growing up

the beauty of giving music a second chance

When I was a teenager and impressionable rather than cynical, my love for music flourished beneath my pain.  I let music guide me through everything I couldn’t handle.  Part of me still clings to that sentiment, but I’ve found that musicians and songwriters are just as fucked up as (if not more than) I am and it’s like the blind leading the blind.
Of course, I still look to music first when I feel like I’m drowning, but age and experience have provided me with heroes and role models to help with the mental pain while music mends the emotional bumps and bruises.

Not that any of you are just dying to know what the hell I’m on about, but my god, I’m not often blindsided by music these days.  I feel like my ongoing 14 year music search has turned up quite a bit and provided me with grade-a band-aids for my pain.  But, every couple of years I go back and listen to bands I never quite grasped before, and a lot of the time I actually have a change of heart.
Recently it was Fleetwood Mac (the Stevie Nicks years).  I used to hate Stevie Nicks (no reason, just didn’t like her), but now I find myself reading everything I can about her and bookmarking sites with the cheapest Rumours and the self-titled 1975 re-prints.  Whatever I didn’t understand before, makes total sense in my life now when I listen to the Mac.  That is the most wonderful thing about age.
But that’s not what I’m going on about.  Fleetwood Mac didn’t’ blindside me, I just found warmth and understanding in a place I felt unwelcome in before.

No, it was The Jesus and Mary Chain.  Yesterday, they came at me like a sledgehammer.  I used to hate them.  I remember buying a Sebadoh album and a Jesus and Mary Chain album at the HUGE Warehouse Music I used to go to every weekend when I was a teenager.  My love for Dinosaur Jr. folded over in to Sebadoh so my guard was down on that one, but the Jesus and Mary Chain.. forget it. “Go back from whence you came!” I said when I put that album in a garage sale and that was the end of that.
But what’s this?!  Welcome back 27-year-old pre-mid-life crisis crisis Whitney who happened to put her not-enough-room-for-shit iPhone library on shuffle yesterday after downloading Darklands and Psychocandy a couple of weeks ago without yet a listen (this run-on sentence is absolutely necessary)…
I cannot explain the life that exploded inside of me the second Deep One Perfect Morning shuffled it’s way in to my life.
Who says:

“Deep one perfect morning
As the sun is heading up
Into the sky
And i’m sitting here warming
To the coldness of the things
That meet my eye
Something in me’s stirring
And the moon and all the stars
Fail to comply
And my thoughts are turning backwards
And i’m picking at the pieces
Of a world that keeps turning
The screws into my mind …”

behind such a wonderful backdrop of musical melancholy and understanding?  It’s those two elements combined that keep my head afloat when I’m lost somewhere in the dark moments of my past.  It’s those ingredients that have given music just the right amount of fluff through ages of amazing talent and made those with the gift legendary.  That place where you can feel miserable and listen to miserable music and feel understood and welcome in the world that seems to be pushing you out.
It’s one thing to be a talented musician, I have infinite respect for those who have that sort of natural partnership with their instruments, but to put down words that echo across an abundance of feelings and tie them all up neatly in a 3 minute song.. you have to stop and wonder “wow, what the fuck just happened to me?”
Poetry is like an amazing drug that lies in a world where music doesn’t need words and words don’t need a meaning.  Where all of the letters blend in to perfect metaphors of things only the irrational mind can understand.
But when you can take the components of that world and mesh them into the world of the rational mind… then you have something rare. I’m not saying that the Reid brothers are the best songwriters there ever were, I’m just saying they are part of a rare breed.

This meaningless blog post is just me welcoming The Jesus and Mary Chain’s Darklands to my future and to my coveted list of comfort albums.  It’s also me kicking myself for thinking of all the holes that could have been filled in my past if I’d just saw the JAM Chain (like that?) through instead of putting a $2 sticker on their album and forcing it out of my life.
Growing up has so many benefits but with the benefits come regret.  Second chances are always worth the risk.

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milestone

There are no words for the emotional maturity that has blossomed inside of me.  For as long as my mind stretches into the past, I have struggled to balance my emotions, thoughts and reality.   Like the moon pulls the tides, I have struggled to resist the pull of my emotions, but I have finally learned how to maintain my balance in the trough of the waves.
I have, of course, been assisted by many great minds through the years; Nietzsche, Whitman, Rilke, Dickinson, Harper Lee and most recently — Dickens.  All of these great writers and thinkers (and so many more) have comforted me when I was held captive by my emotional turmoil and held a flame for both warmth and light in the velvet darkness.
Of course, music and friends/family have served as a lifeboat as well, but there is something about books — how you can wrap yourself in the world of someone else and escape your own while somehow pressing the two worlds together.  I’m not really sure I’m capable of fully expressing the love and appreciation I have for reading and the gracious impact the words have had on me, but I will never stop trying.
It is only within the past couple of months that I have noticed the deep, solid change that has taken place inside of me.  Not like the spurts of positivity that I have been showered with and then disappointed by.  This is a deep rooted change that has put me in control of how I let circumstances affect me.   I have not grown cold, but focused.  I have stopped trying to change what I do not like and simply accepted that it is alright to be recognizably flawed.  In fact, I enjoy my flaws, I no longer feel ashamed about my desire to be introverted, but I enjoy it almost to the point of overzealousness.  I no longer feel guilty or wounded by sudden changes in behavior of someone I considered myself to be on good-terms with (obviously an isolated incident).  In fact, I quit caring about so many small things because I started accepting myself ENTIRELY, not piece by piece, and I started believing more in the good-natured part of myself and believed that no matter what, the good in me would prevail.
I still consider myself in the threshold of this change, but this is concrete.  This is the milestone I’ve been struggling to reach for the past 5 years and it has greeted my life with incredible warmth and sincerity.
Normally this is where I would say something along the lines of, “I hope this feeling lasts forever” but for the first time in as long as I can remember, I know this is one of the building blocks to the person I’m growing up to be and I really, really love and respect her.

Pep Talk

There is a curse in being intuitive when it comes to other people.   It’s amazing to be able to pick up on a personality within minutes of meeting someone, but it’s a horribly lopsided ability.  It’s mentally awkward when a person you have no qualms with subtly stops being polite to you and/or doesn’t acknowledging your presence unless you say something.  Granted I’m no stranger to this behavior, but I’ve never suddenly “turned” on someone I considered an acquaintance without a good reason.
This sort of thing has been happening to me my entire life; I will form a friendship with someone when suddenly I’m being shunned with no explanation.  I’m generally pretty good at pinpointing the problem, but nothing has happened and yet, here I am in the arctic breezes of the cold-shoulder again.

Although I’ve formed a pretty thick shell and buried any physical signs of hurt feelings, it still stings like hell and it still makes me feel kind of shitty.  It doesn’t do any deep, internal damage anymore because I’ve grown to the point where I actually respect the person I’m growing in to and in light of that, I quit blaming myself for other people being total assholes.  For the past five or so years, I’ve been working really hard on my unpleasant qualities and molding myself in to what I believe is a good, stable person.  And as far as I’m concerned, I have nothing to prove to anyone but myself and those who have always supported me.
Every time this happens though, I dig deep through the pain of it and work to better myself.  The ability to do that is an actual gift – to take something from a bad situation and create something beautiful from it’s debris without letting the negativity affect you negatively.

Even my best friend, who is mad at me and hardly speaks to me (completely my fault) will always be my best friend because despite my major fuck-up during my 10th tour of best-friend duty, she still knows I’m a good person beneath my mistakes – no matter how big or small.  Even if she doesn’t know how much she doesn’t hate me right now, I know she opens every message I send her even if she doesn’t respond.
In fact, I don’t even know why I felt the need to write this, I’m irritated at a co-worker whom I actually liked among a sea of co-workers I don’t like, but fuck it; I have dinosaurs on my desk next to pictures of my mother.  I have my iPod with me filled with over 100 GB of music from the past 4 years (lots of emotional healing there) and even though my best friend won’t talk to me (which I really hate), I still annoy the hell out of her with text messages and pictures because I’m annoying and that’s okay because it comes from a good place and she knows I mean it.

I suppose I wrote this because I needed to remind myself that I’m a decent person capable of becoming a really good person.  And even though I’m far behind where I want to be in life, I truly do not worry about not becoming the person I want to or not doing the things I want to in life.  I have no idea how I know, but I know that I will be fine in every aspect of my future, and even though these little emotional mosquito bites itch like crazy, they’re only small happenings that help sharpen the image of the bigger picture.
It’s not even a lemonade thing, it’s just realizing that you’re in complete control of how you let life change you.

“Accept Yourself”

I think my favorite thing about breaking myself free of childish judgments are the benefits of the music.  The moment I was able to differentiate talented artists and studio artists, I become a music snob and for a long time considered 95% of mainstream artists talentless hacks.  Somewhere after twenty-four though, that novelty wore off I realized that seeking obscurity was the real crime.  I was denying myself of so many great songs filled with emotional carnage and despair.  It also made me a total asshole.
Somewhere after they hit twenty, all of the punk rockers from my generation started this bearded, skinny-jean-plaid-shirt-wearing  revolution of hipster shitheads and flooded the music scene with concept albums and ironic acoustic sets of mainstream pop songs.
The last house show I went to (probably the last ever too), was to see a local band with the sort of following that requires a bicycle parking section.  After their set, my friend talked to the guitarist of the band that had invited her.  Throughout their conversation, I was informed that my job of printing labels for (organic) chemicals was bad because “Chemicals are bad”.
Just moments after that statement, this conversation took place with someone who walked up to say hello to him:

Stranger: Hey man! What’s going on?

Band-Dipshit: Hey man, I haven’t seen you in a while, how’s it been?

S: Good, I saw you at that party a couple of weeks ago!

BD: Which one?

S: The one at asdf’s!

BD: Oh man, I don’t remember… I was probably coked out of my mind.

End significant part of scene.

I counted at least three mentions of coke in the five minutes he stood talking to my friend and even more mentions of being too drunk to remember anything.  But, of course, he couldn’t tend to his other guests until he was able to ask my friend if she wanted to help paint the planet costumes for the band’s upcoming show debuting their new (concept) album.
If you ever find yourself curious about what’s going on in the local indie scene in Phoenix, Arizona – there you go.
But, back to growing up and becoming less judgmental of music: that band (a 7 piece including a tambourine player) couldn’t have sounded any better under the influence of twelve shots of tequila.  Sadly, just as little as three years ago, I probably would have been slightly jealous of them and wasted money on an album feeling like I was missing something fantastic that all other thirty people saw.
The point I’m trying to make here is that when you bypass music because a lot of shitty people who don’t know dick about music listen to it, you’re sometimes left listening to mediocre music that shitty people who don’t know anything about music make.
Just recently I started listening to The Smith’s.  A band I’d always ignored because… exactly.  There’s this whole anti-Morrissey thing going on, but I don’t know a damn thing about the guy.  What I do know is that “Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want” and “I Want The One I Can’t Have” are incredible fucking songs.
But because a buck-toothed (very) ex-friend of mine worshiped them (and Tori Amos – who I still don’t like), I hated them because for me, they were associated with someone who didn’t know what “quality” music was, also the fact that their following exceeded 5,000.  So I missed all those years of licking my wounds with great songs because I thought having “high standards” was part of loving music.Anyway, due to my previous arrogance, the past few years have been spent going back and listening to music I’d accused of being talentless and superficial or “too mainstream” (I was that dick for a while, yes),  and it has been wonderful.
People will always be idiots, but growing up and gaining perspective has taught me that people that listen to music but don’t know much about it, are no different from me liking pieces of art even though I don’t know anything about art outside of mainstream artists like Salvador Dali and Vladimir Kush.
I see something, I like it or I don’t. Art isn’t emotional for me just as music isn’t emotional for some people.  It’s like this in every aspect of life.   I’m sure there is an account somewhere that truly loves accounting, or a landscaper that really enjoys cutting grass.
There is a point when passion crosses a boundary and you just become a total piece of shit.  It took a very long time, but I have finally crossed the threshold of acceptance to a very sensitive part of my life.
I don’t know that I’ll ever have an appreciation for Lady Gaga or Katy Perry or any pop artists of that nature, but I certainly won’t be bitching about them anymore and it certainly doesn’t bother me that other people like them anymore either.
Whoever said growing up was boring must not have had a passion, because this is like falling in love with music all over again.

Hello Again

Okay, so I know I haven’t written anything in over a month, but I haven’t really felt inspired lately. Even my journal has been collecting dust, with the exception of a few self-pity entries and a crappy poem.
It feels ridiculous being depressed at my age, but I know it’s something I’ll never escape. However, it’s not necessarily a bad thing, in fact, after washing off the stink of it all, I feel somehow stronger and more independent because pulling myself away from such depths is always by my own hand.
I have a feeling that this will eventually begin to produce negative affects since I already struggle to open up and trust people, but overall; I’d rather be independent than naive.
This time, I’ve chosen to turn to Buddhism (again). I bought the Golden Zephyr book at Half Price Books when I was about seventeen and going though my “smoke weed and be happy” phase… which doesn’t really coincide with Buddhism at all, but who knows shit at seventeen anyway?
I skipped over the “boring” parts and practices I didn’t feel applied to me (again, seventeen), tried to meditate with absolutely no success, and then, like all teenage potheads, gave up and smoked weed to find some form of (false) inner-peace.
I quit smoking somewhere around 22 or 23 after the “peaceful” affects turned on me and I realized “wow, I suck” and then I just became boring on my own terms, without the help of any other substances.
I have taken the longest, most miserable path to self-discovery and though I have never lost sight of my potential, I still have yet to actually open myself up to it.
So here I am, nearing 28 (augh), and I can finally pick up this book and take something from it. Reading the forward alone was like listening to Beethoven in the Spring.
The last time I read it was about two years ago to help with the transition of completely uprooting myself from a life I’d always known to one where nothing was familiar. It helped a bit, but at the time, I was so hellbent on being an Atheist that I couldn’t truly look past the fact that Buddhism was considered a religion. Having finally grown up, shed of all need to be tied to any particular belief, and simply seeking something to create a balance in my life that allows me to be myself while still being internally strong (I’m an extremely sensitive and emotional person), I am truly at a point in my life where I can fully understand the teachings with little to no objection.
It sounds like it should be easy, but for those of us who spend our lives thinking and mulling over ridiculously tiny details, it’s no easy feat to get to the point where you can read anything slightly philosophical without opposing something. It’s almost as if not having some disagreeing point of view means that you aren’t thinking hard enough.
However, this time ’round, the most beautiful thing I’ve found in reading Golden Zephyr at this point in my life is that it’s not a guide to an entirely different lifestyle or belief system, it’s a guide to opening up to your true potential and finding patience and acceptance in the things you cannot change. Basically, you aren’t bound to anything but yourself and if you can’t find an inner-balance, then you can’t live a balanced life.
There’s no way to fully explain the impact – it’s either something for you or it isn’t. The things that change you the most in your life are the things that find you at the right time in your life.
Countless times, I’ve pledged a new world-view or a new perspective on life, and yet find myself right back to writing dreary poems between the dusty binds of a journal. I can only say that what’s different this time is that I am completely open to letting change happen to me rather than trying to control what changes.
I truly feel like that’s a step in the right direction and I truly feel I have the patience for it at this time in my life. I have no expectations and holy shit, does that feel good.

How I’m Going to Avoid Being a Loser for the Rest of My Life

I am a frustrated twenty-seven-year-old failure.  I am a slave to the chronic ritual of a Monday-Friday job that leaves me felling empty and pointless.  In fact, falling in sync with the ritual is a reoccurring thing within itself.  The most time I’ve spent at one job was the 2.5 years I gave to Starbucks.  I don’t even think I made it to the .5, maybe the .2.
It’s around the first year mark that I begin to get jittery and cynical.  I truly do feel something is fucked about bestowing our loyalties to the company we work for, yet fear losing our job when passion or desire meet occupational priority, but that’s a different story and I’m choosing a different path this time.
The problem here is that it’s not just my job, it’s everything in my life.  I’ve been playing by the same rules that have set me back since before they started setting me back.  Take this blog, for example.  It’s full of random accounts of a life that even I’m not interested in hearing about.  Full of bitter “truths” and failed “revelations”.
I spend hours thinking about life and what I think is wrong with other people, what’s wrong with me, and what philosophy best suits my life.  The thing is, I have no life to suit a philosophy to.  And though I have no qualms when it comes to being honest with myself, it’s a pointless ability if you don’t enforce the necessary change that such a knowledge requires.
My problem is, I have no goals to live up to in my family.  I have one brother who, by honest comparison, I’m actually doing better than.   With that “hovering”, I have absolutely no motivation.   I have nothing to look at and say “wow, what the fuck am I doing?”.
It’s a comfortable backdrop for personal excuses and it’s gone on too long.  I’m almost thirty. Thirty.  T H I R T Y.
There is no excuse good enough anymore.
I’m tired of the self-loathing that constantly consumes me, tired of feeling like shit about the beige outlook I have – I’m just tired.  It’s much harder to make excuses than to actually get off of my ass and do something about my “plight”.

So, I reapplied with FAFSA, purchased the study guide for the placement test and researched the necessary requirements for Nursing.  Nursing, right?  Not journalism, I know.  However, I’m not copping out on my dreams, I’m actually making them easier to achieve.  For someone who strives for independence, applying for financial aid and spending money going to school for a career that’s oversaturated and filled with competition for positions that pay little and don’t even interest me, that actually puts a worse feeling in my stomach than not going to school at all.
Firstly, there is always a demand for nurses – it’s a field of work that assures a job.  Secondly, it gives me the freedom to move just about anywhere I please.  Thirdly, my cousin, who is an RN (and only two years older than me),  just bought a house.  Not even thirty and bought a house.
And to anyone who wants to tell me that I have no idea what I’m in for, I know.  Trust me, I know.  My best friend was a CNA for about 2 years and showered me with all of the gory details of what nursing entails.  But that’s okay.  Cleaning someone’s shit off the sheets has nothing on feeling like a piece of shit every day. Nothing.
It’s also important to consider that my patience and rationality are at best when someone is genuinely in need of care or patience.  And anything that makes me feel like I’m good person actually makes me a better person.  When I feel like a good person, I take better care of myself, and when I take better care of myself, I’m happy and when I’m happy… well, I don’t know because I can’t say that I’ve ever been truly happy long enough to know what my potential is capable of.  And that’s not a self-served pity statement, it’s the truth.

So, how is this not copping out on my dream to write?  Because I don’t need anything on paper to freelance.  I will have to bedazzle the fuck out of someone with actual writing (not this blog shit), but I’m willing to accept that challenge.   I don’t want a job that requires a desk, a computer and editing skills.  I don’t want a job that doesn’t give me creative room. If I rely entirely on a journalism degree, I know that’s the sort of job I’m looking at.  However, I still plan on getting a degree in journalism to make my dream of writing easier to attain, the only difference is, I’m not resting my entire future on that particular piece of paper.  I don’t have to be a journalist to write a book or research something and write about it.   The way I see it, Nursing is a respectable career that pays well and can provide me with plenty of opportunity.  Opportunity to pursue whatever I please.  For obvious reasons, it also gives me something to write about.

Even if it’s not what I really want to do with my life, it’s not a desk job, or retail or a food industry job.  It’s not boring, repetitive and habit-forming.  I would actually have to remain alert and focused and aware of what I was doing.  That can only have a positive affect on everything else I suck at.  Despite the fact that I’ll have to experience death and immeasurable sadness (I am extremely susceptible to the emotions of those around me); I’ve built so much of my philosophy of life on emotional happenings and emotional survival, that it can only strengthen my character while simultaneously bringing me to my knees.  And the idea that all of that pain could actually find it’s way to my pen… I just…. well, I feel terrible for saying that but it personally confirms that this “career decision” is a positive move.  I haven’t even come close to taking a step in the right direction since… I don’t know when.

I honestly haven’t felt this motivated EVER.  And regardless of the many things you’ve read on here about “I’m going to do this” or “I’m going to change this time” or whatever the fuck I felt like writing that day, this is something I’ve never felt in my entire life.  I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that getting a CNA doesn’t require a degree, it’s a program and it’s something I can do.  I know that the real “financial support” lies in becoming an RN, but I have no problem building my way up to that.  Especially if it gets me out of whatever the fuck I’ve been doing with my life the past ten years.

Anyhow, there is a point to all of this.  I am giving in to the path less traveled.  I am tired of saying I’m going to do something with no intention of actually doing it.  I am tired of how I feel about myself and how I feel about other people.  I am saying goodbye to the person I am and becoming someone entirely new.  I would like to have respect for myself and feel free from personal burden.
But most of all, I would like to lay down at night and welcome positive thoughts to my pillow rather than feeling like a piece of shit failure, because I am not one.

Tuesday Morning 9:00am

In life, there are few certainties.  For one, we all die.  For two, we’re all in constant stages of transformation.  While it may take some of us longer to reach a particular milestone than others, we all greet some point in our lives with a glance back upon the path we took to reach level ground.   By watching my elders grow, I know that life constantly changes a person and the longer you live, the more different you become.
I am the prime definition of a late-bloomer.  However, had I sped through the early stages of my youth, I’d be living a life I was equally unhappy with.  At 18, I was glossy-eyed over Wes Anderson (still am) and was sure that becoming a writer/director was the only thing that could make sense of my life.  At 23, I was sure a doctorate in philosophy was the missing link in my life.  Now, at the turn of 27, I will be attending my first semester of school for a journalism degree.
One could say that had I done what I wanted at 18, I might be doing what I want now.  But, experience and the general knowledge that comes with getting older and coming to terms with reality tells me that film is an over-saturated industry full “knowing the right people”.
And with that in mind, an anti-social, shy hermit isn’t really the sort to mingle with folks of that nature.  I’ve been writing in journals since I was thirteen years old.  I have pages, upon pages, upon pages of sentimental crap encrusted in misery and mental plights galore.   But there are moments in those journals, when I’ve re-read them (yeah, I’m that sort), that I’ve truly amazed myself.   Because at the core of everything I write, there is passion and honesty.  You won’t really see it here as much, but my journals are the pages of my soul and everything I’ve ever suffered and contemplated lies naked in the binds of them.   I was blessed with the ability to form words out of insoluble emotions and I’d be an idiot if I thought a career in writing wouldn’t make me happy.
For a long time, I was (and still am) disappointed in myself for not making something more of my life these past 10 years.  But then it occurred to me, had I gone to school for film or philosophy, I’d have still wound up here.  Only, I’d be more in debt and feel like I’d wasted just as much time.  Philosophy is still a passion and a doctorate is something I would like to work towards but it’s something I want at an older, wiser age — after I’ve seen more of the world and have experienced my own theories.   What sort of philosopher can teach others of life without ever having left their island in the ocean?
My point is this: it doesn’t do anyone any good to feel bad about the things they haven’t done or didn’t do.  It simply takes recognizing that you are in control to change it.  And about all the “what if I had” or “why didn’t I” bullshit, forget it.  A chance you didn’t take created an opportunity for something else.  And no matter what the outcome, it’s ALWAYS something to grow from.

2013, ain’t it a beaut?

Today, I filled out my FAFSA application for Financial Aid.  Today, I also decided I should really start working on that whole “aspiring alcoholic” thing.  This was before the FAFSA business.  So now, in a tingly, merry state of mind, I can hold my head up.  Should I be ashamed?  Probably.  Am I?  No, not really.  I figure, I’m a failure in every other aspect of life, why not give my nagging blood the thing it craves and succumb to my heredity?   My family is full of failed dreams and alcoholism.  And hey, at least I’ll really have something to write about, right?
I already make myself miserable by trapping any happiness in thoughts of doubts and insecurities, so why not weaken such a cruel structure with some liquor?  Hell, at least then I’ll have an excuse other than sheer laziness for my lack of accomplishments.  And my family will look at these days, here, as the days when I really could have been something.
It’s like giving in to my destiny.
You see, after my grandmother died (the smoking alcoholic she was — to give you an idea), my mother found a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of whiskey hidden in a drawer in the kitchen.   My grandmother, Nanny, fought cancer for about 11 years and claimed she’d quit drinking after her first visit to the hospital in those 11 years prior to her death.  She battled with smoking and had weened herself to the point of being able to not smoke in front of other people, but we all knew she still smoked.  I told my mother to let Nanny live her life in a way that was comfortable for her, but my mother nagged her about it anyway because well, daughters need mothers.  The same cravings course through my mother that course through me, and we both inherited our “desires” from  my grandmother and grandfather.   My  mother had successfully fought off the demons until she lost both parents last year and now she spends her weekends in a drunken stupor from wine.  Last week, I flew home for Christmas and stayed 7 days, 5 of which were spent drunk with my mother.  How wonderful it felt to rest in the bottoms of bottles 1,700 miles away from my problems.
And now, with flushed cheeks that greet saddened cheekbones, I have continued my grandmother’s legacy.  Only, she was brave and stubborn and confident and she died living up to  the bold letters of her name.
Sure, she was sad but I’ve come to accept that we’re all sad, we’re also all happy.  We’re a mess of every emotion tangled in to a single, conscious vessel, obligated to ignoring certain things because, well, we have to if we want to be happy.  I simply have problems with putting on my blinders.  It’s not a bad thing, necessarily, but it takes it’s toll.  And tonight, I drink to all of those thoughts and problems and to my grandmother who was certainly brave, honest and genuine until the day she died.
I’ll get through my problems but it will never be below me to drink some of them away.

Forgiving Paul McCartney

I have always held a grudge against Paul McCartney for being such an asshole. Suing Lennon over whose name was first on lyrics credits and being one of the main causes of the Beatles breakup – he was just such an asshole during the White Album recordings and throughout the entire breakup.
Yet, I’ve always been sure to praise his songwriting and musical capabilities because it would be stupid to deny that he’s gifted when, clearly, he is. However, I still never gave his solo career any attention.
The thing is, as I’m getting older and maturing, I’m realizing all people do stupid things when they’re younger and all people do stupid things when they’re stressed and I’ve lightened up on many of my grudges. Paul being one of them. Despite the fact that I still don’t really care for him as a person, his music is wonderful. George has and always will be my favorite Beatle, regardless that I don’t really care for the majority of his solo career, it’s not the music that I love him for. Lennon has always been my favorite when it comes to music and his ability to weave music and politics was incredible. But, I have to say that so many of the things I’ve always loved musically about the Beatles are embedded in the solo career and other projects of McCartney, and listening to his music feels like a velvet cocoon.
His music is kind and incredibly pleasing to the ears. I should feel guilty for never listening to much of his solo work, but it had to be at the right time and the way I’m feeling right now… how perfect.
It’s so wonderful to grow up with music as my teacher. Because I can see past Paul’s flaws and embrace the talent that I’ve always ignored for “personal” reasons, I can use that knowledge to battle my own flaws.
“Forgiving” Paul McCartney means opening my eyes to a new way of thinking and understanding that we all fuck up and we’re all going to continue to fuck up. If only everyone’s balance for their mistakes were as beautiful as Paul’s.

I can’t believe I’m almost 27

Sometimes I feel so broken beneath my life that I have to sit and tell myself “This isn’t my life, this isn’t my life.”   I have never felt so broken, ever.  I don’t know what I let happen to myself.  Why am I with a person who has no genuine interest in me?  We’re silhouettes; we’re two people leading lives that do not belong to our desires — playing roles we were unwillingly cast in to, hoping to walk away with some profit.
I’m too young to fear that my life is melting.