Car Crash

I recently said something I meant, but I said it to the wrong person, and I lost a friendship over it. I hate that words have that power - the magnificent power to express or destroy. How calloused can I possibly be, spouting opinions to the wrong audience, expecting understanding? It was rude, yet I couldn't help thinking how justified I felt. That spouting of the powers of destruction.

It was like watching a car crash in slow motion, watching it from the curb, and not being able to do a single thing to stop it. And I watched this persons eyes go from warm to cold so quickly I could have sworn I'd mistaken my own judgment. A look that sounded like splitting metal and smelled like gasoline. Hatred. Through the eyes of someone who tells me to forgive, to accept, to understand. Cold, unforgiving hatred.

And as I walked away from the argument into the violent, cold wind, I couldn't help but cry. Because I was hit with this awful realization that sometimes we can't control what we say. And we have to accept the consequences that come with that. Sometimes.

It seems that the most fatal of topics are those involving personal matters of the heart. Religion, loyalty, social politics. These are the most important topics, and yet they hurt us the most.

So tonight I will cling to what is the most comfortable - a conversation with a family member, another with a best friend, a text to a possible first date. I will watch Christmas movies through blurry eyes in the comfort of my own bed, and I will think, really think, about why safety is so important. And why it is important to speak when you think something is significant, even if it is offensive. Because that's the way you learn. By being human.

A wish.

Saturday night and cough drops.

Stringing beads on a thin wire, watching their colors blend together like a hurricane sunset.

Old friends and card games.

Midterms and makeup lessons.

Singlehood- Friend or foe? (Friend, I think.)

Not waiting for any sort of dramatic fall.

I wish it could stay this way forever. I could just stay in this bubble of twenty something, while still learning and growing, but not becoming jaded. Just safe.

I've been through the post-breakup steps. Forgiveness; of myself and of the other person. I've done all of the overanalyzing and over thinking... where did we go wrong? That stuff. It doesn't really matter anymore. I see it all so perfectly... clear as a raindrop. I am too young to know, we were too young to mature, we were just kids and still are. And how are we expected to be a certain type of love? Big love is reserved for those who can keep their minds. I don't think I've ever been in love. That's ok- I'm not afraid of that. Not as afraid as I am of not experiencing my life. I'll mess up a million times and fall in a dejected heap, but the bigger tragedy would be to never put myself out there. And I'm not just talking about relationships. I'd rather be that way than safe. But I can still wish for both.

What are facebook notes for? I never read the notes of others. They usually consist of those attention grabbing chain letters that are relentlessly popular. (I've participated before, I won't deny that.)

But blogging is different. It's a little freer, a little less advertised. It's nice to rant without a judgmental audience.

I ain't hit the roof since I don't know when...

Salmon Sunday.

A glass of white wine, the soulful smell of bonfires, the gentle breeze on my arms and face... Summer is almost over, I can feel it ending.

I was thinking today about how nothing is really my own, and I am kind of grateful for that. Sure, places can be mine, like the edge of my bed or the chair next to my window. Things can be mine, like my guitar or my computer. But everything that matters, everything that is on the inside, is shared. Opinions, friendship, love, insecurity, desire, anger, frustration, annoyance, lust, ambition, passion, inspiration. I don't need to talk about it to know the rest of the world is feeling it, too. That is strangely comforting.

I can't stop writing music lately. About God, and love (all kinds), and the little things. The ones I tend to miss when I am not paying attention. Things like smiles, and propeller beanies, and the way the salt from the ocean and the pine tree outside my window mingle together to smell like a beach forest. (Does that exist somewhere? It must.) White hair with silver streaks, and mouth wrinkles, pumpkin pie scented air freshener, yoga, and uncontrollable laughter.

Country is my inspiration, usually. Not so much the lyrics most days, but more like the banjos and the twang. And the heart you can feel through the notes. That kind of thing.


I can't get my charcoal to light. I have a three legged barbecue from Big Lots, and it doesn't want to work. I haven't dated in months, I'm on a sabbatical. (Metaphorically speaking.) And this is the first time in months I have missed having a boyfriend. Because he could light my charcoal, take out my trash, and check my oil. And I wouldn't have to worry about it. And it's almost worth the hassle of a relationship. Not quite, though. I nearly singed off my eyebrows trying to light the damn thing.

Well this was a magnificent attempt to kill time. My grill is now in working order (thank you, guy downstairs) and my salmon is ready. I think I'll make it a point to learn how to do manly things myself. Yes, I will do that.

Paige

What we are left with.

It's funny how those memories they last.

The ones that are created in the summer, when the air is hot and thick with the scent of pine. When responsibilities seem nothing more than a passing thought, and where the hope for romance lingers in our dreams.

This week a few friends and I traveled to Central California to visit Jalama, this incredible campsite right on one of the most incandescent beaches I have ever seen. We ran down the moonlit shore, ate too many peanut butter sandwiches, and reminisced on our childhoods and how fleeting they were. We laughed so hard we fell into the dirt, cried over each others memories, and carried each other through every trail in each others minds.

We met people from all walks of life, young and old, willing to befriend us simply because we were their neighbors. I played guitar and sang in front of complete strangers, and in my heart somehow believed with hope that they may someday remember me the way I will remember them.

Each family held a sweet sort of quality... like they were lit up by the magic of this place and willing to share that magic with everyone around them. We heard stories on first loves, (Melissa) travels to America with only $50 seeking a better life (Phillip), we were given advice on how to live by old men, (Mamut - "Never, ever give up")...

Sometimes I neglect the value of my own life. I worry about the simplest things, merely because my fears are larger than my optimism some days. But something incredible happens when you are comforted by complete strangers and their stories. You realize you have a story, too, and yours will someday be told. You realize life is worth living to its fullest, even if it's only to have a great story to tell. You realize that the little things you worry about are only little defense mechanisms... you learn that they are silly, really, and that there is so much more to be seen than the inside of your own mind.

And when this happens, everything changes colors, and the world lights up. And even if it's only for a second, you become aware of the fact that things are really more simple than they seem, and that love really can exist, and that everything is worth experiencing and appreciating.

Even if it's only for a second.

My love for the place.

I never really hear silence where I live, because I live right by the 5S freeway. I think if there was silence, I'd feel uncomfortable. Unsafe almost. Which is kind of sad, considering meditation in silence makes you a better person and all that.

I am remembering last year at this time. The curly vines of summertime were stretching their way around my consciousness, making me itchy for the coming months. I craved lakes and rivers, hiking and camping, cookouts and poolside memories. This year, however, I cannot crave those things because I am not returning to Wisconsin until the fall.

There are a number of reasons why I am not going this year, breaking my five year pattern of visiting every summer. The main reason, of course, is work. Leaving my students would put me out an extra 600 dollars if I took the week off. ( I can't reschedule that many kids.) But there is also another reason I am not going, and it's tugging at me, making me uncomfortable.

It's my love for the place.

I have spent the past two years building my life up. I have built my own career, which is blossoming at this point, found a quiet little nook in Capo to settle in, and have decently kept up my friendships and relationships the best I've known how. I am truly happy. But there is still that familiar pang of missing somewhere just enough to make me feel uncomfortable sometimes.

And I just don't need to tempt myself to feel antsy again. Not this summer, anyway.

I'm a little more country than that.

Crap. I just wrote six paragraphs and deleted them because I realized I sounded like a child. Ranting and raving about first loves and country music, strawberry wine and sunsets over cornfields, walks along lakes in the twilight, and George Strait playing the soundtrack to my first love.

I think country music is somewhat detrimental to my emotional state of mind. And yet the relationship I hold with it is addicting. I can't let it go. I just can't.

Early Spring has never been so evident. My house is covered in butterfly cocoons, and they're all starting to come out of their little nesting places. It is a truly amazing thing to have watched them these past few months. They started off as sixty or seventy caterpillars infesting the outside of the house. After a few weeks, they made their little homes, and now... they are breaking away right in front of my eyes. It's the most incredible metamorphosis I have ever witnessed. The only problem is my kitty Cosmo. He's a true hunter at heart, and he can't help himself. The few cocoons that were attached to my deck have already been torn down by him :(

The beginning of my blogging adventure.

I have always wanted to start a blog, ever since I was sixteen. The problem was, I have always felt like I haven't had much to say. Now, however, looking at my life, I realize there is almost too much to say, and so I have decided to pursue my blogging desire.

I am a musician, a young one, living alone by the beach. My mother moved to Texas a couple of years ago, and I have been supporting myself ever since. I have to say, it's quite liberating to do what I love and make money from it. Isn't that the ultimate goal? That, and the goal of success of course. But what is success? It is only the expansion of happiness, is it not?

I have been through quite a few disastrous relationships in the past few years, which, i believe, makes me more interesting. I have seen into the relationship pit of hell, and I've come back completely alive. I once heard that musicians don't make for good mates. They're selfish, stuck in their own heads, and hardly driven. I however, strive to be the opposite of this. How well I am doing, however, I can't honestly say. I can only say I am trying.


Last week I was thinking about where I'd like to go.If I ever had the opportunity, of course. I thought about Australia, because I have heard the beaches there are incredible. Or Europe, because I'd like to fulfill the cliche of sitting in a little cafe with my latte, looking out at the Eiffel tower. Or even somewhere United States local, like Portland, where I hear the literature and the music is breathtaking. I was talking to one of my students, Kirra, about it. She's eight. I asked her where she would like to go, if she could pick anywhere in the world. And she said the most incredibly simple, brilliant thing. "I'd like to go to Japan. Because I want to walk down cherry blossom streets and watch fat guys wrestle." Now why can't I be that sure of things?


So thus beginith this new blogging adventure of mine. I probably won't get many readers, but I think it will definitely somehow help me. Maybe evaluate things, or see myself from the outside. Maybe I'll do something incredible, like travel, or tour, or invent a new color. And then people will actually read what I write. But until then, I am just a girl, who plays a little country music, and likes to see the world for what it really is. And at least I am honest about that.

So long!