Status Quo

One would think, in this day and age that old stereotypes wouldn't prevail quite as much. For example, women can't do everything that men can. I work for a coffee shop and deal with every kind of person imaginable. Snotty business folk right down to homeless old men who crap in their pants in my store. Every colour in the human rainbow.
Because of the liquor store nearby, we get lots and lots of people who just ask for a cup of ice. As long as they don't cause trouble, yell, swear, or mess up my store, I don't have much problem acquiescing to their request. I don't like giving them ice because I know they're just going to drink for what ever reason they need to, but I do deal legal addictive stimulants, so cut me a little slack.
Then there are people who come in looking for a fight. They're having a bad day and they just need some poor bastard to yell at, or someone's store to thrash a little before security is called and they are kicked out. Take the guys who came in today for example. Carlos and his buddy, whom we can call Bob. Both are men of African American descent, and while skin colour doesn't matter one whit to me, they took offense when asked to leave by white girls.
It is in times like this where I wish I had one big burly bouncer sitting in my back room that I could ask to come out and settle matters. Truth is, I really don't. It's just us. My work has security, but it's comprised of older men who I have no doubt know what they're doing, but they are comfortable in what is mainly a desk job.
It's up to me and my co-workers to settle most matters in my store. We are the ones who quietly ask folks to leave, to stop swearing, to stop yelling, to stop being disruptive. Why are we the ones who have to take the slack so the suits can have their stupid cup of morning joe without any goundlings to bother them? Do any of them know the shit we take? Not many.
I just had to rant a little and express my admiration for my female co-worker who went out today and told two large black men they needed to leave. Who took their subsequent mouthing with a serene countenance and much grace. Who I am very grateful to call my friend.

Time with my Mama (Hi Mama!)

Nearly every Wednesday night I head over to visit my parents and brothers. Sometimes it's all four of them, and I have to dole out my company carefully while other times it just me and my Mama getting to catch up and gab for a while. This week it was spent pouring through a veritable treasure trove of books sent up to us for pleasure and safe keeping. These tomes traveled all the way from Lake Tahoe and were such a lovely surprise. Reading books from 1900, Autograph book from 1880, a much abused math book from 1912 gave my mother and I such pleasure to read over. We would read the best bits aloud to each other, amidst commenting on curious little notions from the different Cyclopeadias, school child scrawlings and treasured signatures from old friends.


This was my favourite.

And then I was blithely commandeered by this young fellow to help with his new "Smoke Bombs" for his on-going project of his Zombie Movie. I assure you (Mom and Dad) nothing actually exploded, but things were rather smoky and loads of fun. It's such a pleasure being a part of the young lives of my brothers. Both boys are becoming young men so rapidly, it's sometimes difficult for me to keep up with what new activities they are doing. Evan is writing scripts and making movies while Levi writes story snippets and bangs out metal marvels on the backyard forge. I am so honored to call myself their sister.

The MAC Sweater, part 2

Several years ago now, I had grand delusions of knitting up a sweater version of a British Lieutenants jacket circa 1805-ish. It was in the throes of my Master and Commander phase before I really knew what I was doing in terms of designing my own sweaters. Five years later (if not more) I found myself with an okay little sweater, sorely lacking the original vision. I didn't want to rip it back for the millionth time and let it languish for several years more. It wasn't until today, when I was rummaging through my things that I picked it up with notions of just sewing on the buttons to see if that would help. This led to picking up a decorative band along the button edge. It didn't work, and I set to crocheting a picot edging all round, and picking up for cuffs with picot edge. It's turned out decidedly darling with a steampunky feel now and I haven't taken it off since I finished tucking away all the little yarn ends. So finally, the MAC sweater has found it's happy medium and will most likely be worn frequently. Hurrah!

One Week Ago:
Yesterday marked the first day of having to take medication to treat my depression. As much as I think I'm on the right path and it's the best treatment for me right now, I hate it. I don't want to be sick, yet I am. I don't want to cry because I hurt inside, yet I do. It comes and goes, but when it's here, my black dog gnaws at me and disrupts my regular life and it's time to stop that.
I wake up feeling like I'm in a fish bowl and I go to sleep knowing I will get no rest. Ways to end my life pervade the corners of my mind while I go about my daily routine.
Before you begin to worry too much, let me say that I don't want to die before God calls me home. I have too much to live for. I have promised myself and my fiance that I won't hurt myself any more, I won't cut my hair, I will eat my meals, and I will get help. So I'm taking medication.

It's making me a little groggy, but I'm doing okay. In three weeks I go back for an evaluation to see if this is the right treatment for me. Until then I'm slipping from one day to the next, an insomniac for the most part who is exhausted but cannot find much rest.
If you have a spare moment, pray that I can find a way around this and that I can achieve healing in the end of this journey.

Today marks the day where I up my medication, and rather than keep the negative attitude about it (groaning to myself each time I look at that little pill in my palm) I've come up with a little mantra. "You don't have to take this forever. Just for now, just until you're better." So I want to work harder at fixing this sweet silly self of mine and get to the feeling better part. Soon.

Have you met FrankenBlankie?

So several years back, I discovered I had a plethora of little squares, rectangles, and knitted scraps. As a knitter you cannot throw away this evidence of beginning projects, or bad early knitting. You save it, in that box of shame you keep under the bed. One of those days where you pull out said box and dig through the memories, I had the idea of sewing all these little scrappy bits together. Why not? It would give them purpose and, rather like quilts, keep the story of each scrap out for plain view. For the first incarnation of this blanket I only ended up with one little not-quite-lap-blanket-square. Later another square that created a lap blanket sized piece, but never quite enough for a blanket-ey thing. Until lately. I am working on an afghan (Olive's Afghan from knitalong)and subsequently changed my colour scheme and was left with one slightly awkward pink and chocolate brown bias-knit strip. This was quickly assimilated into the scrap blanket and Franken Blankie was born.
I'll add more to it as more scraps show up, but for now I'm really enjoying looking at the history in stitches as it keeps me warm whilst I read in bed.

Invasion! :)

My Men-folk came for a visit last week and it was delightful. They brought lunch, I cooked, and they commandeered my dishes! We tramped around my neighborhood not quite as much as I would have liked, but it was fun all the same. More excursions for other visits.

A box, labeled Hope.

Indulge me in a moment of reflection and sorrow.

I don't know why it's on my mind so much, but I look at friends, blogs, women who are going to have their first baby and all I can do it miss the one that I lost. Perhaps it hasn't been long enough for the emotion to ebb fully, not that it ever really should, but you know what I mean. To recede to the point where I can be happy for the other women and not feel that little nagging voice that says, "You almost had this." As if I never will?
That is not the case, I counter. I will have children, just not now. Not anytime soon. I want to finish college, and find a stable job in theatre, or teaching theatre and then, when I have the means and the peace of mind, then I can try again. I can try at all.

For now I tell myself that I can't and all it does is make me sad. It makes me worried. I pray for peace, I beg God to make it go away - the wanting so very, very badly - make it go away until I have the time in my life. I can't afford to want a sweet baby right now. It's not an option. It just doesn't stop the wanting inside. So I knit, I keep my life busy in a good way, I spend oodles of time with my honey. And wait. With deep breaths, with patience, with love, I wait. I send prayers up to Heaven to the little one that almost was, telling them I loved them while they were here, and the family that has gone ahead of me will love them until I am there.

*sigh*

And now back to your irregularly scheduled knitting and theatre drivel. Thanks.

~A

A post : in two parts

The show is going nicely. Director Mok is making magic with the first cast and we're adding in more of the second cast where we can. It's crazy good.

And there's some of this:

I am an unabashed self portrait artist. I love taking pictures of myself because it causes me to look at myself from my own eyes. Other people take my picture and I pose for them, giving them a face that is happy and carefree when, perhaps inside, I am not. It makes me admit things. Makes me contemplate and decide.

I admit I have depression. I decided to go to the doctor today and see what I need to do to get on with more of my life instead of sitting around feeling sorry for myself. I want to beat this deamon as much as I can. Summertime helps, being on my own helps, the love of my life helps the most. I am committed to him. I promised him I would seek help, seek healing. I am seeing a doctor and looking into therapy. I am not cutting my hair. I am not hurting myself. I am fighting, deep in the trenches in that erie lull before the shit hits the fan and I have to grapple with my deamon again. This time I have armor, this time I have re-enforcements, this time I am prepared to fight back rather than merely sit by and wait for it to pass. This time, I am ready.

Slowly . . .

It seems that I should be more excited about my life at present, but with the onset of a nasty throat/head cold I find myself only wishing to sleep.
Monday night I landed my first "I did it all by myself" theatre gig with a company called Breathing Space Ministries. No, wait- Nate found the gig, but I landed it. Credit where credit is due.
Breathing Space is doing a show about one woman's journey towards knowing Christ as a series of "episodes". This being episode one, and the others not yet written, it's going to be an interesting experience. Rehearsals are in full swing right now, and because of my cold I haven't gotten to one yet. Tomorrow night if I'm feeling up to it, or Friday night, for sure.
It was the first time in an interview situation that I felt utterly confidant of myself and my abilities. It was amazing. At one point the director and the writer looked at each other and said, in hushed stage whispers, "I like her. We should hire her."
"Me too. Let's."
Then they look at me, smile and say, "So,do you want the job?"

Heh. Do I? Of course! It doesn't pay, but it's an outside credit for my resume before I go off to school in the fall. The more I can get under my belt in the real world, the more I believe school will take me.

For now, I'm taking it easy, drinking LOADS of water and hot tea, and eating soup, like the Pho steaming away at the top. So I'm off for now, my dears. Take care!

Open your eyes, dear child, your dream has arrived.

I feel like I'm living in a dream. Which, oddly enough, is true. I have dreamed for this moment, this turn in my life for years. Years and years and years. I have longed, hoped, wished, and cried many silly tears to reach this turn into adulthood. I am engaged, but in my mind I already think "wife". In my mind I call my fiancee, "Husband" and it makes me smile. Husband.
To have a man who loves me so very dearly to want to share his life, the rest of his life with me thrills me to my very core. I admit to not thinking very highly of myself. To discrediting my talents, my personality, my beauty - even that word applied to me gives me pause. I am beautiful. Four years ago I would have scoffed at such a statement. Pretty, maybe. Beautiful? Please.
Then I met my love. He looked into my eyes and told me I am beautiful. I am wanted. I am worthy, I am loved. A year later I believe it. Mostly.

It has been a whirlwind three weeks. One week I was moving in with the darling man, the next we were engaged and now? Now we're setting in to living with another person. I'm settling my things into his apartment, he's adjusting to having a "roommate" for the first time in eight years or so. Lots of adjustments.
Lots of small flickerings of temper ending with a conversation of better understanding. All couched in crazy love. It makes me happy to know that while we're both driving each other batty, we can still look at the other with a knowing smile and say, "You're crazy, but I love you."

A wise man once said, "the greatest moment is when you're living your dreams, awake." It is so very true.

Image:Stiletto Heights

Pure Squee. . .

My apologies for the poor lighting, but I'm just too chuffed to really care. He proposed. It was the cutest proposal in the history of cute proposals, and of course I said yes.

I'm also still pinching myself. I can't quite believe it, and then a glance down at my left hand and start grinning like an idiot.

In the meantime, there are Christmas gifts to finish knitting, Thanksgiving to prepare for, and many many things to be thankful for.

Cheers dear friends!

The Pirate Sweater

Voila, Mon Coeur

Life is crazy, and wonderful all at the same time right now. I feel older inside, crazier, different. Top it all with a generous helping of stress, and I wake up tired, I go to bed tired, I work all day tired only to fall into bed, and repeat it the next day. One of the things getting me through all the crazy is this man. The one who holds me when I cry (frequently), who kisses me when I'm lonely, who is becoming my best friend and trusted buddy. He is the one who cooks me dinner when I'm sick, and follows me into yarn stores when I need something to knit.

I cannot tell him how much I love him. There aren't words, but that's okay. We have the rest of our lives to say "I love you" and that works for me.



p.s. knitting update to eventually follow.

A Tussle and The Status Quo

If you haven't noticed, I struggle, fight, and tussle with depression. Only I don't call it that. I call it my Black Dog, in reference to the incomparable Winston Churchill. During the spring I grappled with the Black Dog, and I won, for a little while. It's a constant war with minor battles going to one party or the other. And now I find I have turned my back on him for too long. He's bitten me again, only it's gentle. There's no blood, just a bruise. Just his teeth on my throat reminding me he's always there. Only this time I don't feel the overwhelming urge to wallow in uselessness, I am merely saddened by events in my life. They aide the Black Dog in catching me with my guard down. They put me in bed in tears for all that has occurred, for all that I have lost and am missing. I almost, almost didn't go to work yesterday for want of staying in my bed. However I find my spirit is strong and stubborn, two factors that have helped me fight the Dog for so long. I stubbornly walked up the hill to where I catch my bus, had a cup of coffee and wrote in my journal for the better part of an hour and a half. It eased the ache inside, just watching my hand put letters on the page, pouring out my inner thoughts and emotions. I was able to go to work, and perform decently, and was blessed with laughter. Sweet, carefree laughter. I would have rather gone home to my lover that night, than to my own bed, but not yet.

I woke today to see that Fall has officially arrived. The leaves turned without my knowing. The fog blankets Puget Sound, and all is chilly and perfect woolen sweater weather. Perfect to curl up with a good book, a cat, some knitting, hot cocoa and company and just be. Take time to be.

Six

I miss my mother. She's been gone for the last fifteen days and isn't likely to return until the weekend. I understand that I'm a (mostly) adult and it seems that adults don't miss their parents in the sense that they want to curl up in a lap and be hugged and told that everything is going to be okay. When, if ever, comes the moment when you are strong enough to stand alone and be okay? Or does it just never happen? I feel like it's weak to want my mother at twenty-three, but I can't deny the ache of missing her. So I console myself with some knitting ( I am, alas, pictureless) talking with a couple friends and reminding myself that she will come home this weekend.

Time

A wise friend tells me, often, that "It Takes Time". All good things take time, they take time to make and time to break, but time is a must. So I sigh, knowing she is right (she usually is) and wait for time to pass. Suddenly I look back and find it's been two months, and I feel a little better. More alive, ready for a new adventure, new meetings and places. I'm just not sure which direction to go from here, so I wait just a little longer.

Pardon the rather overwhelming amount of "sad" posts, but that's what I'm feeling. I feel alone. I feel like I have to throw up constantly. I feel so squished and open all at the same time it's a little maddening. I've lost him and I'm not sure how to proceed with my life alone. There is a lump in my throat that is not going away. There is an ache in my heart that cannot yet be relieved. I wonder if this is how old empty houses feel? Those achingly lovely turn of the century confections that make my heart happy. How do they feel when there are not people inside them? Rather like I do without my boy. I know it's going to take time, and I know I'll have good days again (like yesterday), but the bad days come and take all the sunshine away. All the hope I work up throughout the week to make it to the weekend that the next day won't suck as badly as this one does gets stolen away in one breath.



I have been told by some to have a meaningless fling with some random person as some party. That will ease the loss. Perhaps that would work for some people, but I am an artist. I feel things differently than some, and not at all for others. Music moves me, it surges through my very blood and makes me shiver. I told a friend once music does to me what alcohol and drugs do to others. That same heady, reckless, restless, feeling that sits in your heart and makes you move. You can't sit still. I can't sit still.
Relationships with people are similar. I ache with love when I watch someone I love sleep beside me. I drink in moments and save them for later, for winter when I'm cold, for being alone. The happy blissful golden moments that are kept in my soul. Mothers know this feeling, they drink in the ephemeral moments of their babies. The first words, first steps, first smiles, laughs. They soak it up and save it for later to soothe them when the child has become an adult and left.



Sitting alone is dangerous right now. Having no where to be, and nothing to do leave me restless and empty. Everyone is at work, or school, or running errands before I woke up and I'm left alone in my room with only the ghosts for company. Trying not to go crazy thinking about what I've lost, and hoping, praying for what is to come. If I had a cat, I would being cuddling it a lot right now. It makes me want something to care for again. A cat, a baby, something, anything. It makes me want to do a play or go to work just for the excuse of having to be somewhere. Sitting alone, something I relished when I was younger, is deadly to me now.

She trudges on

I am in a bubble of space that isolates the outside world from my senses. Touch comes slowly, sounds are the first to assail my battered mind. Thoughts, words come last. I am drowning in my own despair. I know I need help, but don't know if I will get the right help, or if the help will fix my despair, depression.
I pace my floor at night consumed with thoughts of feeling alone, ugly, worthless, useless and concluding that I should leave this world. What's the point of going on? I'm not sure if this stems from loosing love I thought would last forever, in addition to just being depressed anyway, but it hurts. It's affecting my work, it's affecting my life, my future. There are too many people who love me for me to be so selfish as to leave them all, but that doesn't stop me from thinking about it. I want to take the pain I feel inside and make it physical. I want to hurt as much in my skin and muscles as I do in my heart and soul.
So I go to work because I know it will distract me from my pain, but it doesn't cure what hurts. Which makes me wonder, what does hurt? And why? Where do I get the idea that I am ugly, horrible monster of a person to the point of not valuing my own talents? To the point of considering wasting my talent in forcing my own death. Death comes for us all, it's what you do with your precious life in the meantime that makes legends or fables or changes in the great wide world. I am just silly enough sometimes to want to make my death come sooner so the world will no longer be troubled with trying to keep me here.
I am sad to loose love I thought would last forever. It weakens my faith and hope in the future. In the fact that there is someone, made especially for me to spend the rest of my life with. I am shattered in this resolute faith of the hope of love. I want to drink until I pass out just so I sleep through the night. I want to beat my body until the bruises show, purple and black, badges of my heart's pain. I want to cry until I can't cry anymore so I purge all the pain from my soul. I want to be happy again and dance in the sunlight. I think I know how to accomplish this, but it's going to take time and patience and hope. Trust in the future, in the promise that the future will be different and that difference will be better. Please, God, let it be so.

Demeter's Daughter

She was drifting again. LIke the wind could pick her up and blow her away, up into the clouds. She only wished to be with him, he was her anchor, her two strong arms that wouldn't let her go.
But it was Spring and Demeter's Daughter had to, once again, emerge from Hell.
Her thoughts glide sluggishly, slick as oil but still brackish and torpid, praying to find that thing that clears her head and allows her to return to the light of day. She remembers dancing in sunlight and embracing the dawn. When life was innocent, placid, naive.
Now things are of a gritty, worn out, greyish cast, crunching under feet unpleasantly. She desperately wants to wake up. She begs for God to make it better again.
She slips from night to day, day into night again, stiffly, slowly like a sleepwalking zombie.
People ask how she is and she lies so well now she forgets to tell the truth to people she loves. She forgets to tell herself she's lying. She hates telling because she feels like she's complaining, and that's never been allowed in her childhood. All she can wish for it for it to end. And soon.
Please, oh please, just let it all stop long enough for me to breathe. My soul is tied to a string and dragging behind me, shards of glass and rock piercing it's core, to lodge without leaving, scarring forever.
She she collects herself, scraping together the blood and bones into a passable girl. Opens her eyes from the mist to squint at the day. To work faster, better, harder, stronger. To pray for Saturday to come, and soon.
She forgets for a few scant hours to press against the dark smothering sadness and simply allows herself to be. Filling coffee cups with inky brown liquid and taking baptized dishes from the washer. She merely follows along, doing what she's told because the robotisim is soothing to her ringing ears, her twitching eyes. She doesn't have to think except to give the correct change.
Until she has to take a break, until she is done with work and standing on the street corner feeling the buses buffet by her grey and black form.
Her entire body is consumed with the desire to mount the steps of his bus, to allow the metal dragon to spirit her away to a place where it doesn't hurt quite so much. Her self control is second nature now, and it burbles beneath her dewy face, claiming dominance. Winning without fighting, and fight for control.
She ducks into her novel, and a fresh Southern Carolina breeze steals her away to another world until her mother calls and she raises her wet head from the literary waters. She wants nothing more but to duck under again, let the world go passing by until things stop hurting. But life grabs her by the soul and won't let go.

Have Sleeves...

...Sweater to Follow?
It seems I have a wee problem.











I have begun two sleeves with only enough yarn to complete ONE SLEEVE! Gah. How silly it that? It's quite silly in terms of knitting but as my budget is severly limited to enough for two skeins of Noro, it's understandable. So my sleeves sit in a knitting bag, on my work table, tempting me with their loveliness and promise of cozy warmth in which I might wrap myself up in come their completion.