Twilight and Faint Hearts

It's not the fact that vampires are gaining steam these days in popular culture with the intensity of some superhero juggernaut. That can't, I don't believe, be the reason why Stephenie Meyer's Twilight saga continues to sell by the millions of copies, and even more millions of DVDs. Well, not the only reason. Or rather, not the most important reason. The most important reason; the only reason as far as I'm concerned is simple, abstract and--as concepts go--largely overlooked in the minds of people theses days: True. Love.

I finished this saga, which, over four books, amounts to at least 2,300 pages, in roughly 10 days. Yes reading fiction is a passion of mine to say the least. But even for the most avid reader who does indeed have a life--and responsibilities--outside the page, this is an intense experience. Certain days I would put in ten hours of reading time, only breaking to go to the bathroom, to answer my phone (if it was important enough), to eat, which often I did while I was reading, god bless popcorn--easy clean up, and to exercise.

Many long runs I took along Lake Michigan while I processed this arresting story, often tear-filled runs. Not tears of sadness, not at all. Tears of joy. Tears of unexplained emotion, emotion that has no singular name due to its kaleidoscopic complexity. Tears of overwhelm. Of intrigue. Of disbelief that someone could dream something that seemed, to me--a passionately, yet private writer, nothing short of genius. I should have to write Stephenie Meyer a dedication in one of my own public works someday, should I become so blessed to publicize a piece that exudes a fraction of emotion that Meyer's series offered to be decoded by me.

So what's the big idea? The big idea is true love, and it cannot be overlooked, as I mentioned. The characters that begin in Twilight have such an intense love for each other. An inexplicable force, like electricity, that draws them in to the other, without understanding why. Such force that allows them to gaze into each other's eyes in pursuit of understanding the complicated workings of their counterpart's soul. It's beautiful. But beautiful is not a good way to describe how I processed this story. My experience was far stronger than anything I would describe as beautiful. Sublime. Maybe that better covers it.

There will be a time in my life, perhaps sooner than later, where I will take the opportunity to attempt to capture words that bring what I went through over this 10 days to life. That's not why I write today, however. I write today for two reasons. One: to tell you that true love is not a belief to be trifled with. True love is not a thing to be ignored, swept under the rug of 'that's just myth--the concept of a mate for a soul, that's merely'...dare I even utter the bastardized word: 'ideal.' Shudder.

Ideal. Ideal is a concept that you choose to paint for yourself. Much like integrity, or passion, or independence or love. You choose to illustrate for yourself what ideal might be to you. Meyer's flawed hero, Edward Cullen, who chooses to live only for his true love, might be simply ideal for person x or person y or the other person. But to me, or to you, someone like Edward might be something more like...a possibility. Maybe the only possibility. The only thing to believe in. Do we have such low opinions of our race that we settle for anything less than what is ideal? An answer that I also shudder to think of.

And the second reason I write in this moment: to pledge. I do pledge, throughout my writing career, however many lifetimes that will span, to live up to the standard that Stephenie Meyer has unknowingly, I am certain, laid down. I choose to believe in what she portrays: a love without doubt, caring and compassion without falter, the power of the imagination, believing in one's own abilities, and the list goes on. This pledge extends into the future. And since this page is public--technically, though I could count my viewers on my big toe, know that I do love you, by the way, for viewing--I vow to dedicate, in some part, whatever initial success I may have as writer of fiction to Stephenie Meyer. Because, even though I have been preparing for whatever may come to me my entire life, and possibly lifetimes before, many answers for how to proceed were not clear to me until I picked up this saga.

Pick it up yourself.

The Bore that is Babies

I just think it's important to let people know, those people who have babies, or those who are thinking of having babies, or who have played children's games (hopefully when they were actually children) whereby they pretended they were parents and whatever more: if you have a kid, even one, you will become irreversibly boring.

I take that back. Maybe not irreversibly boring. Sure, when your kid, or the last kid if you have more than one, goes off to college (hopefully before the age of 24), or leaves home in search of a traveling circus (hopefully for you at age 16), you'll have your independence back. Then you can get back to basics: the beauty that is yourself and thinking of nothing but it. But then again, by that time hopefully you won't be so old and deteriorated, that you'll need a servant to see to it that your ass gets wiped.

I digress. Now, back to the importance of knowing just how fucking boring you're about to become as you consider you or your female significant other's impending gestation; a launching period into the land I like to call boring boredom biggie bore land. Why such a bore you are to be if you have vomit-smelling kiddies, you ask? It's simple really: upon the birth of an identity-sucking infant that you so badly wanted, you lose all ability to talk about anything really...EXCEPT the fucking identity-sucking nipple sucker him (or her) self.

It's true I've seen it happen time and time again. Happy frolicking young adults. One day skydiving. The next day talking about how much their little Steven took a shit. And if that's not enough: what color it was, how runny it was. How many wipies it took to return the ass to something that resembled a baby's ass, as opposed to a war zone of turds. Ah, the aroma.

What else? Get around with a bunch of post-baby chics, and here's what they say. "Oh god, my labor lasted 23 hours. Yeah, I had an epidural for shiz," (I editorialize there with the terms--'for shiz,' is too slangy for new parents, who now are turned over to the land of G talk: "Is it n-a-p time? Oh you want your ba-ba?"). Yawn.

Funny how the divide between baby goers and baby noers becomes nothing other than a great divide. And more funny that the former mentioned goers don't get that. "Why don't my single friends want to hang out with me?" they wonder. Oh how they wonder. For my part, I'd rather talk about what I'm doing to avoid STDs and what hot new dance night I just encountered as opposed to pink bunny blankets.

If you think about it: single people don't envy their non-single parent counterparts. Yet non-single parents die to have the single lifestyle. Well no shit! Babies make you boring. And parents, god bless you for doing it all. We need you. But it's important to know that you're boring as hell. Don't fight it.

What's So Funny?

Ever reflect on what makes you laugh? Not about those lines you hear--or the things you see--that kick off a mere modicum of laughter, a simple chuckle. No no, that's what I like to call common laughter.

What I mean, is the friends you have, the films you watch, the people you observe, the jokes you hear, the scenes you find yourself a part of that make you roar into gut-swelling guffaws. Doubling over from pain, laughing so hard that you--no, sobbing in fact, sobbing so hard that you wonder if you might choke on your saliva. The life episodes that make you wonder if you'll ever inhale another breath of life. The moments during which you then become certain the hysterics will indeed kill you. Knocked dead by laughter. What a concept.

Have you though? Stopped to think about it I mean. I have. I'd say I'm a sucker for comedy. Who isn't? But I grew up honing my own sarcasm, mostly because--as with everyone else, the countless others who are painfully sarcastic--I wanted to hide my buried, deep-from-childhood pain and all that yada yada. I did this by keeping others at bay through this dry, biting humor. Sarcasm is deeply ingrained into my personality; to such a degree that I don't know who I'd be if I didn't employ it each and every day in my mind and through my public discourse.

But despite all of this, I don't laugh easily. I won't laugh at a lot of potty humor, or slapstick bullshit. Cheap humor consists of such thrills from which many people derive great pleasure. But many people are cheap too. Different topic. I love it when people say, 'Oh but you haven't seen Anchor Man? But it's so hilarious. You have to see it!' Uh, no I don't. Will Farrell doesn't do it for me. What happened to him after Saturday Night Live, by the way?

What I like is humor that comes from unparalleled hot people like Ryan Reynolds. Just Friends, for instance, might have been one of the funniest movies I've seen in a while. Is it because Ryan Reynolds wears that fat suit to be his fat younger character? And then years later in the movie he's ulta hot, making you wonder if you could track down his LA address and take that Scarlett Johansson down, down to China Town? She's great and all as an actress, blah blah okay fine she is. But she's too young. And too blond. Bore. I'd work way better as a wife for Ryan Reynolds.

Who cares though, the point is he's hot and he makes me laugh. But maybe I just think he's funny because he's hot. And you know, there might be something to that. What a superficial cad-ette I am. I'm fine with that. It's not my fault. I'm so superficial in fact, that I've made this discussion about hot men instead of humor. They have nothing to do with one another!

But then again, doesn't everyone say what they'd love in a mate is for them to be hot as hell and funny? And of course smart, there's that. But by mathematical logic, if someone is genuinely funny, they're smart too. Don't forget, people: developing the gift of comedy is an art, and it must be studied, nurtured. Not just anyone can spin tall tales ultimately amounting to sheer comedic bliss.

I love when people are mega dramatic about being put down in society. Like as kids, they are unpopular and mocked. They want the hot guy or girl and they can't have them, so they're depressed. Self deprecation, that's pretty damn funny. Brothers slapping each other like boys, especially when they're adults--that's pretty funny. Girls who have gone psychotic on each other or on men, that's always funny to watch. And particularly funny when said psychos are dumb as a shower of sock monkeys.

Educated people like to make fun of dumb people. I sure do. And that's not nice, I know. But what can be done? I mean it's hard, you know, really hard to be patient with people who are slow and incompetent.

If my life were a film, and someone peered in on me and saw my facial expressions when I have to speed up to walk ahead of people who look like they just took a bunch of ecstasy pills--note to reader: they look like this because that's how they look every day, because they don't have a fucking clue--they might laugh. Just understand that I have fits when this happens, observable fits to be sure. I sigh audibly and I stomp right past them, often cutting them off. A lot of people in this town probably hate me because I'm such a dramatically impatient bitch.

Maybe you feel the same way. I mean if we made you into a funny movie, would we laugh? What makes you really laugh though, seriously? Whatever it is, you've gotta find it once and then find it again and again. Go think about it now actually. Yes, now, right now.

The Power of Me

Recession, right. 'These days, that's how it is,' we keep hearing. Or, 'but with this economy, people need all the help they can get.' Right right right. But apart from living in a bubble where all of my bills are paid, and being unsure whether or not I even notice that we're in 'recession,' though everyone keeps saying we are, I still have an opinion on this outlook. The outlook I refer to is that in 'these times,' we need to help others as much as we can. I personally, however, am taking this opportunity to be as selfish as possible.

Take Dominicks for example. I have a relationship with this store in that I visit it every so often (I go much more frequently to Jewel Osco, but don't worry, it doesn't matter). Usually I go to the Dominicks in between Illinois and Grand near the AMC movie theater in River East. This is so that I can get snacks for whatever movie I'm about to indulge in on a Monday in the middle of the day when everyone else is at work and hating their lives.

But though I like Dominicks in that they are there where I need them to be, they piss me off. You see, they ask for me to donate to causes and such. But how do I have money for that? I'm about to go to a movie, which even at matinee prices is nearly 10 ducks these days. And also I need the snacks! Christ, even with 'this economy,' a 5 oz carton of greek yogurt is still over $2. I mean I could probably churn the shit for cheaper than that (maybe I'm thinking of butter). Donate to a cause?

I'm not entirely sure what cause I'm asked about. Maybe prostate cancer. Let's say it's prostate cancer. Weeks ago, there I am at the checkout line at my trusty Dominicks. And I'm pretty sure the only and the only reason I don't go through a self checkout machine is because they don't have any. So damn, I need to actually talk to someone to get my illegal in the theater snack fare.

Before this cute, admittedly she is hopelessly cute, chubby latino lady gives me my bottom line balance, she says, 'Donate to prostate cancer today? A dollar or two maybe?' And she peers up at me--she is short afterall, short and stout--through her little glasses and the flesh around her eyes.

I take inventory of how much cash I have with me, but who are we kidding, I probably wouldn't donate even if I had dollar bills coming out of my nostrils. I'm selfish, that's the point of this blog. And I mean too, come on it's a dirty trick: putting me on the spot like that.

I'm cornered. If I say no, I look like an asshole. And there is this woman who is blonde and has a baby standing there behind me, waiting for me to answer whether or not I want to donate to prostate cancer. When I refuse, she probably thinks about how her cooing little baby there is going to grow up in a world of never ending recession and hate. Can't say I blame her. That's exactly what the kid is getting.

But I guess it doesn't matter that we're in recession. The point is that I'm kind of selfish. And I do feel a twinge of guilt as I gather my belongings and stuff them into my sack and frolic along across the street to the AMC. Who knows what I am about to watch. Probably something horribly frivolous like 'Ghosts of Girlfriends Past' or some such. As I give the theater cashier my money for the ticket, I grin at her and I tell her thanks so much, and to have a nice day.

I'm so excited about this movie and my snacks, I hardly even remember we're in a recession.

Is it Essential That We Wear Shirts?

There's something that has been bothering me the last 24 hours. I saw a black man walking down Sheffield street yesterday, a rather balmy afternoon, and he didn't have a shirt on. But that's not really what was so disturbing. Not as much as that I noticed him, and then he noticed me noticing him, and then he stopped walking away from where I was, and instead started walking toward me.

But that's not what disturbed me either. No, I was disturbed by my reaction to him. Alarmed by the fact that he looked like he may have been drunk, as he was swaggering to and fro, compounded by the fact that he had no shirt on, compounded by that I took him to be homeless, I panicked. And then I hurried off about my business, in a direction opposite from him. So, in essence, I was running away from him. But why?

He wanted to have a word with me it seemed, and I rejected the possibility of any discourse with him based on my judgments and fears. What was I afraid of? That he would spit on me? That he would talk at me nonsensically as so many 'street people' tend to do? That he would harm me, pull out a gun, flash me his wang? Who knows? Maybe he'd vomit on my shoes, or simply, ask me for some change. 

Though any of these outcomes are possible, I surmise that the latter is probably, in all its simplicity, the most likely. The poor no-shirted man probably just wanted me to give him a dollar or something. And would that be so bad? Couldn't I just offer up a tiny little George Washington so that he might believe the human race is not all about stinginess and greed? Maybe if nothing else, he felt lonely, and he'd find that he had a friend in the world...if only for a moment.

But I didn't offer that GW. I was too scared. I read recently that if we are to find the path of higher understanding, we must realize that human encounters are opportunities to unleash our full potential, to live among greater joy. Though it's one thing to understand that, and quite another it seems, to act accordingly. Oh well, this is a journey, this crazy life. I have no intentions of lambasting myself for not speaking to the shirtless man who wanted my ear. But I want to tell him, if he could ever read this, that I'm sorry I fled him. He deserves better.

And so do you. 

Who Knows, Death Could Be Friendly

As I walk along all these budding tree blossoms, inhaling the spring air and reflecting on joys that result from putting the winter down like a maimed mare, I've also been turning over a new topic in my mind: death.

I'm telling people lately that I might die young, before I'm 40 to be exact. They don't take well to that notion, particularly if they care a great deal about me, and even more particularly if they are my mother. This make sense. We don't like to think of losing someone from this world who we cherish. Who would we talk to with the same level of familiarity? How would we feel like we're not alone through life's adventures (and misadventures)?

For my part, I do feel alone a lot. The human spirit is conditioned to feel alone, lest he or she give up the rooted belief that nobody else has the same thoughts or feelings, or can understand the degree to his or her suffering. I understand this. I am one of these human spirits that clings to such a belief. But the belief is horsewash. Suffering is suffering, is it not?

I mean yeah some people might say they'd rather suffer a broken heart than deal with the death of a loved one. Try Jeopardy: broken heart for 500, or being a rape victim for 700? Broken heart, please. Sprain the ankle for 250, or be a part of a mass exodus as a result of your native country falling siege under a nasty, power hungry regime for 400? Twist my ankle, I'll take the ankle. Accidentally getting pepper-sprayed, or being fired from your favorite job? Who knows!

It's nuts when you try to compare levels of suffering, isn't i? The point is, suffering is suffering. We all feel it, and we all deal with it in different ways. But how is suffering linked to death in a direct way? Well, good question. In my experience, if I encounter too much suffering, I naturally feel like I want it to stop. But instead of thinking of ways to get myself out of the suffering, say, by sprinkling some faith over my head, I think: maybe it's time for me to die. Maybe it's my destiny to die young.

And so back to my mom. She would say, but you're too young, I can't believe that you'd want to give up at this point. Is death giving up in all cases? Surely no. I mean we all have to die sometime. I've recently been reading a fantastic find: 'Conversations with God' (book 1). One of the magnanimous ideas promulgated in this book is that we choose our path, we choose our life journey's components, and so naturally, we choose our death.

But a contingency to this concept, is that your soul has to really want to die in order that you find your way out of the breathing part of this life. So I wonder, when I'm walking down Clark street on a sunny Monday afternoon (Mondays are such fucking depressing days), and I'm thinking, I'm tired of being afflicted by the weight that I feel of the world, or the burden of my own internal suffering, I might just die soon so that I can stop this charade, does that mean I really want to die?

In that moment, I guess sure, I want to die, or maybe at the very least: I'm indifferent about life. But the next day, or two days later maybe, I'll be in touch with something more inspiring, something that looks more like faith. And I'll think, but I can't die yet, I have too much to do!

But does god take irrevocable requests? Like 'Monday, I got that yellow slip from Jinnene down in Chicago. She says she's tired and wants to die.' But then Wednesday I send a follow up note that says, hey it's me again. Scratch that last request. I'm all good now. If I can live a pretty long life replete with helping others any way I can, that's what I'd prefer.

But is it too late? Will death come knocking on my door, like a book from Amazon that I didn't cancel before the cancelation date? Woe is me, this is so complicated!

I'll help you along my little discussion here. The point is, and Neale Donald Walsch, 'Conversations' author, would agree, the soul has certain desires. If I choose to live a short life, and do what I can while I'm here, and then go, then so be it. But the truth is, I don't really think I have that in store for me. No, there's lots to do. I'll have to find a way to quiet the blue Mondays.

And speaking of blue, maybe I'll be like that adorable old lady from the film Titanic, the one with the gentle blue eyes. The one who had that sapphire stone. She died an old lady, quietly, and harmoniously, alone, in her sleep.

Imagination is Everything

It has been said by purveyors of truth that the key to life is to exercise imagination. Actually I don't think I recall hearing those exact words, and I'm not sure I even know a true purveyor of truth for that matter (do these people still exist?). Earlier in my blog, I think I said that the key to happiness was to not care what anyone thinks about you. And I really still believe that. I do. But today, I'm saying that I'm my own purveyor of truth, and I'm telling you: you could die if you don't use your imagination.

I recently did read, however, in a novel that I very much liked ('Winter's Tale' by Mark Helprin--pick it up, you can't be sorry that you did), that in order to find some sort of path to wisdom, we've first got to be willing to become a bit crazy. Doesn't Seal say something like that in a smash 90's hit too? I really feel bad that his face is so slashed about. I wonder if Heidi minded. Anyway, I believe in this concept of finding sensibility through insanity. And so, I'm afraid, if we want to be sensible, it seems that we've got to be okay with first (or concurrently) being crazy.

I personally would say that I'm pretty nuts. Not so much because most people don't understand me, but for my mom as a rare exception, but more because I do things that run in a river far away from the forest of the norm. I refuse to work in corporate jobs. I hate social activities. I'd rather eat razors than date regularly, just for the sake of it. I'm unpredictable. I flake out on people (not purposefully, but who knows how I'll feel any given day?). I send random texts that make no sense (to others, but they do to me) to test people. I truly believe in love even though I've not gotten a really good dose of it.

When I say love, I mean the most pure kind of love that you could possibly imagine. The kind of love that makes you feel like you'll live beyond this life, or that your love will outlast your mortal body. I believe in romance. The kind that can last a lifetime. I believe that one can love a person indefinitely; and that though there may be doubts, the feeling of certainty will always be stronger than the fear of failure to love, or the fear to lose.

I spent a long time being really cynical. But I'm starting to look around me, and I'm realizing how simple it is to be jaded. There are all kinds of reasons to be cynical and depressed and mean and bitter. There are countless ways to want to give up, to lose hope, to be sad, to believe in the worst in people. That's all easy.

But what's not easy, what's a challenge, what's sexy, is to believe in something better. In something deeper, something that will transcend the ages. Something that is pure and just and bright and awesome. I think this is love, no matter where it comes from, or who it's directed toward. Ideally, the feeling is directed toward everyone because everyone deserves to be loved.

Isn't this stuff crazy? My imagination sauteed it all together in a pan of hope. I'm pretty sure when I'm finished...it will be delicious. Either way, I'm certain it will end in something superiorly sensical.

Use your imagination too! It could really take years off your waist and add an entire new glow to your face.