Give me more.

I always get so intrigued going back to hear artists talk about the impetus of a song, where it came from, the environment in which the emotion cultivated such a thought.

“…in ‘Hotel’ she says goodbye to someone she perhaps might have married. I think as you’re getting married, all the loves, even the 10-minutes loves, are popping up. ‘Hotel’ was really like feeling like an agent – a spy – in that he was the greatest guy at one time and they were giving me time behind enemy lines. Even though she knows they can’t be lovers because it’s a whole other life, she just can’t let him go. That’s the thing about letting old lovers go. You don’t stop loving some of them. There are a couple you love no less than you ever did. Not to mention names…but I’m still in love with a couple. You’re not going to try to make it work again, but if they needed you, you’d drop everything.” –

Tori Amos, Alternative Press 7/98




This simple thought:

All loves will haunt you for the length of your life.

You cannot recreate them. You cannot replicate them. You cannot return to them. They are finite moments. Unable to be captured but burned into the visceral memory of the heart.

That’s what I’ve learned.

Sometimes it’s so disappointing. Sometimes it’s such a relief. And most of the times you feel in flux and wishing for moments past and moments future that will take you away from the moment you are in.

The fallibility of human cognition.

Knowing what’s come before and what could be without just living for the moment. Chasing the dream or chasing the past.

Sometimes I see myself doing that – for love. For the love I felt. Silly me.


Wisdom in the wound.

“What do you blog about?” is a question I get a lot. Well, truthfully I should just start responding, “Men and God.” Although, that feels very shallow. Or it seems overly pretentious like I’m writing the next missive that will unlock the mysteries of the eternal questions of who made us and why we’re here.


You won’t be finding that here.

My blog is more or less a diary. It’s where I take a lot of mixed emotions and pent up intellectual quandaries and lay them out on the dissecting table. How archealogists dig to unearth clues about the past, ascertaining cause & effects through time, I think this is my place to do that with my own psyche.

Frightening at times but always with the intention that no matter what kind of admission I make in this space, the point is to go through the exercise in an attempt to find light and resolution.

Wisdom in the wound.

That’s been the title of this post that has sat empty for probably over a month. While I’m not a big tattoo person, these words have stuck with me since I heard them.

The point of them is that you have to go to the darkest of places in order to make sense of yourself and by choosing to do that work, you will forever be changed.

While the phrase itself may sound heavy and dire, the actual meaning is the polar opposite for me. That regardless of any card that life deals you, you have to look for the lesson. And in doing so, you set yourself apart from the generalist category of victimization. Because when you only see the wounds that life has inflicted upon you and see no way to change or see no way to alter your viewpoint/outlook/opinion, you are openly casting yourself as victim until your death.

I choose not to be victim. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like a lot of vodka and pity parties from time to time. I put a cap and time limit on my own pitying. Then I know it’s time to do the intellectual work.

Regardless of whether I blog, go have drinks with my friends, see a therapist, have casual sex, eat a whole pizza, etc., I know that in the combination of all those things, is the healing. Another amazing lesson to have learned. That you can write and write and write, but until you put yourself back on the saddle and into practice, you’ll never get better.

My mother, who reads this blog despite telling me repeatedly that she doesn’t and is therefore a liar (yes, I just called you out), has a hard time understanding why I put this all out there. I mean, let’s face it. The internet is public domain. It’s not private. I’m offering up some delicate cuts of meat to the world.

However, the point of that is not about getting a response. I’m not sitting here hoping that 50 people comment on my blog, my writing, my life. I’m not out looking for sympathy or pity.

In fact, it’s a very selfish process, writing these little narratives.

But occassionally someone does stumble across the ones I feel most comfortable sharing and will tell me that they can relate and that it was helpful to read what I’ve written. I cannot lie and say there isn’t any gratification in that. It’s nice that from a place where I sometimes feel so alone, there are people who get it. Get me. Even if it’s just a digital beacon to let me know that there are other lighthouses out there. Empathy.

My therapist asked why would I blog since other people might see, namely people like lurking ex boyfriends, etc. I couldn’t answer. Why don’t I just sit and write in a Lisa Frank trapper keeper? One, it would be hard to find one these days and I don’t want to pay for it. Two, I don’t know.

I guess that part of writing this publicly is taking ownership of my own faults and faculties. It’s one thing for me to sit and write in a journal that can be full of vitriol but when putting things here, I do acknowledge the feelings of others in most cases. I don’t call anyone out by name. I attempt to see the grace of even those who I have felt completely burned by.

It keeps me responsible in a sense. To be fair in doling out the medicine instead of assuming that I’m right in how I feel and that I should interpret those feelings as fact. As the wise prophet RuPaul has said, “Feelings are not facts.” This is true.

In many cases, the arc takes place over a lot of posts. There are angry posts. There are sad posts. There are posts about finding resolution and moving forward. There are posts about missteps and regret. All of them together build to still only deliver to the read a slice of myself.

Someone told me that I seem so much happier and exuberant in real life. I am. Because this is where part of me lives so that the other person you see in real life gets to be present. There are times when they bleed onto one another, but I see my blog as more of a tool than a consistent outlet.

I understand where my therapist and my mother are coming from. Hell, I understand the limits that people should have when putting themselves on display on the internet. But I also believe that I’m not doing anything but being true to myself and true to the others around me.

It’s difficult when people who are in my life read this blog and want to make assumptions or decisions based off of what I’m writing without continuing a dialogue offline. To only use this as the prime source material would be flawed.

These things are not the easiest to dig into with people and it can be heavy to discuss which is why I tend to do the heaviest unloading through these words rather than in discussion. Perhaps one day that will change as I evolve and the people around me change and I find more comfort in opening up in ways I hadn’t up until that point.

The other caveat about this space is that it challenges me (and others) to realize as highly cognitive beings and emotional ones at that, we can change over time. Our thoughts today may be turned on a dime by tomorrow. What I believe right now to be scientific fact may be fiction by end of week. There is no such thing as gospel. There is only the passing on of intellectual polaroids. Tiny snippets and snapshots of space and time and milestones of growth and regression and hope and hopelessness.

So if this is the first thing you’ve ever read, welcome aboard. And if you’ve been reading on and off for a while, you may have come a little closer and thanks for going up and running your lighthouse on the foggiest of nights.


A pause to breathe.

Yesterday my attempt to go to the beach was thwarted by flies. Honestly. I went at 8:30 in the morning because my apartment gets too hot to sleep any longer (honestly – this may be the worst summer yet since I’ve moved) but as soon as I got there, stripped down and laid on my towel, I was attacked by flies within minutes.

I know I’m made of sugar and spice and everything nice, but to be eaten alive? No…

Fortunately Ellen called and we got to chat while I wandered back and forth into the water, getting a bit of sun before deciding to call it quits for good on the whole beach before it became the 4th of July shitshow that I suspected.

During our conversation I was talking about dating and she said that I was acting the most reasonable and mature that I ever have. “That’s what therapy will do for you,” I said – in so many words.

Continue reading A pause to breathe.

A single thought, captured in time.

Last night before bed, I had a single thought:

There will never be another you and I’m learning to live with that, sans devastation or constant comparisons. You were/are brilliant to me.

The fact is that none of us can replicate or duplicate another person’s bearing they’ve left upon our life. The quicker we learn this, the easier we begin to allow others in of their own merits and see them for the unique qualities, traits and gifts they offer up.

Instead of lamenting the time wasted in comparing and sizing up, I challenge myself to stay in this present tense. To open my eyes, open my ears and to open my heart up again to new impressions and new imprints.

The picture above is a man who plays the violin at O’Hare airport. It strikes me how similar his story could be to Joshua Bell’s 2007 experiment at the┬áL’Enfant Plaza in Washington. I’m sure you’ve seen the video passed around on your social networks but it is an amazing and wondrous thing to think we spend so much time in our own heads that we truly cannot see another person for their innate beauty and talent.

Continue reading A single thought, captured in time.

someone like you

You changed my life. In ways I still discover. And I’ve learned that I’m not bitter about it anymore. But I’m proud. Proud of us both. For the happiness that we did share. The goodness we could tap into. The ability you had to allow me to open up and love in a way I never did before.

I’ve stopped beating myself up. For being a shit. For rushing. For screwing up. For running my mouth. For being cold. For being silent and distant. I’m forgiving us both for just being human and fumbling through things that every other normal person fumbles through. We didn’t have to be perfect, but I think we expected to be.

There’s probably not a day that will go by that I won’t love you or imagine.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. For breathing life into me in a way I couldn’t have done alone.

the tides.

i want to be near the ocean today. i feel weird. quiet. lost. contented. but isolated. alone. and i’ve done this.

i want to hear the rush. i want to breathe in the salt and watch the world fall off onto the horizon. i want the reminder that i’m nothing more than a speck of sand myself. i want the physical ebb and flow. i want to see what i feel in me.

Continue reading the tides.

stepping up to the plate, or An Apology.

Hmm. In the last 24 hours I think I finally unearthed all the buried emotions and thoughts I had placed neatly away inside of me. First of all, this is an apology. To you. To me. For having walked out without any words. For having not communicated appropriately, in a timely manner and withholding to the point that I kept you in the dark. As a person who rarely has guilt or regret, I find this to be one of those times where I will chalk this up under that column in my life. Not necessarily because of the outcome, but because of my handling of the heart.

Continue reading stepping up to the plate, or An Apology.