My Private Fire

I recently went out to lunch by myself about a week ago, which is uncommon for me as I usually eat lunch with the same people every day. But that was the thing - I eat lunch every day with the same people in the same room inside of the same building - and I reached a point where I thought one more day might cause my head to pop off my torso and begin turning around a full 360 degrees at about 75 mph. I needed some time alone that day.

So, I drove up the street to a nearby Wendy's that has a terribly-designed drive-thru lane for itself and the conjoined Tim Horton's inside, and made my way to a distant parking space with burger and fries in hand (my favorite meal) once I figured out which of the 15 lanes to navigate my Beetle on to the food window. My guilt for abandoning ship and leaving my lunch buddies behind had stayed back with my dust as I sped out of the work parking lot just ten minutes earlier; at last, I had some peace.

My radio and engine were both turned off, allowing a full onset of quiet and harmony to settle in. As expected, my thoughts began to wander. And wander. And wander. And wander.

I pictured so many things at once: beauty, laughter, bright skies, rainbows, angels, hugs, kisses... I thought about things of the past and things to come, and the feeling of achievement that I sorely missed. My mind took me back in time to writing poetry and short stories; painting in the art studio at school; long conversations with my gorgeous art instructor; the freedom I felt as I pushed the nozzle down and spray-painted my entire Blazer; learning to dance the salsa and merengue; the intense pleasure as I badly damaged the drivers' side door of the truck owned by my childhood bully; the beloved dog I trained; the late night swims I took; the dear friends I made; the tears I cried; the life I had once lived.

Pretty soon, I remembered that I needed to return to work as I gazed out my windshield amidst a private fire of memories that had invisibly engulfed me inside of my vehicle. So my visions continued as I drove back to work, and lingered as I sat in my parking spot not wanting to go back inside "just yet."

I turned around and looked back at the building, and thought about what it'd be like on my last day. That day where I could walk out and never come back after saying all my "good-byes," given all my hugs, cleaned off my desk, walking out that front door one last time and letting the door quietly shut behind me. Would it be a sad day? Is it something to be scared of? Absolutely not. In fact, the imagined feeling of leaving sent a surge of energy through me, making me jump out of the car and walk quickly back inside as if doing so would make my imaginary departure more speedy.

I am living in the future. I have already told this place "good-bye" and experienced the joy that followed. The calendar date just hasn't arrived yet. But I am already there in spirit.

More

More. I want more.

Not quite sure of what it is that I want more of; I just know that I want more.

It is hard for me to relax because I feel restless. Trying to be peaceful throughout my current journey is like trying to tell a caterpillar to sit still while it is in its cocoon, liquifying and transforming into a butterfly.

So here I am, stuck inside of my cocoon, beating on the walls, feeling claustrophobic, wanting to get out. I can't tell if my wings have fully developed or not, because I don't know what fully developed wings look or feel like. All I know is that there is more to live and love, and I want it.

The Mad and The Good

One thing I have learned about being in the midst of mundane, tedious, soul-draining activities is that my mind tends to wander into other worlds that I most likely wouldn't have explored otherwise.

This past weekend, I spent a few lovely days away from my life in southeastern Michigan and explored my former west coast stomping grounds in the vicinity of Grand Haven, which is a quaint beach community perched on Lake Michigan and also located roughly 40 minutes from where I spent my first two years of college at Grand Valley State University.

I drove through the campus for the first time in ten years, and like a sudden jolt from the deepest of slumbers, I returned to August of 1998 when I first came to GVSU. As I drove past the empty sidewalks (it was a holiday weekend), I saw myself walking or biking to class, carrying my backpack, probably running late, a drink in my hand, waving to friends, waving to professors, maneuvering through crowds of hundreds going the opposite direction.

How cool would it be to live like that again?, I thought. But surely at this point, it would be impossible. It is always nice to daydream, however.

How does this relate to the first paragraph of this post? Well....

I began my work day doing the same thing I've been doing for the past three months. It is not worth describing in this post. After having such a refreshing weekend away, this task was much more difficult than usual. So my mind began to wander and I started staring at the wall next to my desk. I remembered how much I loved painting while at college and wondered what it would be like to bring in a painting of my own and hang it on the wall next to my desk.

Nothing I have already done would suffice; I'd have to make something new. Something more "work-appropriate"; but it is an excuse to begin creating again. I thought of what kind of images I'd like to paint, and between my iPod and the bitterness I was fighting off in my brain, I came up with some bizarre ideas that probably wouldn't earn me the "Employee of the Month" award. So I still have to work on that part.

Madness = swirling thoughts = creativity = something you wouldn't have done otherwise = something good for someone (hopefully you).

Fantasy Island

Today I had a wonderful fantasy. Hopefully I can describe it within the next six minutes at which point I am due to eat lunch. It went something like this...

I finally take my vacation to Taiwan as I have been wanting to do for a while now. Upon spending a significant amount of time there (say, 7-10 days), I decide that I do not want to return to the United States. I make a phonecall home stating that I am not returning. My mom thinks I am joking. I am not. Then, my fantasy switches to the scene at work where my department is sitting around talking about it, scratching their heads.

"She's not coming back," the supervisor says. Boss comes in to join the conversation with crunched eyebrows and moving eyeballs that reflect alternating left- and right-brained activity (you didn't know that your eyes reflected that, did you?). He shakes his head and says, "I don't get it" and Delilah sits at her desk, looking very depressed, while LT and Supervisor pick up where they left off and keep typing in silence.

Two minutes left.

There is an eery silence and a strange aura floating in my corner of the room. My calendar, lamps, pictures, pens, papers, and glowing telephone sit unused at my desk waiting for my return. Except I am not returning, and nobody quite understands why.

Meanwhile, I am still in Taiwan and it has begun to rain. I am outside getting drenched, laughing like I have finally lost it (which, after making such a decision, I most likely have), drawing attention to myself as I sprint up and down the street. There is a pond nearby, and I jump in and swim around in my clothes. My friend O. that has so graciously hosted me during my stay in Taiwan is not sure what to think, so he suggests we go have a drink. I agree. However, we must have a drink in an outdoor pub since I am soaking wet. The Taiwanese natives stare at me and my mess of dripping hair and clothes, but I am like a walking vapor cloud of freedom and delusion, if there is such a thing, and hardly notice the extra attention.

Time's up. I have a sloppy joe and kiwi waiting for me in the frig.

Ee-von

On Thursday night, we had a guest in our evening spinning class who was up from Mexico visiting his girlfriend, who is a regular attendee. As soon as I saw them enter the gym together, my eyes were on him like a mustache on a Mariachi. At the time, I didn't realize he was her boyfriend, but within seconds she introduced him to me in English as her boyfriend after a brief hello in Spanish (do not attempt to practice your Spanish with Mexicans if they know English; you'll never win).

Damn. Nevertheless, I feasted my eyes upon him anyhow. It was my turn to stare at a Mexican man for a change.

As the class began, my instructor politely asked him questions to help him feel included in our small group of overweight American cyclists (excluding his very thin Mexican girlfriend that he was seated next to, of course).

"What is your name?," she asked.
"Ivan," he responded (pronounced like Ee-von).
"'Ee-von?,'" the girl cycling next to me asked.
"Yeah, you know, like 'Ivan,'" I replied to her, minus the Spanish accent.
"Oh."
I guess she doesn't know the Spanish alphabet, I thought.

The instructor continued to make small talk over the noise of spinning bicycle wheels and blaring techno music.

"How long are you here for?"
"Two weeks."
"Is this your first time here?"
"Yes," and then something about his job and coming back and forth, like his girlfriend does. But, yes.
"Do you like it here?"
Say yes.
"Yes."
Good boy.
"Would you want to live here?"
Ooh, good one.
"Yes."
Of course.
"Do you 'do this' in Mexico, as well?" (spinning classes)
"Yes, all the time."
Why, that would explain your lovely, fit body, then.

Ahem...

At that point, I began wondering what it was like to live in Ivan's world at that moment. There is a large window in the studio where you can see everybody walking by, standing outside of the studio next door, walking around the track, stretching, doing nothing, whatever. I soon realized that Ivan's ocular senses and twenty-something hormones were most likely going into overdrive as he took in all of the sights and sounds of blonde and brunette young American women in their spandex workout clothing and lighter complexions, something he naturally was not used to seeing as he comes from a land where everyone looks the same, something he most likely only sees on TV or as he browses through porn sites online. (Ha....)

I was willing to bet even the American men were intimidating to him, with their bulging muscles and seemingly gigantic Nordic structures, complemented with lightly-colored eyes that beamed stereotypes and beaner jokes into the souls of each Latino crossing their paths.

Everything that we do not notice on a daily basis, Ivan most likely noticed during his stay in America. Right down to how fast you appear to be pedaling on your stationery bike, the look on your face as you push yourself as hard as you can, and the amount of sweat pooling under your arms and above your eyebrows as you frantically cycle through an entire hour of Fitness Hell.

Ivan and his girlfriend come from a class of Mexican society that we do not see often in the United States. We don't see them often because that type of Mexican comes from a family where the parents have seen some success, so they are able to go to college, get his/her degree, learn English along the way, and reach success in their home country with a professional job that allows them to live comfortably and remain immersed in their native culture. I never knew Mexicans of this caliber existed until I spent four months living there, and realized that even they were not exempt from having divisions and "castes" within their own society. Ivan's girlfriend was in the U.S. because she works for a Mexican company that has an office in Auburn Hills, so she goes back and forth a few times a year for months at a time. (I wouldn't mind having her job...)

The Mexicans we see crawling into the states with $5 in their pocket, a sack of dirty clothes on their back, and bruises from being robbed and beaten by Mexican cartels specializing in this kind of behavior, have grown up in poverty, have not gone to college and most likely never finished grammar school, have been working hard physical labor since age 10 or younger, have siblings, parents, wives and children back home living off of whatever they bring home, who have decided that their country has failed them and they are now willing to risk it all by going to the U.S. to find work, even if it means they will die or go to jail along the way. To them it is better than remaining how and where they are, and they see no other way out.

Two very different sets of people; two cultures co-existing as one; two groups of Mexican society that make up the country's population - the rich and the poor. There is maybe a sliver of middle-class in their society, but it is hard to know what Mexico even defines as "middle-class."

After the class ended, one woman approached Ivan's girlfriend and began asking questions about Mexico. I didn't hear exactly what she was asking; I could just hear the tones in her voice going up and down, her squeals of delight as she dreamed of visiting one day, and her increasingly loud voice that was sure to scare away poor Ee-von and shatter all of his daydreams of experimenting with an American woman. Yet it sounded so typical, like I was just waiting for somebody to approach her and perform this dialogue any day now, letting out bursts of temporary excitement in the presence of a foreigner, the false claims that their country must be "just so beautiful," and the implication of a blossoming friendship that will most likely never be. It sounded so superficial, weak, annoying, so..... American?

Rejection

Rejection. It's a hard feeling to swallow, whether it is perceived or real, external or internal. It is a feeling that, if expressed verbally by its host, would say something like, "You aren't good enough" or "You didn't say the right thing" or "You aren't trying hard enough" or "I prefer someone else over you." Not everyone has the guts to reject someone outright; many times they use more discreet mediums to deliver the rejection, such as silence, deliberately leaving you out of a conversation being held in your presence, deciding at the last minute to outsource your project to another company instead of allowing you to do it, promoting your co-worker to manager when he/she has worked for a lesser time at the company than you, giving your co-worker free vacation time for doing a great job - and giving you nothing for your great job; an interviewer who escorts you out only seven minutes into the interview, a friend who won't give a straight answer about wanting to visit you this summer, men who intermittently express interest only to be pulled back by.... ? who knows?, and family members who don't understand you in the way that you long to be understood.

These have all happened to me, both in the past and recently. Of course these incidents are nothing too serious, and there are plenty more situations that I did not list, but when situations like this tend to repeat themselves, over time the mind becomes weak from trying to ward off the bad as it tries to keep itself healthy and balanced. Inevitably, the thoughts and feelings make a connection and if the thoughts are leaning more towards rejection, the feelings follow, and the thick, black smoke of rejection begins seeping in through the cracks.

I think about how my nieces and nephews will grow up and begin experiencing rejection, if they haven't already, and it makes me sad when I picture them feeling that sting of hurt in their little hearts for the first time. What a shock it must be to step out of the warm environment of nurture and love from your family and parents, and into a world of people who are hurtful and unfair, and never see it coming. I remember going to kindergarten and hearing comments being made about my glasses. I had never given my glasses a second thought until I went to school, but all of a sudden I was made aware that the lines (bifocals) running through my glasses were ugly and extremely noticeable by everybody. From then on, I always wondered if kids would continue rejecting me because of them.

And every year when summer comes, I have to listen to comments being made about how "white" I am because my skin can't tan. It sounds funny, but it hurts and I feel rejected every time I hear it. I have felt that way my whole life. To me it is someone saying, "You won't look pretty until you get a tan."

How often do you wonder if you will be "accepted" when getting ready to go into a new situation in your life? And how often do you feel "rejected" once you are there? I hope for your sake that your history is more positive than mine!

The Power of Thinking

During this past week, I watched a movie called "The Secret." I found it to be a bit strange - a bunch of philosophers and quantitative physicists discussing the "law of attraction," and how utilizing it can bring happiness and wealth into your own life. I dismissed the parts that I thought were indicating that humans possess God-like powers, but I did connect with one idea that they continually mentioned throughout the movie.

It was the power of thought. Your thoughts can quite easily ruin or improve your day. You can feel like everyone hates you or everyone is in love with you, based on whatever you believe to be true. Your thoughts affect your feelings, and whether or not something you are thinking about is actually true, your feelings will begin reflecting those thoughts. Your feelings don't know what is true and what isn't; they change as a result of what your thoughts are saying.

Not long ago, I constantly felt depressed and humiliated every day I came into work because I thought that my supervisor was always angry with me and did not like me. I didn't know for sure if this was true, but I kept thinking that it was and so my feelings followed. I felt like it was true.

This sequence can happen so fast that we don't even stop to realize if what we are thinking is even valid or makes sense. At one point, I even thought that each time my supervisor and boss met privately in his office, it was because they were talking about me and deciding whether or not to fire me. It made no sense but I felt the anxiety and fear all of the time. I never stopped to challenge that thought to the point of realizing that it was ridiculous. (I'm still employed, by the way).

The movie also discussed the process of visualization, which I enjoyed learning about. They were saying if you really want to achieve something, picture yourself doing it - really focus on it. When you do that, you experience that same sequence of thoughts + feelings, and you begin to feel like you are really doing it. Like I mentioned above, your feelings respond to what is going on in your thoughts and they don't know what is truth or fiction.

So I visualized myself at my ideal weight and wearing the clothes that I used to wear, and it felt wonderful. I pictured myself traveling through Taiwan and not feeling embarrassed to wear my bathing suit into the hot springs. Immediately, I began to feel excited and confident. So I continued. I thought about what kind of job I would like to have; things I could do with my hair; places I'd love to travel to; conversations I would have; the laughter, the aromas, the turns and stares.

This process is supposed to help you stay in tune with your goals, continuously working towards them and making you want success on a heart level. I found this to be psychologically fascinating, and I am hoping to use this technique to my full advantage.

Excerpt #1: 12/18/95

An excerpt from my 15th year of life. I had fallen madly in love with the Brazilian foreign exchange student that had a locker across the hall from me. He had an olive complexion with dark eyes, dark eyebrows, a perfectly-shaped mouth, and a lovely ponytail that held some pretty thick, curly, black hair back from his shoulders (I suppose my interest in Latin American men stems further back than I'd originally thought...). I'm over the long-hair-thing now, by the way.

".... I'm nearly in love with him. He is so hot. I analyze his every move, trying to find out something about his personality and how he is. I want to talk to him now that my stupid braces are off. I don't want him to think I'm a total senseless dork. His hair turns me on so much. What the hell is it with me and long hair? I love it so damn much! It is SOOOO sexy! If I approach him in the morning when I have just put my make-up and perfume on, he's bound to like me....."

"... Come to think of it, if he was giving me some of that weird eye contact before, he shouldn't have a problem with lending me a pen or pencil. I always chicken out from talking to him when I see him. That would be cool if he were secretly in love with me, and when I finally did talk to him he grabs me without warning and starts frenching me. But then my retainer would get in the way!"

I wonder what ever happened to that kid. I remember that later on, I did work up the nerve to ask him to the Homecoming dance (in a handwritten letter, delivered one second before scurrying away to class, of course), but he didn't seem to be interested. Maybe he works at a guesthouse down in Rio someplace, regretting that he never gave that toothy, bubbly American girl a chance back in 1995. Or maybe he couldn't read any English and still wonders to this day what the hell was written in that crinkly, sweaty note that was shoved into his hand against his will.

The 15:29 Train

I mean it when I say that being an adult is not much fun, and that most days I'd rather be 15 years old again, even though at 15 I didn't have a driver's license, had no source of income besides household chores that I rarely completed when I was supposed to, hung out with less than desirable individuals, still enjoyed getting high every so often, and had a strong urge to break free from the bounds of my parents and hometown as soon as possible. But at age 15, I was still writing, took piano lessons (though I did not practice often), went to the fair with my friends in the summer and followed boys around hoping they wouldn't notice (and hoping the cops would not realize I was too young to be smoking), shopped with my mom and drove her crazy trying to convince her that my clothes weren't too "skimpy," thought about what kind of tattoo I would like to get when I turned 18, and did up my hair and make-up perfectly for when we went out on the road during driver's training.

I daydreamed a lot at that age. I couldn't wait to turn 16; then it was 18; and finally, the big "21." I had visions and dreams of so much for my life. I would leave Imlay City and go to college - an enchanted land of individuals that didn't know anything about me; men - desirable men - as far as the eye could see; friends, parties, laughter, community; oh man, the list went on and on.

After turning 19, I began hating college but knew I had to finish somewhere and do something. I had gained weight, my friends had all but turned into alcoholics, the desirable men and I never crossed paths, I didn't know what I wanted to do with myself, and my parents and I still fought occasionally.

Fast forward to age 24. I had transferred to Concordia at age 20 - and was SURE things were going to turn around and all my dreams would finally come true; graduated with a degree in graphic design and faced the realization that I was not ever meant to experience any blissful "college boyfriend" romance that lived in my daydreams, had studied abroad in Mexico and stayed with a family that simply filed us through the semester like a herd of cattle (feed them and give them a place to lay, but don't talk much to them because they can't understand anyway), was still overweight, had to come home and live with my parents because I had no job prospects in WI or anywhere else and was being kicked out of the dorms the day after graduation, and so there I was.

I remember one day I was sitting in my old bedroom at home looking out the window, and it was completely quiet. I thought, It's like I just woke up from some weird dream where I met tons of people and sat through hours and hours of instruction that I will never remember. And here I am; back at the place I was trying to get away from.

Now at age 29, I am living on my own and supporting myself. I supported myself to the extent of having to work two jobs for the last two years, which ate up every weekend and occasional evenings during the week. The second job was embarrassing and frustrating, and I began forgetting about what I wanted from life; what I had dreamt of accomplishing, and the things I enjoyed doing in my spare time.

It was more than two months ago that I finally left the second job, and now I am trying to remember what it was that I loved so much about living; forgotten hobbies, the feeling of having a crush on someone, the joy of doing something new, the urge to do more and more and never feel completely satisfied; all of these things were fresh and real at age 15. It just seems like someone else's life from centuries ago, and when I read my old diaries from those years, it is incredible what my thought process was.

I might even go as far as sharing some of those diary entries with the readers of this blog, though I have never let anyone read them, ever. Maybe that will be something for my next post. I am still getting used to this blogging thing. It usually seems a little less natural when I am writing for an audience.

Bienvenidos

Welcome to my new home. I've decided to relocate to a new blog and to give myself a fresh start here. Not to mention, I can sign up for Google AdSense and even make a few extra pennies through some ads in my sidebars that may or may not have anything to do with what I am writing. We'll see what happens.

We begin today with Loud Typer. Yesterday, another co-worker we will call Delilah* (*to protect her identity) confirmed that, indeed, Loud Typer assaults her sense of hearing, as well. Delilah and I had a great laugh as she also confirmed that he has a loud breathing problem - something I identified during the first few days of Loud Typer's employment. If I didn't know better, I would have assumed that LT had a live porn stream in the lower right section of his monitor showing on a regular basis that was inducing the amplified exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide coming from his corner of the office.

It wasn't long ago that I politely asked him one day if he was angry about something. He wasn't, of course. Then I decided that my next plan of action would be to swipe his keyboard on an unspecified date. Yes, that's right, I would revoke his keyboard privileges. He would have to do all of his work via dictation, a tape recorder, and cheap overseas labor.

Lately, I have been studying the art of forgiveness. I will probably elaborate more on this subject in future posts. It is something that I admit, I am not very good at. I tend to "forgive" people and still feel anger toward them. Forgiveness can be quite tricky. It is one thing to forgive someone for doing one single thing to hurt you, but it is another to forgive them on a regular basis when they repeatedly make you angry.

LT will serve as Challenge #1 as I learn how to do the latter. I am not quite sure how it will work, though. "Geez, you piss me off but I forgive you. You're pissing me off again and I'm forgiving you again. And again." Every pound of the keyboard, every gallop across the keys, every cloud of smoke emitting from his hands is another sting of anger and annoyance. I hardly have time to even forgive him between visions of splitting the keyboard over his head.

Let's continue to explore this topic in another post. LT isn't in the room for a short moment and I need to bask in his exit.