Tag Archives: memories

Decipher the Cipher of Life aka Stranger than Fiction

Yet again I am trying to downsize and further compartmentalize my life. Shed some of that heavy weight that no longer serves me. It’s hard to do because it requires me to dig into my past and this time it went to an even weirder zone.

Did you ever see that movie “Stranger Than Fiction” with Will Ferrell?  If not, you should and then maybe you will get the same sensation about your own life, especially if you are the artistic or wordy type.

Basically, today I got the sincere feeling I have been writing my life out, before I actually live it… or something to that degree.  I can look at a piece of writing and know when and why I was writing it at the time, but the way I write things is subconsciously coded language.  I don’t know how or why this happens specifically, but I have some assumptions.

The thing about all of this is, I haven’t had a bad life, over all.  I’ve had a rudimentary amount of pain in comparison to other people.  My family is full of good people who tried their best to offer what they could within their means, and probably unbeknownst to me, went above and beyond when needed.

So all I can do is ask myself  “What the actual fuck?”

I am going to admit that most of my journals are a massive spiritual battle. It has been that way as far back as I have recorded my life.  The journaling started around age 12, but I can go back to certain creations done in Elementary School and see a depth that is or was seen as some what abnormal for a kid that age.

“She is five- going on thirty five.” My grandma would say when I was little.  I wanted to sit at the adult table.  I wanted to converse.  I had questions and quips beyond my years.  Spirit has been speaking to me forever.

Now perhaps this is just the byproduct of losing a parent at a young age and the feeling that I had to grow up quickly to compensate. Maybe I was just born this way.   Who knows?   I do know that I drove my mother crazy when I was just a small child.  Enough so, for her to strip me down to basically nothing and leave me on the front stoop with the old adage “If you don’t want to be here, you are going to leave the way you came in.”  Naked and shivering.

It’s okay.  My aunt lived a couple of blocks away, and my mom would call her and tell her to come pick me up.  She would come over, packed with some over-sized clothing that belonged to my cousin.  She would wrap me up and take me back to her place until the whole thing calmed down.

Once my dad said, “If your mom was still alive, you would probably be at each others throat.”  Sometimes I feel like I am getting that experience with my grandma.  It isn’t a “hate” or loathing issue… it’s just this weird temperament that arises out of our idiosyncrasies and difference in ideologies.  It’s the byproduct of being stubborn and bull headed while still having the best intentions in love.

A stranger once told me “It’s easier to paint yourself into a corner than it is to write yourself out of a box.”  That has stuck with me for over a decade.  I wasn’t quite sure what it meant, but today, I think I got it.

It goes back to Abracadabra. A spell or incantation using the ABC’s.  This is why writing and words are magical.  This is how words hold a vibration that can influence the reality we live in… it’s the way you can send prayers or well wishes or destroy a life in a single breath.

My family can be traced back to the Druids on my Mother’s Father’s side.  There is some witchery in the blood, and that blood still courses through my veins.  I don’t purposely perform rituals or magik; I have a feeling there are a lot of us who don’t.  We settle on titles like “artist” or “writer” or “musician.”   We feel and feed on an indescribable power that fuels our creative spirit.   Words will almost magically manifest on the page without too much work.  We feel born knowing the Muses.  At least, this is how it has always been for me.

I haven’t had to try too hard in creative ways.  “It just comes to me.”

I don’t profess this as any sort of braggart, in fact, in this moment I am questioning all of it.  My family is a mixed up match of “tight lipped” and deceased, I don’t know where I can go to discuss this openly, so I leave it here for you, my few but beautiful readers.   I am realizing that I need to figure out a way to console myself.  Feel free to send suggestions.

“The calm before the storm” is over. I know it and I feel it with a force that is hard to describe. As I read through these papers and place them in a new container, I am god smacked..  I’ve predicted future patterns in my life with no intention of doing so; in alignment with that, the writing has predicted patterns of humanity and what would be worth our attention.  This leads me back a post I made about a week ago in regard to purpose and being a dreamer.  In this moment, I want nothing more than someone I could share the depth of this with, but I don’t have that someone, which is a reoccurring theme in my  personal writing that I rarely share.

I see in this moment that this specific loneliness is a representation of that spiritual battle.  We are all looking for connection in various ways.  I believe in Creation, I believe that Creation will not be out done.  I know I can’t out-create Creation.  That knowing can be overwhelming, like “why even try?” not to mention the clutter!  I make and make and make a mess and an abundance of stuff that may end up at a thrift store or a landfill.   I’ve carried paper around, weighing many many pounds over thousands of miles for what?

This moment.

This is the moment it all shifts.  I might not see the evidence of it immediately so I will leave room for it to shift as quickly as it wants to.

While going through things I stumbled on a good-bye note from a woman named Cecily Monk.  I didn’t know her well, or for very long but I really liked her personality.  She felt like a person that I would have had a long friendship with if we would have had more time together.

Anyway, when she left Keystone, Colorado I was at work and she left a note.

 

The last line is quite potent; “…and remember the journey of self discovery comes not in seeing new landscapes, but in having new eyes.”  So obviously she was a fan of Proust, or one of her teachers had the actual quote “The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” on a motivational poster or something.

I like that she added the word “self” and “journey” because the timing is perfect for today.  Journey vs Voyage is appropriate because I perceive a Journey to be far more relaxed than a Voyage.  Voyage makes me think of a specific conquest, for which I have had none up until this point.  The actual Proust quote takes on a deeper meaning when I rehash my words and see that in fact, I have been on a Voyage but I didn’t know it.  And I have had conquest but I didn’t acknowledge it.

It all comes down to love and forgiveness. And this is going to be so hard because there is a lot of bad shit happening in the world right now.  But just like I am finding illumination in my own writing, we are going to find illumination in just how fucked up humanity has been by bringing it to light.

Today I wanted to get rid of EVERYTHING.  I was feeling oppressed at how much garbage we consume and throw away.  I was overwhelmed by the massive pressure of pain that is the human condition.  I wished I wasn’t part of it because there is no easy solution and by the looks of it, it’s only going to get worse.  I thought about all the mundane stuff we do on any given day just to maintain a “standard” of living.  I thought about all the people who loath the work they do just for a paycheck.

I kept thinking, and thinking about all the stuff I can not stand.  How disappointing all of our entertainment is because it’s coded and getting increasingly ominous in content. I thought about how my creative spirit has been lost because I can’t imagine things getting better and I am sick of rehashing this old script that we are being fed on the daily.  Believe it or not, I believe this rumination to be a good sign.  My art and dreams and writing tell me so.  We really are dancing on the tip of a needle right now.

As I dug through this box the skies turned dark outside.  A while letter the rain came pounding down in sheets.  I laughed out loud and asked if this was a baptism and as I went to shut the screen door the water was falling so fierce that it was splashing out of the rain gutters.  In the few seconds it took me to move the block in front of the door (which is actually a heavy concrete lawn statue of a sleeping man wearing a sombrero) I was soaked and a bit elated.

This isn’t over, though.   I had just begun this excavation and there were more treasures to dig up, so this is only a taste of what that was.  To a certain degree I’ve been pulled into my own mystery.  I am sure it is appropriate timing as next month I will turn thirty-eight.  My life has been amazing, it’s hard not to think it’s a shame that I have felt so heavy through all of it.  Even in times of levity, the gravity of reality has kept me solid and grounded.  Luckily people like that about me, but if they didn’t it wouldn’t really matter because it feels unchangeable.

Last night I re-watched Eternal Sunshine of the the Spotless Mind for the second time, since the first time years ago when it came out on video.  I saw it with new eyes, but I knew the story and when I watched it the story came flooding back.  Looking through my life in writing produces the same feeling.  (Another topic I could probably go to length writing about, but not right now.)

I sense that things are starting to sync up for me again and I am not sure what that means.  I will probably be able to glean some knowledge from further exploration but I don’t know if I will wake up with the energy to keep on tomorrow… or if I will sit in stasis again for a while.  I’ve been practicing forgiveness for myself, and part of that is finding patience when my desires are so vast.  Giving myself time to figure things out without a strict timeline.   It isn’t easy.  It’s hard not to compare myself to other people and their obvious accomplishments.  I think “I’m just sitting on a stack of paper.”  But that “stack of paper” is the analog archive of my life experience in a very raw form.

I like to journal like I like to go bowling.  I can have a couple of drinks and do something to the best of my ability in full enjoyment even if I suck at it.  I feel fulfilled by slapdashedly swinging my dominate hand around without expectation of high results.  It’s something to do that is totally dependent on my personal attitude at the time. I don’t fear judgement because most times I keep it to myself.  If you want to bowl alone, go at 1:30 pm on a Tuesday.  The only people in there are over 60 and there aren’t many of them.  Most are there just for the bar.  Every once and a while a bold elderly man may stop by and offer tips on your game.

It’s like this blog page.  I have like eighty people who follow me.  I get very little engagement and I am fine with that.  Sometimes I just have to express myself out in the world.  When I was younger I was under the impression that I didn’t actually have a voice in the world, or that no one cared what I had to say; now I think that just the right people stumble in at just the right time, not only for me, but for themselves.  My delusions of grandeur have been over for quite some time now.

This digging and sorting is going to continue.  It has to.  Something about “getting your house in order” feels appropriate right now.  May you find patience and forgiveness in yourself, and the strength to get your own house in order.

PS.  The heading image was something my mom wrote on a piece of paper.  I don’t have much of her writing, on the other side is a poem that many people find haunting.  I am not sure if the cipher works for the poem, but if I feel like it, I might see if it does.  If it does, that would be so cool.  On my mom’s typed page it is titled “Love Poem” and instead of “he” it is “she.”  Who knows?  Everyone loves a mystery and the author is unknown.

lovep

 

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Things Left Unsaid

I think I am having a sort of identity crisis.  As I mentioned in a previous post, a belated mourning.  It’s been slowly building day by day creating a depression like I have never known before.

My life is very isolated right now.  I see one or two people on a daily basis.  Mostly I just see my grandmother, but at the same time, despite living with her, and taking care of her; I avoid her.

It is sad to see the loss of memories of some one who was so proud of her ability to retain information, to  loose a little bit more of it everyday.

Recently she asked me how my mother died (her daughter)… and I replied “Cancer.”  She responded with “what kind?”  I had to ask ” is this a quiz or do genuinely not remember?”  Her answer was shocking… she didn’t remember.

My mother passed away of ovarian cancer when I was four years old.  My family bottled their sadness and harbored their memories of her to themselves.

As a resilient and adaptable person, I just didn’t give it too much thought.  I did what people expect you to do, which is “get over it and move on.”  I had a little brother to look out for and influence.

There have been times in my life where this depression surfaces and causes me to question  where I came from, maybe what I missed out on, but people in my family have been hush hush .

I have noticed that over the past year with the passing of my grandpa and my aunt, that my grandmother’s mental hard drive is crashing.

My dad remarried when I was 8 and he had a daughter with his new wife.  That half sister of mine is married now and had a baby this year.  My step mom is a very active participant in their lives.

My full blooded brother died in 2006, and that was the first time I felt the pangs of losing what I know to be a part of myself, and the living memory of a mother who didn’t stay too long.

The things most girls want to grow up and be are a good wife and mother… but not me.
I feel a huge rift in even contemplating that life because it feels so distant to me.

Where do I come from, why do I feel such sadness? Will it ever get better?

I don’t know the word “mom.”  Even when I say it out loud it sounds foreign and awkward.  How could I ever be that which I do not truly understand.  I find jealousy at how easily “mom” rolls off the tongue for everyone else.

I hate that my sister gets to use it with such frequent consistency. It never felt right to call my stepmom anything but her first name.

I live in a world full of moms, and daughters, and because of my past I don’t feel like I fit in at times.  I wish I could conquer this void.

It recently came to my attention how Disney movies often run a program in their scripts that kills off the mother figure leading the main characters to be highly vulnerable to influences of say, a witch in disguise.  And I wonder if I run in manic directions because I don’t have a mom to run to.

I am well aware of the benefits of a good hug, the oxytocin and the bonding, but I don’t hug or touch anyone very often because it too, feels foreign.

My grandma use to hold me and comb her fingers through my hair, but now she is frail, and when I do hug her, I feel that I may break her.  This breaks my heart a little more each time.

Love to me is synonymous with sadness and loss, and I am not sure how to remedy that physical and mental reaction.  I enjoy being alone because most people just don’t understand how deep this program runs.  I can tell disappointment in others when I don’t say “I love you” in return.

I am not close with my mothers brothers, I don’t really know anyone she grew up with.  And in that I fear that when my grandma passes that I will have little to validate my existence outside of my own creations.  This sadness is so strong lately that I don’t want to create much, mostly because I don’t feel like I have many people to share it with.

It all feels sort of pointless.  And since I am not out for fame or fortune, I wonder for who does any of this benefit?

Recently because of Robin Williams death, people have been more vocal about their depression and sadness.  And I believe it’s a great topic for discussion, but I find that when people realize how depressed a person is, they find a conflict of caring and repulsion.  No one likes hanging out with a Debbie Downer all the time.

This is another reason I am reclusive at times.  I just don’t have the energy to be happy or funny all the time.  I don’t enjoy how worn out I can feel from pretending.

So I don’t pretend.  But is taking its toll on me, and it saddens my grandma, which turns into a cycle of us throwing sadness back and forth.

This is no way to live, and no way to die.  I wish I knew a way out of this cycle.

Ah, Memories

Sometimes, I think it is possible that we hold things in for too long, yep, even I am guilty of holding a fart  in  for too long… But I am talking deeper than gas. “Deeper?” you ask.  Yeah.  Deeper.

Honestly, I want to be proud of myself for handling death so well in my life.

YAY! High five, Mandie!

Errrrr, what?!?!

Yeah, I want to say, “YOU know what? I have had tremendous loss in my life, and it’s OKAY, it’s FINE.  I TOTALLY DEAL WITH IT, I have a different sort of relationship to death…” and then I walk away with a crazy look in my eye.

The fact is, I usually deliver those exact  lines with a very sweet tone, and walk off with a little bit of superiority over those who couldn’t possibly fathom  what it is to loose people close to you.

Great, I am using loss as a way to be self righteous… just as I was thinking I might be humble.

The fact is, I am going to call my family out, hell I am going to call out any of you who don’t discuss it… WE MISS PEOPLE BEING THERE IN PHYSICALITY.

We miss seeing people age, and grow, and evolve.  We miss late night conversations on the phone, advice, the sound of their voice.  Some of us just miss what we never really knew to begin with, and then we based our imaginative relations off of what was observed in the lives of others.  Some of my observations of YOU and your lives at times has sparked with in me jealousy… Oh yes, even you….

Tonight, I was thinking about my brother, who is now gone, and earlier I was thinking of the mother I lost.

And I was thinking about how pissed I am on one sense; that my brother left me in this awkward situation that almost feels like divorce where the kids split with each parent.  Kevin and my mom got to transition to, you know… some other plane of reality, and I got to stay here with my dad… on Earth? (Come  on kids you know I am a big thinker who wants people  to be Organically Super Human…)

I love my dad to all ends of the Universe and back, but it’s like Kevin got some other end of the deal… like all that missing and wanting I had for my mother, he somehow got to fulfill for himself.. before ME!….I feel it was a bit, preemptive.

I am the oldest, in all conventional thought; which I have not yet purged obviously, says: the oldest dies first.

That happens to be the struggle of any parent who lost a child.

My grandparents lost my mom when she was 26.

My brother was gone months before he turned 24.

No wonder no one wants to talk about it… Parents don’t like to discuss the sad fates of their children… and let’s  give my dad a double whammy for losing his wife at 26 and then going another  round with young death again 23 years down the road with off spring of his dead bride…

This may be tough to read, but it’s all true, and it’s been bothering me for a while.  Perhaps you understand?

I have a half sister, but I am what remains of the interaction that was my birth mother and my father’s DNA.  At 30, I have out lived them both.

My step mother and half sister, will never really understand how awkward this life has been, (for me.)  They have each other to talk to. They have their relationship that has a physical beginning and continuing evolution…

Perhaps a point of jealousy in my life, I use to commiserate with my brother about…

This stuff sucks to write “out loud” but it’s part of what has happened that makes me feel this overwhelming urge to cry, but really, I can’t.  It feels contrived, and fake.

I guess, really I just have to say it out loud.  It lurks at the back of the mind and the corner of the heart and festers.

It saddens me, but  only in the most conventional of ways.  I wonder if I would be making late night phone calls to guy friends with girlfriends, if maybe I had a brother, or maybe even a mother to call.

I don’t know.  Again I ask why it is, they got to leave?

Why is it that even in my darkest times, when I wished life away, still, here I stay, in physicality.

Why at times does it feel so lonely?

I have my own answers and I will continue to spread joy, but loss…. oh that loss of those loved, still lingers in the painful heart strings embedded in muscle, deep in my memory.

It is not an excuse to be a victim, or superior, rather it is the reminder to cherish  all that is in the moment, and those who share it with you.

I do have a different relationship to death, than many do.

However evolved or different it may be, does not restrict me from feeling that occasional tug at my heart and mind, that longing of companionship linked in blood and experience.

Hell, that’s why the “Reunion” is so popular. the gathering of shared experience and the sprinkle of time spent apart changing.

Enjoy one another, be blessed with each others presence.  Physicality is a special, and yet very temporary experience.

We will meet again, another time; another place, in some other form.  But this experience is; in a sense, one in a billion.

The light and the dark are each beautiful because each of you dance between those worlds bound in your physical body.  Bound to learn how limitless you actually are.

That is death; limitless, expansive energy. Reconnected to Source, and yet still present.

Music; memories, pictures, lessons learned and given are the remnants of physicality.

The Eternal Soul, is just that.  Conscious Energy going back into a system of Co-Creative Learning , leaving material signs along the way.  A sort of ethereal scribbling on the bathroom wall “I WAS HERE.”

My brother and mother inspire me, every day.  I did not know them “all the way.”  But their influence and muse runs in my blood and through my pen, or paint, or speech.  They were creative people with short lives… I am a creative being who still has life…

May I be blessed then, with the talent of all of us, THREE!  Responsibility for the art that was left un-manifest, but lingering in the imagination!

May nothing be wasted.

Blessings to you!