I give up.

So I’ve been reading this book on happiness, and it’s depressing. At least the section on “Playfulness” is. The narrator is boorring. Her idea of having a good time is basically scrap-booking. She has realized that she is never going to be or do certain things because they’re not really her, like hang out at a jazz club after midnight and see off off Broadway shows. So she writes about it in her blog and all these other people identify with her. They realize they will never be more than a homebody, never own a business, become an astronaut (ok, like that one was going to happen anyway) overcome their shyness and be that easy going person that actually likes talking to other people, enjoy drinking fancy cocktails while discussing high end fashion, etc…This is not uplifting. This is the exact opposite of uplifting. It’s supposed to be about accepting yourself for who you are, but what if I’m not ready to give up on myself like that? How does one even get to that point? Somehow I will go backpacking, sip wine or espresso in a café in Paris (even if it’s only with Wesley eating a chocolate croissant across from me), walk around Macchu Picchu and go white water rafting.

Ok so the point seemed to be that they wanted to do these things but when it came down to it that’s not who they were. So I guess I could say goodbye to ever being a Vegan (even though it makes you better than everybody else, and in my secret heart I already know that I am), cooking every recipe in “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” by Julia Child, staying in an Ashram for 3 months (no way I could find a sitter for that long) before Wesley turns 18, publishing my book before I hit 30 (since that kind of already happened in August…), and ever walking down the aisle in a Vera Wang wedding dress (mostly because I can’t imagine getting married or justify the cost when that could be spent on like an entire month in Italy).

At this moment...

For some reason I'm super stoked about my peanut butter and banana (thank you Gwen Stephani, I did not have to use spell-check) sandwich and latte lunch.

Lamenting the loss of time. Always following the white rabbit. Wanting to be the clock at the bar so for once I can not only be on time, but come early like an adolescent boy.

Just bought two books off of Amazon using their 1-click payment method (but it's really two).

I miss being able to spend the whole day lost in a book. I would trade Wesley's first coo for one whole day to read.

I'm still putting in my application for mother of the year.

Why the world still sucks:
Gay teacher fired in Portland

And why maybe sometimes it isn't so bad:
Man saves stranger

"The Happiness Project"

"You're not alone, the big questions are really big for a reason. They're hard, but you know what? Absolutely everybody struggles with them." Emma Pillsbury

At work I'm always the worst re-shelver because I read the back of practically every book I put away. One that sparked my interest recently was called, "The Happiness Project." The next thing I did was a little unheard of, I started reading it. I'm tired of reading children books. I love them and will always go back to them, but this whiplash effect always happens eventually and I feel like being an adult again. The escapism that they used to give when I was going to school and answering the bigger questions in life has turned into hiding from the life I'm plodding through. I want the earth to shake when I walk again, I refuse to drag my feet any longer.

I read another book, terrible little thing really, but it had glimpses of insightfulness. The main character makes rules for happiness, not just to attain it but general statements about our reactions/actions towards it. One of his conclusions was something like, "Most people see happiness as being only in their future."

That struck me because most of my plans for ultimate happiness are very future oriented, but what about now? Does that mean I'm supposed to languish in the doldrums for the next 6 months contenting myself with drinking and my aimless wanderings? Not that those things aren't fulfilling but they're fleeting. I want something I can put my hands on (very unrealistic indeed).

Back to the book. First chapter. While riding the bus the narrator realizes, "on a morning just like every other morning, I had a sudden realization; I was in danger of wasting my life."

I had a plan. I fucked up that plan, but I killed it way before the fucking up part. I'm an English major who only wanted to be a professor and write and spend summers abroad. My great hope was to fall in love with a place and never come back, but not be too disappointed if it didn't happen (the moving abroad forever part). I never thought of time as my enemy, what did time matter in my profession? Shit happens when you take too long. The longer you dawdle the more likely you are going to have some sort of setback or another. I foolishly believed it was the journey and not the destination. Fuck that guy! He was wrong. It's all about getting to your destination so you can look back on your journey. Well I'm still going because the thought of staying (I've never been in the same place for longer than 3 years since I was 19) here for 18 years depresses me beyond words. It's not a bad place, it is actually kind of nice, but it isn't home and once I decided to leave I felt a huge weight lift off my chest.

The point. All that stuff won't be for a while though, so what about now? What do I want at this moment? Is i t going through every item in my possession and clearing out anything that doesn't have some sort of purpose to me? Making sure I make enough payments to my credit card so it's paid off before the year's out? Buying a satchel bag from Saddleback because I looove it...That last one might win out. It seems like relief or instant gratification to me, but I suppose that does lead towards happiness.

"Happiness is the meaning and the purpose of life, the whole aim and end of human existence." Aristotle.

Something Amazing

Elephant Hong, Painting Elephants

Sometimes I like to watch this. It's kind of inspiring. Limits aren't meant to be set with conventionality in mind.

Slightly Used Poems/ Past Publishings

Hey! Guess what, I write. Not that I have any of it in my possession. It will be en route to me in a couple hours and it has been months since I've gone through any of it (my previous laptop crashed). I've been doodling again so new stuff will be floating around soon but I like these and a site without them would feel incomplete.

In The Grove
http://inthegrove.net/back_issues.php

I honestly have no idea what poem is in Issue 15, but it's in the mail so we'll see. This is from Issue 14 since it's sold out. Glad to see the cover graphics have improved.

Paper Umbrellas

I'm an apparition standing in the yard with the hose on
watering your clothes splayed across the lawn.
Your truck isn't parked in the middle of the street
and your keys aren't really tossed into the canal.

I'm tired of being the flat bed with the smashed Monte Carlos
and Fiestas strapped to its back en route to the junkyard.
I want to be its sister, off to the dealership to be haggled over.
But we are caught in the downpour, and I'm watching you
turn into the paper umbrella in my tequila sunrise.

The Walrus Literary Journal
http://www.fanciful.net/walrus/current/biopage_2007.html#jgarcia

Smokers

Confucius said: A solitary orchid, stands, adorning the side of a mountain, perfumes the air even in the absence of appreciation...

I sit on the same steps
where my mother sat, smoking.
I see my father pull up
and I stand to swing
open the chain-link fence.
Wilted from dollar fifty drafts
he asks me to write a poem
for his flowers,

Dahlias whose stems
used to carry water
and cure epilepsy
for the Aztecs,
Dahlias whose blood dipped
petals explode in every direction
like the fireworks I watch
from the roof top
every 4th of July,

but I like the lilies.
And as my hand brushes
the soft petals of an orchid
he tells me it's because
I'm oriental.
Because I'm Eastern?

Because I'm take out in a red and white box.
Because I'm to be walked on 'til I'm threadbare.
Because I'm what every man loves
when they've tired of blonds,
blue eyes and their wives,
and I wonder what parts of my mother
he sees
when he sees me.

I sat in the back of my mother's house
and watched her smoke cigarettes
in a room she built so nicotine
wouldn't stain her walls yellow
like the cracks of her fingers.
And she told me she used to work
in the backroom of a tailor shop
in Korea,
and I remembered those young girls
in gauzy dresses as we walked
through the night streets of Punsan,
posed like mannequins
in the store front windows,
and I ask
with too much hope-
as a seamstress?

Remembering the skill with which
her hands made new homes
for discarded buttons.
How she taught me to weave
pinches from calloused fingertips
and not kisses
into my poetry.
And she peered at me
as if I were a child again.
And I am,
still too young to hear.
I want to wash the past away from her,
but I can't
touch that part of her
without pulling away my hand.
Instead I sit on the same steps
where my mother sat,
crushing a Parliament
into a potted fern
while my father pulls a lawn chair from his trunk,
a soft pack from his pocket,
and a tall boy from a paper bag,
and I wonder what parts of my mother
he sees
when he sees me.

He asks if I've ever written
a poem about him,
and I say of course.
As he totters past me
he asks to see it.
So he can tell
our brothers from the field
and the illegal bar maids
that I wrote it for him.
And I already know that
I won't.

I sit where my mother sat
smoking Salem Light 100's
and watch my dog
Johnny eating grass;
grass he's already pissed on,
that will just make him
throw-up
and I wonder,
why we're all still doing that.

Nothing Is Heavy to Those Who Have Wings

Welcome gentle readers! Well if you’ve made it this far then I’ll have to let you in on a little secret…I lied. It’s something I can only do in text, and seeing as I’m not particularly moral or amoral for that matter, I see it as something of a fault. I can however omit the truth fairly well, but have found it best to just let others draw their own conclusions and agree. It is amazing how many people just want to be right. I fear I’m rambling, but the point I was going to make was: I’m not really imploding. I’m not saying things didn’t get pretty dicey there for a while and I may even admit to wallowing, but it was like finally hitting rock bottom and realizing I did it in a cocoon. It still hurt, and realizing the world you actually lived in was cutting yourself off from the one that was actually always out there, and still filled with so many different possibilities isn’t so bad-even if it was a huge waste of time. I’ve dusted myself off, the sunlight is dazzling and I just might have wings. Walk with me, maybe I’ll entertain you for a little while…hopefully at some point I’ll repulse you. My minds a jumble but you are most welcome to wade through all the bullshit.