those letters are full of pride, love, and hope. They are worth more to me than any gift I could have ever unwrapped. And even as a little kid, before I knew much about anything, my sweet Momma was putting them away in a box for me. She gave me two presents—she kept those letters for me, knowing that one day I would need them, want them, and understand them for what they were—her and my father’s advice, encouragement, and hope for me. She wrote them, and saved them, twice in the blessing.

I can’t imagine what my life would look like had Mom and Dad just signed their names to the bottom of my cards. Sure, I would have probably kept them and looked over them from time to time. I would have appreciated them, just the same. But these gifts of their words to me are priceless. And in the case of my Dad, they are the words he left to me, just to me, as if he knew that he’d better get it all down on paper, because he wasn’t going to be around for the long haul. He sometimes apologized for not understanding everything I was trying to say, or for being so quick to fix things, or not always listening when I needed him to just be quiet. He reminded me to be brave, called me a treasure, and let me know that he believed in me, even on days when I really screwed stuff up. I go back to those letters, and to the letters my mother still writes me on my birthdays and at Christmas, and I remember that my parents’ love is their gift to me, and my life is a gift back to them, and I want to be good at being that gift.

The gifts you give are sometimes the gifts you want—I always find myself looking over things in a store, and wondering if the person I’m buying the item for will like it as much as I do. Bizarre, but I would never buy something for someone that I didn’t like, unless they specifically asked for it. My mom thinks it a silly habit. She even asked me once why I always make or buy things for other people that I like. I explained that while I know that seems kind of catty and selfish, it’s just how I function. Plus, I like the idea of giving someone a gift that I like, because if I’m buying instead of making, me liking the item in question seems to give it a more personal touch.

Gifts that belong to your heart are another matter entirely. We all bring gifts to the table. Some of them are easy to overlook, to make excuses for, to be shy over. For instance, I love to sing. I sing in the shower, I sing while I’m cleaning my house, I sing in my car at the top of my lungs. I hum in the pool, swimming laps. I like the way my voice sounds. I like that other people like how it sounds. But I’m oddly reluctant to sing out in front of people, even my own family. I am sometimes afraid that I like singing more because of what people say about it than the fact that I’m pretty good at it. I want to sing because I’m good at it and it makes me feel good, and not because of the strokes I get when I do it. I want to give that gift of song for the pleasure of giving it, not for the pleasure of having it received in a way I deem acceptable. That’s the hardest part of giving anything, be it a gift of the hand or a gift of the heart, I think.

My friend Ryan has a gift of listening to me, even when what I’m saying makes no sense at all, or is utter bullshit. When I talk to him, I feel like I’m the only person in the world he’s paying attention to, at the moment. He hears every word I say, and sometimes, he hears the words inside my head. That’s one of the things I like best about him. And he gives pretty stellar feed back. None of the typical “let me fix this for you” stuff. Ryan and I have talked about heavy things, some of the heaviest. We have no secrets from each other, at least I don’t think so, anyway. Not one time, in any of our conversations, even the really hard ones, has he ever said “Stop talking” or “You’re out of your rabbit-assed mind, Rachel”. We don’t rush our thoughts, even when they come tumbling out a mile a minute. I cherish that. I know that our phone calls will be daily, and they will be long and good. Ryan has helped me understand my speech and my silence, and the necessity for both. We agree to speak freely to each other, to not edit ourselves. We agree to sometimes be uncomfortable in our talks, to be silly, to be unorthodox, to talk about big ideas and overplay small ones.

Someone told me once that pain was a gift. That thought really messed me up for a couple of days. Pain as a gift…that’s a hard one to access. Pain is the one thing each of us avoids as much as the next person. Pain is part of the human condition, part of the ultimate payment for eating the apple, part of living with other people, part of dealing with the curve balls life lobs at our heads with wild abandon. Pain is as unavoidable as death, and scares me more than death, if the truth be told. Even the word pain is short and clipped and feels rather abrupt coming off the tongue.

Pain, I suppose is a gift, if you take the tack that the absence of pain indicates the presence of pleasure, or at least the potential for it. Touch a hot stove, and you will feel pain. You will probably remember that pain the next time you even see a hot stove, much less get close enough to feel its heat, and that will maybe save you the unfortunate experience of another burn. Have your heart broken by a tall guy with blue eyes and political ambitions, and you will probably avoid dating political science majors for the bulk of your college career, and potentially the rest of your dating life.

Maybe I’ll accept pain as a maniacal teacher, or a kind of learning tool, but as a gift? I’m still not sold on that idea. To be honest, the idea of pain as a gift has kept me up more than one night, wondering what in the world that idea really means. Pain has taught me many lessons, heart lessons and head lessons. But I don’t know that it’s really a gift, as such. Or maybe it’s like the bedside lamp I mentioned earlier.

This lamp is a family antique. It’s not pretty, at all. In fact, I have long referred to it as “The Ugly Lamp”. My brother and I knocked it off a table once, and cracked the globe. My mother was mortified, and my dad was most displeased, as it came from his side of the family. Luckily, we were able to find a new globe for it, and have it painted to kind of match the horror of green and pansies that lived on the bottom half of the lamp. The Ugly Lamp belongs to me, now. It lives in my room, and oddly enough, does not absolutely clash with my wall color. I hate to admit it, but I have grown, over the years, to grudgingly love The Ugly Lamp. It’s one of those old lamps that was converted from being a gas lamp into being an electric lamp—I like that. It belonged to my great-great grandfather, who by all accounts, was a very nice man. I like that I have something that belonged to him. I like that it lights up my room, and used to light up his living room. I like that it’s heard stories I’ll never know, and now it’s part of my story. It’s a gift that had to grow on me. Maybe pain is like that—you have to sit with it, and let it mellow out, and get used to it, and even at some point, be grateful that it belongs to you.

brokedown palace

i have the grateful dead on repeat today. for some reason, "brokedown palace" is the song i want to listen to over and over again. and "sugaree". and just because i can, i have been listening to james taylor, too.

the older i get, the more i seem to have delayed reactions to things. and the reactions seem to be getting more and more visceral the older i get, as well. the upshot of this is that it's pretty hard to garner any kind of reaction from me, at least on most days. yesterday was not that day.

it's no secret to people who have known me for a long time that late may is probably my least favorite time of year. i realize that may be a dumb thing to say, but i really can't help how i feel. some years, it doesn't even bother me. may 18th is just a regular day, not the day my dad died or the day we buried my poppy. this year was mostly like that. i waited to get good and upset until yesterday, when an entire avalanche of horseshit combined with missing my dad and my poppy, and conspired to have me sit at my desk and cry for a good half of the day. and then, thinking that i needed some consumer therapy, i went to home depot to pick out carpet samples to take home and try out, and got so overwhelmed with the gravity of picking out 850 square feet of carpet by myself, that too made me cry. all the way home. i am probably the only woman in the history of the carpet industry who cried because she had to pick out carpet. i woke up this morning with splotchy marks still on my face, and gritty eyeballs. and i almost started crying on the way to work, because i just wanted to stay home today. sometimes, i hate being a grown up. and i really hate feeling sorry for myself--it's such a time suck. but it's real.

so, i'm working today, in spite of how i feel. i'm listening to music that soothes me. i'm talking to the baby Jesus. i'm on my way out to take communion to one of my little old ladies. i wish i could get someone else to take it to her, today. she's getting so old and frail, and i don't think she's going to be with me much longer. but, she's very uncomfortable, and she misses her husband, so i certainly won't be sad for her when she leaves the party. i will miss her, though. and today, it would be nice to have a buffer between me and that feeling. however, to ask someone to do that for me would require me to risk being told "no", which i don't think i could stand to hear today, at least not without a temper tantrum and more tears. so, i'm on my way to see miss mary. and i'll smile. we will laugh. we will share communion. and then, i will get into my car, crank up the tunes, and be glad that tomorrow is a day off.

i love you people.

mil besos--rmg

pretty is as pretty does...

My friend Beth took this picture at some random bar in Austin. I guess it’s cheating for me to use it here, but I don’t really care. I guess it’s even sort of cheating to call Beth “my” friend, because she started out as my little brother’s friend, and I have co-opted her since we got out of high school. Anyway, Beth sent me this picture and the minute I saw it, I knew it was something powerful. Incidentally, Beth is getting married soon. She also has a new bike, eight toes on one foot, and double AIDS. That's what I heard, anyway.

Beauty is a weird concept. Like love, beauty can be used to describe or mean about a million different things. For instance, you could say that life is beautiful. Or that a particular person is beautiful. Or a painting or a sunset. You can say you had beautiful meal or a beautiful evening. I’ve even heard beautiful operas and seen a beautiful ballet. Beauty isn’t always the Venus D’Milo, or a perfectly chilled bottle of champagne.

In my opinion, beauty is best viewed against a hard edge, because that’s when it’s the most real. Beauty is easily accessible in a museum, even if it’s not the art form of your choice. Beauty is easily accessible on television, on the radio, in magazines. Beauty of form—we have a glut of that, or at least we have a glut of what society tells us is beauty. But it’s fluff, because you don’t have to try and see it. It’s in your face, totally obvious—air brushed and color-modified for your enjoyment. We have lost the art of hunting beauty and of creating it. Let me explain…

I have found great beauty in my life. Even when I realize that people I love and care about deeply could care less, or worse, never cared to begin with and just gave me lip service out of some sick and twisted sense of chivalry. I have seen beauty even when I’ve wanted to tell the truth and knew I would get into trouble for telling it. Life is even beautiful when people can't tell the difference between the truth and a big fat lie, because the potential for truth to win out is there, and truth is always the sister of beauty.

There have been moments when the beauty of life is enough to break my heart, in a good way. There was a Sunday in 1996, when I was three weeks away from turning 18. That was the weekend my dad got diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. That is what we like to call a real bitch. Dad got out of the hospital, and my mom was bringing him home to recuperate or die, at the time, we just didn’t know which…and I was following them in my own car. I was fiending for a cigarette, and since my parents didn’t know I smoked, I was chewing my cuticles and bawling like a banshee. To add insult to injury, this huge, nay--cataclysmic, thunderstorm started screaming out of the sky. At one point, I had to pull the car over because it was raining harder than i was crying, and the combination of my snot and the pounding rain made driving not such a great idea. And then, as quickly as it had started, the rain stopped. The sky was still this mournful deep gray color, but sprawled right across it was the most incredible rainbow I had ever seen. I have yet to see anything that beautiful in my life, again. It was so powerful, so moving, such a stark contrast to the way I was feeling on the inside that I got out of the car to look at it. Over those wheat fields, in the midst of this ugly awful thing invading my family and our lives, that color riot looked touchable, accessible, promising, and ever-so-slightly hopeful. It was beautiful, and for the briefest of moments, in the middle of my own pain, it made my life beautiful, too.

Beauty can be a real doozy—just ask the Trojans. My best friend Ryan’s great-grandmother used to remind me often that “Pretty is as pretty does.” I didn’t understand what the hell that meant until I got into junior high and promptly realized that some of the prettiest people on the outside are some of the most miserable inside, and that just because someone has a nice face, it sure doesn’t mean they are nice as a whole person. Conversely, many pretty people are treated like morons simply because they are beautiful, which is unfair, because the world is big enough for at least a few people to be both beautiful inside and out, right? As for the rest of us, who in the world ever says (and really really means) “Oh, I would rather be less good looking than I am, and have a better personality.” ?


Your family is obligated to tell you how cute or handsome you are. From where else did we get the phrase “a face only a mother could love”?. My mother is the exception to this rule. When I was younger, I took her appraisals of my physical appearance much more personally than I do now. My mom is the one who would tell me, “Why yes, Rachel, those pants DO make your ass look like a tank.” Or “Come over here so I can tweeze your eyebrows. You look like a yeti.” She would then pin me on the bed, literally screaming and crying, and tweeze her little heart out. But those tweezing sessions always ended with a kiss, and a “You really are a lovely girl, Rachel. I love you very much.” Thank God that woman is honest and has an eagle eye for stray eyebrows, otherwise, I could have been a real disaster area.

Your friends have that same obligation to lie to you about how you look, (except for the gay ones, and they are bound by the code of the gay mafia to steer you away from artificial fibers and animal prints, no matter how good you think you look decked out in jaguar spotted pleather), although they can be trusted a little bit more to tell the truth. Friends can be more diplomatic than family, because they love you by choice, not by genetic or legal obligations. The good part about a friend telling you gently that you look like a Thanksgiving Day float is that she (I can only speak from my own experience, people…) will usually make a nice suggestion for what you can do differently, or loan you something out of her closet.

The people who are blindest to looks, and most aware of looks, are the ones who are in love. Love is beautiful. Love is a duality of being. Love is blind, but love also sees every flaw in stark detail. Granted that flaw-viewing is usually done somewhere between 2 am and 4 am, in the blinding white spotlight of our own minds: the interrogation room into which we retreat to find out if we really mean what we say, and if we really say what we mean. That room is a hard one to be in, and the privacy glass isn’t always as fool-proof as it looks.

Beauty is tricky, because it can be so easily contrived. A turn of phrase or a glance held just long enough can make the most awkward silence beautiful. Sometimes beauty is empty space—no color, no sound, no sensory stimulation, just starkness. Beauty that is only on the surface is dangerous, because a good coat of spackle can fool the most wary of eyes, if those eyes are beguiled by how good that spackle looks, how solid, how true. Beauty without substance is no better than a soundbite from the nightly news—it doesn’t make much sense or hold much water without the real story to back it up and make it real.

My high school boyfriend told me I looked beautiful in my black prom dress. He also told me I looked beautiful in my red prom dress (the next year). He told me I looked beautiful in a bridesmaid dress, too. I think he was lying about the last one…But I basked in the glow of his admiration. My God, is there anything better than being 17, knowing nothing of the heartache that adulthood is about to drop on your carefully coifed and laquered hair, loving a boy who will ultimately break your heart ? I remember his face, his wide-open face, and how he smelled like Tide detergent and Zest Soap, and I remember I believed I was beautiful, simply because he said so.

My college boyfriend told me I looked beautiful at a wedding for some mutual friends. I was in a borrowed dress, 10 pounds lighter than the last time he had seen me, and had a new haircut. “You look beautiful” were the first words out of his mouth, and immediately put me at ease. I needed to hear him say that. I believed him when he said that. And even though I haven’t spoken to him in years, I will always be grateful for that compliment, because in that moment, he honestly meant it, and I honestly believed it.

The next man who told me I was beautiful was a total stranger. I was in this sporting goods store looking for replacement poles for my camping tent, which mysteriously turned up two years later (and people say God has no sense of humor…). This guy in an army uniform followed me from the front door all the way to the back of the store to tell me I was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Not just beautiful. The most beautiful. I was totally dumbfounded. I’m honest enough with myself to say I feel like I have a nice face, but my ass and thighs never got that memo. They’ve always been sort of all I can really see when I look in the mirror, which probably goes a long way in explaining why I am so bad at dating. To have a total stranger take that kind of notice of not-so-little me was incredible in my life. I’ve always been friends with girls who’ve gotten free drinks, been hit on in bars, or received obnoxiously large bouquets of flowers from mystery men because they were beautiful. But this time, it happened to me. Granted, it happened in a sporting goods store, and the guy who said it may have just gotten back from being deployed in a country where women are kept under veils, but it still happened to me, instead of happening to someone else while I watched, trying my best not to feel like “the other sister”.

I had two very distinct feelings about this incident. One: I was humbled that a total stranger said something so nice to me, and walked all the way to the back of the store to say it. Two: I felt the compliment had to be directly attributed to a) I had shaved my legs that morning, and b) had actually put on make up, a skirt, and dress shoes in stead of flip-flops. It was hard for me to just take that compliment and deal with it. Maybe it was because it came from a total stranger. Maybe it was because I struggle with my own self-image, and most days don’t feel beautiful at all. Maybe it was because my brain vapor locked and all I could do was smile and say thank you, instead of giving the guy my phone number. That was one of the most surreal moments of my life, and one that I take out to remember on days when I feel like I’d rather stay in bed than put on lip gloss and go out side. What is comes down to is the difference between being beautiful and feeling beautiful. Sometimes those are the same thing. Most times, they are not, at least in my world.

I could take off on a tangent right now about how the media and MTV and whoever else have taken physical beauty and made it into some monstrosity and mockery of real beauty. But you already know that, so I’ll spare us both the agony and the angst.

Beauty is many things. There are probably as many explanations of beauty as there are for love. What makes something classically beautiful as opposed to something that is beautiful to just a specific audience? Is there some hidden standard that makes Leonardo Da Vinci a universally laudable master, but makes Salvador Dali a niche artist? I guess it boils down to the paradox of visual beauty I have in my own head. I love nothing more than to watch the sun set over some empty panorama—the ocean, a back pasture, a stretch of highway, the mountains, etc. I also love to stand and look at big buildings, intricate and massive cathedrals, banks, municipal buildings, sky scrapers, etc. They are both pleasing to me, but in very different ways. I would be hard pressed to say which I favor more. Watching people mill around St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York is as beautiful to me as watching all the colors melt into dark over a stretch of county road.

another note from the bathroom wall...

This is by far the most interesting thing I’ve seen on a bathroom wall. Ever. I took this picture in Ben’s Chili Bowl, in Washington, DC. It’s my favorite restaurant in the whole world, hands down. They serve bites of heavenly food in little red plastic baskets. And you can bet dimes to donuts that while you are sitting and eating, you will hear Rev. Al Green on the jukebox.

Right before I moved from Washington, to start up a life in Austin, the good people at Ben’s repainted their ladies’ room with blackboard paint, and left chunks of chalk by the lavatory. I guess they figured if people were going to write on the walls, they could at least do it with some ease and style. From what I can tell seven years on, no one has erased a word. This little gem was chalked high up on the wall, right smack on the air conditioning duct. I knew the moment I saw it that I would spend some sleepless nights trying to answer that question, and trying to figure out how to write that answer down in a way that made some sense. This has made for some heavy duty thoughts.

What would I be willing to die for? Dying is so major. It’s the one thing, the one life experience that we really know very little about. Dying is an action, and most people of faith will tell you that is by no means a final action, just the final action that we know about on this side of things. My friends who do hospice work talk about the “actively dying” the way mid-wives will talk about women being in “active labor”, and the two are eerily similar. Instead of giving birth to a life that will live outside oneself, you are actually giving birth to your own self, on a totally other level. That’s how I get my head around it, anyway.

But I can’t really get a handle on what it’s like to BE dead, much less what it’s like to actually die. Forget about saying what I would die for…I still am trying to get a real grasp on the “what am I living for” option. I suppose the answers aren’t too far removed from each other, not any more so that actively dying and actively laboring, anyway.

I had this scary moment at work once. For a whole morning, I was pretty much convinced that a man with whom I had an appointment was going to be so angry when I refused to give him any more money that he would seriously mess me up, maybe even kill me. I realized then, as I realize now, that my drama-queen tendencies were turned up to around eleven on a ten point scale. But there was just something inside of me that could not let go of that fear. I slept like a rock the night before, but when I woke up the next morning, I found myself almost ritually saying goodbye to things in my house, the cat included. I even made my bed, wiped down the sink, and took my dirty laundry from the hamper in my room to the laundry closet downstairs. I was almost positive I wasn’t coming home, and didn’t want my mom to see my messy room. How bizarre. The meeting went just fine, and the man in question didn’t even yell at me when I told him I couldn’t give him any more money—he wasn’t exactly happy, but he didn’t shank me with a sharpened spoon, either.

Going home that night was so sweet. I didn’t think about the fact that I could get plowed into at high speeds on the freeway. I didn’t think about the fact that I could get robbed and stabbed in my bed if someone decided they wanted to break into my house. I didn’t think about freak accidents or plane crashes or myocardial infarctions. I just thought about how happy I was to be alive—to get to sit in my car and blare the radio in traffic, to call my mom and check in on her day, to hear my nephew shouting babbling kid-speak when I called my brother, to know that my cat was going to be demanding food and attention the minute I opened my back door. This rush of gratitude washed over me, and I was just so glad I didn’t die that day. But the question is still unanswered.

What would I be willing to die for? I would die for my belief in God and Jesus. I would die for my family. I know that. I would die for my friends. I know those things. I’m always really bad at those party questions, when someone is asking you “Would you be willing to sacrifice your own life to be able to discover a cure for *insert your favorite disease*?. The answer is always “yes”, because you have to say yes. Who in their right mind would be callow enough to say, “Oh sure, a cure for HIV or cancer or the herp would be great, but I just don’t think I could give up my hold on living in this world for that. I mean, everyone knows we’re just like five years away from a vaccine, anyway…” Say something like that around the people I run with, and you’ll be handed your hat—after it and your ass have been stomped flat.

But really, would you? Would you die to save people who would never know YOU did that? Would you be willing to die an utterly unrecognized death if it meant that the world would remember the action itself, but not the name of the person doing the dying? People are always willing to die for God, family, honor, etc. At least they say they are, anyway. Because we’re supposed to want to die for those things—not just be willing, but to almost welcome a noble death.

I’ve never been put in a situation where I actually got called out, called to make good, called to take a stand for those things, in a way that actually threatened my life. And I’ll part with a nasty secret—I’m glad it’s never come down to that. Not because I think my answer would be any different if I were asked it with a gun to my head, instead of typing this essay in the comfort of my own bed, with Jinx the Cat sleeping at my left knee. I know myself well enough to say that I would die for the God and my family. Personal honor doesn’t really mean much to me, because it’s tied up with my family and my faith, so that isn’t such a big deal for me.

People make choices every day about what they are willing to die for. I wonder how many of us make conscious decisions about what we are living for, though. The two probably aren’t nearly as much alike as we would like to think they are. There are some days where I’m willing to live for my next pay check—just get me through this day, so I can know I did what I needed to do to get me one step closer to new counter-tops in my kitchen, one smaller pant size in my waistline, one more glance from the cute guy in the corner of the room.

There are days when I am totally numb to what’s going on around me—just making phone calls, sending notes, writing up reports so that my work is transparent and I stay in good graces with the people who’ve hired me. I wish I was better at living for good things—like making a difference in lonely old people’s lives, or being a better daughter to my mother, or friend to my friends, or co-worker to my office staff. So many times, we get so caught up in punching our widgets, we forget that we ARE living, and we will not pass this way again. We live out of habit, and die out of boredom, fatigue, hatred, lack of valuable stimulation—not just die as in cease to respire, but die as in totally stop the action of really and truly living.

JimValvano was a basketball coach for Villanova and a major hero in my life. They were a Cinderella story in the NCAA tournament during 1980 something. Jimmy V got cancer, and it was real bad. Terminal, in fact. But he never stopped talking about living, even as he was being eaten alive by tumors. He talked about living everyday—that to do that meant that you cried, you laughed, and you thought EVERY SINGLE DAY. How exhausting, and how exhilarating. How beautiful and true, as well. If we laugh, and cry, and really think everyday, what we live for and what we die for get a lot closer to being the same things. That’s what I think, anyway.

visual learner

i look at his picture from time to time. it's not in a frame, or anything. i have to look for it when i want to see it. it's not like i have it socked away in some drawer or keep it in the coin pocket of my wallet along with my nephew's nursery school photos. and i never look at the picture of him when i'm busy. or with other people. and until now, i've never even told anyone that i have looked at him, many times, and wondered about what i would call Serious Questions.

supposedly, his name was jonathan. he was someone's brother, husband, friend, employee, son, nephew, hero, confidante, inspiration, nemisis, alter-ego, etc. theoretically, if the man i look at is jonathan, a name that means "gift from God", he worked in new york, at windows on the world. he is one of approximately 200 people who made the choice to jump out of the world trade center on september 11th, and a man named richard drew snapped a series of photos of him as he fell. whoever he is, he has been immortalized in print, in photos, and in the hearts of millions of people, not the least of whom are his family.

his photo bothers me. i'm not easily shocked anymore. once you've seen how the sausage is made, you can't really be shocked; suprised, maybe, but never shocked. the fact that richard drew took this photo doesn't bother me. it's not the first time i've seen a dead body or someone in the process of dying. in my line of work, you either make friends with death, or you find a job at starbucks. what bothers me about this picture is what i am confronted by, and how it is so deeply juxtaposed against a stark backdrop. what i see in "falling man" isn't some desperate act, although i suppose one could characterize it as such. what i see is something beautiful, something hopeful, something that is ultimately full of life and a love that i find difficult to put words toward.

i will be the first person to admit that what happened on 9-11 was the seminal point of my coming of age, as well as that of my generation. nothing has ever been the same. nothing ever will be. i'm reminded of a robert frost poem, used so well by se hinton in "the outsiders"--"nothing gold can stay". how true. and things are always so much more golden, halcyon, and idealized in the 20/20 vision of the rearview. i have written about that day. i have dreamed about that day. i have wished that it had never happened so many times. and i probably always will. but my pain and my fear and my issues about that day are those of a spectator. i didn't know anyone directly who was killed--friends of friends, that kind of thing. no one on my christmas card list was lost to me that day. and while my life, my little small insignificant life, was radically changed by new security measures at the airport, new warning systems, new news formats, and new prices on just about everything, pretty much i kept on going the way i always have. there is something about the pain and the anguish and the terror of that day that does not belong to me, because i was not there. to co-opt it, to run on about it, to be all ptsd about it seems like something akin to rape, recurring nightmares notwithstanding.

i suppose that's why i look at his picture. there is something that is still so surreal about that day--something that defies my ability to believe that horrible thing happened, and i have stood at the lip of ground zero, held my best friend's hand, and wept at the emptiness in that place that can never be filled, no matter how tall or wide or broad or deep they build. i watched it happen. on nbc. in my nightgown, holding caro's hand, and actually having to remind myself to breathe and not scream. and i was 1500 miles away from the reality of it. i didn't believe what i was seeing. and i suppose that, too, is why i look at his picture.

i have a hard time understanding blind hatred. i've been a lucky girl for a lot of years--i've never been in a controversial demographic, one way or the other. i can't remember ever being really and truly discriminated against. i have never been disenfranchised. i have never been threatened with death or punishment because of my beliefs or behavior. i can't imagine that i would ever come to a point where i would feel ok about subjecting other people to my will or my whims, no matter how much i joke about taking over the world. the right to choose your bliss is a precious one. the admonition to "live to the point of tears" is one i take very seriously. i demand that from myself. to imagine that choice being removed from me, or to imagine removing it from another person is so beyond me that i run out of words when i think about it. and that is why i look at his picture.

"falling man" is a hard picture to look at the first time. i saw it three years ago, for the first time. i keep going back to it periodically, to remind me of things, not the least of which is that life, even the briefest of moments in the most desperate of places and direst of straits, is so precious. the concept of life is a large one. life is more than the numbers in our bank accounts, credit scores, winners and losers of office politics, winners and losers of national politics, family squabbles, rifts in friendships, etc. life is the substance that cannot be measured in quantity. it's forehead kisses from someone you love. it's driving at dusk on two-lane blacktop to the middle of nowhere, with the top down, just because you can. it's mac and cheese at your grandmother's house. it's angels on the head of a pin. and they are myriad. and they are beautiful.

in the final analysis, i suppose i go back to look at "falling man" periodically because i don't want to forget. i don't want to forget how special we are. how brave we can be. how volatile and beautiful and terrifying and exhilarating the substance of life can be. i don't want to forget that we all have choices to make, lives to live, crises to reconcile. i don't want to forget that love is stronger than hate, peace is more powerful than war, dreams come true, and God is bigger than my dreams. "falling man"'s choice, while controversial by some standards, says all of that to me, in an image. and i suppose i have exhausted my 1000 words describing this very moving photo.

i like what was written at the end of an article in "esquire" magazine says about "falling man"...

"maybe he didn't jump from the window as a betrayal of love or because he lost hope. Maybe he jumped to fulfill the terms of a miracle. Maybe he jumped to come home to his family. Maybe he didn't jump at all, because no one can jump into the arms of God.
Oh, no. You have to fall." that's kind of amazing and wonderful and redemptive, i think.

mil besos,

rmg

play list for traffic jams, hospital visits, and short trips in the car for the week of april 7, 2008

Well...All Right 2:15 Buddy Holly
Mockingbird Hill 2:18 Les Paul & Mary Ford
La Cienega Just Smiled 5:04 Ryan Adams
Wonderwall 4:08 Ryan Adams
Goodnight Elisabeth 5:20 Counting Crows
Three Hits 3:11 Indigo Girls
Choctaw Bingo 8:33 James McMurtry
Roller Derby Queen 3:28 Jim Croce
Wildwood Flower 4:25 June Carter Cash Wildwood Flower
First We Take Manhattan 5:52 Leonard Cohen
Failsafe 2:37 The New Pornographers
Sweet Lorraine 5:26 Patty Griffin
Father, Son 4:56 Peter Gabriel
The Emperor's New Clothes 5:16 Sinéad O'Connor
Down By The River 9:20 Neil Young & Crazy Horse

i swear, if my shrink ever saw my itunes playlists, she would be convinced that i am seriously wrecked in the head. happy listening.

i'm almost recovered from crud-fest 2008, so expect a good post soon.

mil besos--rmg

stream of consciousness, vol 2

i heard on a movie once that the pacific has no memory. i wonder if that's true. the last time i saw the face of that blue water, i was in another country, and two months out from losing my father. i saw his face in the sunset and the sailboats every night, and drank away his voice at the bar when the sun was gone from the sky. i hope the pacific i see this go around is a little more on the peaceful side.

spring is here. i can smell it in the air...the pregnant smell of freshly turned soil and the faint taste of salt from the sea that seems to be wafting up from the coast. i read a book about horses this week and i harkened back to my childhood...to the way fields would roll past the car window and i would day dream the whole way to where ever we were going...about who i would become...who i would marry...what i would be when i grew up.

if we went north, i knew i would see terraces, shallow and full of hay or wheat or cows at the snodgrass dairy just outside of town, my grandmother would point out shortcuts to the farms where she lived as a child. my grandfather would talk about the doodlebug train that ran from here to there and could be boarded at the depot, which i only ever knew as an art gallery. and the toilet factory and the smell of tape as we crested the hill into the metropolis seemed to promise new school clothes or a roller skating adventure or a movie and later, it meant i was on a date.
if we went west, i knew the land would flatten, flatten flatten and maize would give way to cotton would give way to maize would give way to cotton and in the middle of nowhere every 20 or 30 minutes out of the flat distance would spring the iron and rust of the oil pumper, going like some beast from the past or the future, making money out of light sweet crude or something. i kenw we were going to the doctor or shopping or that i was going to have to run some crazy distance to see if i could actually make it. i knew that road like the back of my hand, and soon the curves didn't mean anything in the road because they just tasted like tears. and they smelled like cigarettes and anger and that adrenaline smell you get in your nose when you fall down and aren't sure if you're ok or not. and the only good thing about that road was the rest stop 26 miles exactly outside of town, because i made out there with a boy i loved once. i still have a fond place in my heart for rest stops, just because of that. it was a catharsis...i hurt so badly that day, and was so angry and so so so sad that kisses seemed to be the only thing that could even come close to being any kind of a balm. that being said, i still hate it when he visits my sleep, which he did last week, and which i am still angry over. that town, those memories, most of them are just another word for hell. someplace i don't ever want to go again.

if we went south, the hills would roll roll roll and surely a thunderhead would loom just out of mason and i would watch the rain come on over the hills and be amazed that i could see so far and live in such a magical land. and sometimes, instead of reading about harriet tubman or anne frank or singing along to the beach boys, my mother would tell stories about jackalopes or indians and i would be right back in the 1840's. and we would drive by cherry springs, where the last comanche captive owned a dance hall and aunt sarah and uncle billy saw elvis and jerry lee lewis on a double bill one night. going that way meant camp, or the alamo, or the riverwalk, or friends or the beach or the lbj ranch or fredricksburg, which always meant that i woud hear stories.

we almost never went north, unless we were going someplace else entirely in a different state. the fields and trees and small towns gave way to rolling prairie and interstates and soon i could drive, but didn't much want to because i wanted to sleep and read my very important books and think my very important thougths and be so sure that no one understood me at all. the road to dallas feels 15 to me. like i want to cry and laugh and take over the world. and it means the mississippi river, too.

elton john is on my mind. i am a very small child, and i am hearing "rocket man". or james taylor or jim croce or jesus christ superstar, and i can hear the lines on the records and now i miss those noises when i listen to them on my cds. the snap and the crackle and the way a pipe smells and because it's spring, i'm a little happy and a little sad, and mostly i miss my daddy and my poppa. i still have so many questions. not the least of which are about the fields and the crackels and how to buy the right air filter and not get hosed buying tires and if this all makes sense one day. that's all. i hope the pacific has a merciful memory...deep, but not painful.

dona nobis pacem.

mil besos--rmg

the bar association and other musings

Oh, the bar, scene of so many happy evenings, interesting conversations, and even true love. A good bar is hard to find. My favorite bar in the whole world? That’s easy—Mean Eyed Cat, in Austin, Texas. It’s a Johnny Cash-themed bar, the beer is always cold (you can get Lone Star Light in a bottle, which is my litmus test for any good bar), and the music selection is unparalleled anywhere in the known universe. I truly do love that bar. What I love more about that bar are the people I go there with—it’s one of those places you only go with certain people, special people, because you want to savor the evening, and not worry about who’s staring you down, or how many beers you really ought to have.

Bars are funny places, and the feelings they bring out in me are many. I very rarely end up leaving a bar totally shit-canned. I also can say I’ve never left a bar with anyone I didn’t come in with. I have held friends’ hair while they vomited in bars. I have held friends’ hands’ while they cried in bars. I have hidden in the back of a bar to avoid talking to people who creep me out. I dug thrown up mushrooms out of a bar sink one night, to avoid my co-worker being arrested for an intoxication in public ticket. And one fateful night, at a bar called Blaine’s, I got up and danced on the tables when Sweet Home Alabama came over the speakers.
I remember when I thought bars were like Aladdin’s Cave of Wonders—full of delights and drama the likes of which I never could imagine. There’s a part of me that’s disappointed every time I rediscover that a bar is just a public living room, filled with people you don’t know.

Just like bars, most things in life are not the way I thought they would be. I thought by now that I would be married, or at least close to it, have a kid, maybe have a law degree, or be doing something fabulous in policy creation or in the non-profit sector. Instead, I quit a job I was good at, moved in with my mother (to whom I am terribly grateful), I had a very non-traditional, job taking care of my cousin with CP and his twin brother who is totally fine, except that he’s a 12 year old male, took a job for yet another church, bought a house, and set about to start my real-live adult life. There have been random crushes in the middle, one that showed some promise, but turned out to be nothing to get excited about. Reality is not what you imagine. Reality is what really IS, regardless of where my peers have ended up. This is my life—confusing, complex, never boring. It’s not where I imagined I would be, staring down the barrel of 30. But it all belongs to me.

See, most people have a pretty good idea of what they are supposed to do and be. I am supremely jealous of those people. For example: I changed majors five times in college. God bless my mother for never yelling at me like the rest of too many other mothers faced with vacillating and vexing offspring. Mom told me, “Babe, you know exactly how much money you have for college. You know exactly how many hours that will buy. Study what you want, and worry about making money later.” Good advice, to be sure, but now that I’m sitting on history degree, with a minor in political science, I’m wondering why I couldn’t have picked a major that was interesting AND lucrative.

I can tell you all about political theory and the rise of empires in Europe. I know the military history of Rome and the rise of the Republic. I think those things are important. I think those things are worth knowing. But I’d also like to know how in the world those things are supposed to get me to retirement, with something besides my big fat brain chock full of trivia to support me.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not disappointed with my life at all. I’m very grateful to be alive, to be reasonably healthy, reasonably sane, and reasonably intelligent. I’m grateful for the opportunities of which I have been able to take advantage. I have lived a big life, up to this point. The question looming on my mind, and I’m sure it’s on the mind of my friends and family, is, “What in the hell comes next for Rachel?”

There have been many nights in my life when I have lain awake in bed, tempted by forces unseen to pack a bag, gas up my car, and just start driving. (My friend Dustin, who is a hero in my pantheon, suggested that I do just that as a remedy for my quarter life crisis. Instead, I went to the beach and worried about work the whole time I was gone. So much for advice…) But every time I sit up in bed and wonder which bag would hold the most stuff, or who I would call when I got to where ever I was going, all I can think about is the shit that would hit the fan once I was really gone. Where would my car payment come from? How would I pay Capital One the fee they are due this month? How would I explain to my family that I just had to bug out and find myself?

Find myself—God, but that sounds so freaking cliché. It’s a poor phrase, but so dead on the money. Where IS me? Is me what I own, or is me what owns me? Am I more than the sum of my credit card statements? Am I more than the degree that I still haven’t had framed, and have only actually looked at twice? Am I more than just my parents’ child? Am I more than all the jobs I’ve had, all the jobs I’ve not taken, all the jobs I’ve been turned down for? Am I more than the friend I have been, the sister I have tried to be? What in the fuck am I doing? Is there any end to the questions? More than that, is there even one sensible answer to even one of the questions? When do I stop asking the dumb questions, and start asking the smart ones? Is there a drug for this? Is there a premium on questions? Is there a surcharge if I ask the wrong ones? The answer, I think is always “Yes”. And the answer is always, “No”. This means that I’m right where I’m supposed to be: the most damnable place of all, if you ask me.

Do I imagine that I am going to find some state of inner peace by finding artful and artless pieces of graffiti scrawled on the bathrooms across this country? Do I think that one day, I will walk into some diner with my digital camera and find my soul mate? Do I think that anyone besides my family and friends will want to read any of what I have to say? Yes. Probably. Maybe not, but it’s worth the shot, right? I mean, going off to do “book research” sounds a hell of a lot more noble than “finding myself”.

I am as mystified by life and my place in the universe in my late 20’s as I was at 17. The upside, if that’s what I can call it, is that I am not alone. Oh no, not alone, not by a long shot. Three quarters of the people I call “friend” right now are suffering right along with me. We are clueless. Some of us know what we want to be. Some of us know who we want to be with. Some of us have an idea of where we want to go, and a few have an idea of how to get there. But for the most part, we are stumbling along together, leaning one on the other, trying to make our way into the wide world. In some ways, the advantages our parents gave us have crippled us. In some ways, the progress they made has hindered our development. How else do you explain the fact that half of all marriages fail? How else do you explain upper and middle class child neglect? How else do you explain our inability to function without cell phones, SUV’s, and the internet?

We are a generation of infants with adult bodies. We have the ability to reason, but not the wherewithal to get any real life business taken care of. We are horribly lazy. We have no voice in the public square, because we can’t find our cohesion, other than to be angst-ridden and wear the throw back clothing of our parents’ generation. We want to be cool, but we forget that when you are cool, you also have substance. And we don’t want substance, because that just takes too much fucking work.

Some of us are motivated, yes. But to what end? So we can drive the two-story, eight mile to the gallon behemoth that Hummer just put out? So we can buy a monstrosity of a domicile in some cookie-cutter neighborhood and fill it with stuff from Ikea and play house with the last person we had sex with because we think we might make pretty babies with them? What are we doing? What do we want to do? I ask myself that question, and I have trouble getting an answer. I ask my friends that question, and I have trouble getting an answer.

I want more than a house. I want more than a husband. I want more than two point five children. I want more than a volunteer position at the hospital auxiliary. I want more than a career. I want more than credit card bills and unrivaled cell phone reception. But I have no idea what that means. I don’t think it means going back to school and getting that Masters’ Degree in Renaissance Art that I’ve been toying with. I don’t think it means joining an on-line dating service because I’m too afraid to see what’s out there on my own. I don’t think it means freaking out and freezing my eggs before I turn 30, because I might not get married and I want to have a kid. I don’t think it means getting a job at the local coffee house to pay down my credit card debt faster. And I don’t think it means laying awake at night worrying about urban renewal policy and universal healthcare insurance.

In the final analysis, I think answering those questions is going to mean a lot of things. And it’s going to mean only one thing. The lot of things will lead to the one thing. Very Zen, I know. But at 1:20 on a Tuesday morning, it makes good sense to me.
Of all the things that I do know, I know this: I will not find bliss at the bottom of a coffee cup, unless I am sharing a cup of coffee with a good friend. I will not find my purpose in life sitting on my ass, letting life pass me by. I have, as have we all, an infinite amount of potential within me. And unless I am willing to waste that potential, (which I am not, because I firmly believe that all sin boils down to waste) I won’t find the many or the one.

mil besos--rmg