Fake it till you make it. . .and I'm making bad art.

My recent old boyfriend (ex is so harsh, no?) and I talked today after days of me ignoring him, selfishly to get over him as soon as I could. Though I knew bottling things up was probably detrimental, I continued to do so. Masking the pain would make it all disappear, right? I realize now that I was wrong and I'm so grateful for the emotional and comforting talk we had today. I still hurt, I still wonder and I still cry, but I just feel better. I guess that's what people who love one another do for each other. Thank you.

In other news, I've felt a surge of creative energy wash over me in the visual arts realm. While I have been writing more frequently I've also been trying to properly document my move, or "extended trip", to California properly. I've always felt that writing was like putting a puzzle together- stringing words along so they lock into each other tightly, creating a neatly put together form. When I was younger I used to be more adept at drawing and painting and collages, but grew discouraged when an art teacher questioned my skill. Dabbling in the visual arts realm is a trickier puzzle. But this past week I've been bored, but instead of wallowing I've been itching to make crap (um, er, I mean art?) like I used to. Take a crack at this new puzzle. On Friday nights I used to hole myself up in my room and make collages and homemade stationary and paint water colors while gaggles of my friends were out learning how to smoke joints and shot gun beers. It's the same sort of avoidance tactic. Hopefully the results are gratifying.

But don' confuse this preoccupation with giddy happiness. I'm still sad and hurt and heartbroken, as expected after a break up. I mean, c'mon, should I think that no one else goes through this? No. But it's hard to feel solidarity in a situation like this, because it's unique to me. I suppose I should just fake it till I make it. Right? Yeah. Fake happiness. Fake being an artist. Maybe one of them will actually happen eventually.

Who's that lady? (sexy lady).

When we drove into a thick sheet of fog this morning I almost cried. A series of disappointments was supposed to be ameliorated by a trip to the beach. I didn't need another disappointment. We stopped for a beer and brunch at a local Stinson Beach roadside cafe and for everyone's sake the sun began to shine and beckon us towards the sand.

After a few tall ones and a few dunks into the ocean, I spread out on my towel, sand creeping into the crevices of my skin. It was no bother. Nothing was a bother. Not even being poorly employed or single. I began to think back to the days of when I was single. Though the functions of a relationship were fun and though I still suffered from mental instabilities, I just remember being less stressed. For sure I still had my problems, but they weren't as looming. I had a better sense of my self when I was single and hopefully I can remember that when I embark on my next relationship(s?).

I've been doing so much to get over his race to another which has inflicted so much self doubt and wonderment about our relationship and myself. But it's been healthy stuff. I've been painting. I've been reading. I've been writing and writing and writing. I've been searching for grad schools. I've been researching language lessons. I've become excited about my possibilities, not the possibilities of someone else or the possibilities with someone else. It's me. All about me.

As much as I miss my former I'm slowly getting over the hurt of someone not wanting me or needing me. I'm realizing the importance of reacquainting me with myself. Though being single in a household of couples magnifies the fun of showering, sleeping and canoodling with another, I understand my current heartache will pass and pave way for a more stable and self-assured future. It sucks though. The functions of a relationship made me forget a lot of how to live freely.

I want my heads fastened securely on my shoulders again. I want my heart in the right place again. I want my abs strong and my lungs healthy. I want my family close. I want my friends near. I want a future of fulfillment. If love decides to cross my path again, so be it. Right now I'm ready to get to become enamored with myself. I'm excited. I'm ready.

I'm so sunburned.

Just.

Why do I submit myself to 2am torture? Even after sleeping less than 4 hours the other night I am up again wondering if I made the right decision last week. For some reason, this time it hurts even more, more than all the other 5 bazillion times we broke up. Maybe because I know it's forever. Forever and ever and ever.

Last week it was easy. I worked and played and was tired and didn't have time to think about what had happened. Especially since it's practically routine; Get back together for a few days, break up for a week. I thought it would resolve itself. Or I thought that the turmoil we put each other this time would be enough for me to hate him. But when you become accustomed to certain slander you develop a certain resilience. Don't confuse this resilience with acceptance or pleasure, but just a thick skin to handle it, to take it, to overcome it.

He doesn't want me to ever write about him again, but how can I not? He was my existence for an entire year. I'm not slandering him, I just miss him. I miss him so much I go online to see if he's online. I check his MySpace to see who he's missing. And it's not me. And that's ok. I wish I could get over him so quickly. Then again, he was probably over me months ago. Detached from my mental instabilities and my scolds on how to live his life. Because I was so perfect. So perfect I didn't need to love someone else.

Sunday I was supposed to have a date. I met this boy at a bar and he called me two weeks later. He's getting his MFA in Creative Writing. Very handsome. He never called. He was going to be my Knight in Shining Rebound Armor, riding up on his horse named Distraction. I wasn't looking for sex or kisses or good conversation or a connection. Just a temporary distraction from all things "him." I hate this boy for not calling. Not because it was a blow to my ego- because it really wasn't- but just because he made me dwell on "him" all day.

A few years, maybe even a few months down the road I will see this week, these past months, as no big deal. Just a man I loved and a relationship that just didn't quite work. The blame will pass, the "we should haves" will disappear and hope for someone new will return. But.. . .It's weird how things can hit you so quickly, so forcefully, so unexpectedly. Like that earthquake last week. 4:42am and shake, rattle and roll. And all I wanted was "him" to hold me. I just want to forget him and stop aching.

Oops.

Someone got a little too drunk at the gay club. My roommate's boyfriend works at the White Horse so we headed over for a few drinks and a lot of dance moves. "Incorporate water" is what my mom always says, so I did, but it didn't help. Those L.I.T's were lethal, but then again, so were my dance moves. Oh god my head hurts. Never again, she says, never again. But we know how that goes. ;)

My head is pounding. I wish I was at the beach.

I always feel unfocused but I feel particularly lost at the moment. Things are not hopeless, but they are very unclear and I'm too afraid to commit to any sort of decision. One decision being moving back home. At this moment I'm torn 50/50. If I move I leave my loved ones but will be welcomed back by other loved ones. If I stay I continue to glide through life without being forced to make commitments. I need to start acting like a grown up if I want to be a grown up.

I guess I'll go read. I love that I've returned to pouring over pages and pages, even on Friday nights. Reminds me of when I was younger and would stay under the covers of my bed for hours reading as much as I could until my eyes wouldn't stay open anymore. I was kind of chunk then. I guess I need to start that running thing again. Bah.

Crazy lady.

Tonight my writing class found out I keep a secret, though they aren't entirely certain it is I who owns it or if it is my character who does. Though it seems glaringly obvious that I am the character, therefore I own the secret.

The class concentrates on fiction writing but my imagination is more comfortable buoying in familiar waters. I've taken to embellishing my Bloomingdale's chronicles which I previously posted on MySpace. My dedicated MySpace blog readers were entertained, yet they never critiqued my journals as my writing class has. I've been presenting more polished versions of my chronicles to a more attentive audience who isn't reading my 'blog' to pass time while at work. This class is trying help me with my craft.

After today's reading in which I compared Bloomingdale's to a prison with no escape, my class mulled over my hyperboles and personifications and imagery coming to a shared agreement that my character is "crazy", "mad", "depressed" and "lazy." Quizzical looks accompanied the question, "Well, why does the character stay there if she hates it so much?" They all chuckled at my story. At my real life story. Based on a true story.

That was me! That is me! I'm the loony who got stuck working in a store. Was my depression that apparent? Did I really think I could fool everyone? These people who didn't even know me could read it all over my face in only two typed pages!

I'm tired. I'm going to go read The Brooklyn Follies. The desire to read was the only success of tonight's class. My character flaws were pointed out and discussed. It was like a group of surgeons standing a patient just beginning to feel the affects of the anesthesia. They don't realize he's still awake and begin diagnosing him as not having much hope after the operation. That's how I felt. They had no idea I was still awake.

But I cant try to unravel my foibles tonight. Maybe I need to keep writing my story in order to figure it out. . .

This sidewalk's mine, bitch.

Apparently my exotic French Canadian, Polish, Irish and Welsh Euro-mutt heritage tricks the residents of Berkeley into thinking that I do not understand English or American customs. I am highlighting the absence of manners and the word, "Excuse me."

My exotic heritage belies my grasp of English and my tolerance for rudeness. Since moving to Berkeley I have observed this liberal enclave as a home to a strange breed. Entirely unrelated to each other, yet having an underlying connection.

No one moves for oncoming pedestrian traffic while on the fuckin' sidewalk. Every time I walk down Shattuck or Telegraph or Channing or Durant or where the fuck ever, no one ever moves. It's as if I do not exist!

Does the West Coast discriminate against French Canadian, Polish, Irish, Welsh people? Are my people invisible? Confidently I answer that question with a 'No.' Reason being- I've walked with people who do not share my ethnicities and the habit remains. Wordless and uninvited walk-offs. And since they're uninvited and I've received no invitation citing the whereabouts and time of the rude shoulder rub that leaves me off kilter, I am left with my mouth agape, incredulous to the cantankerous rudeness endemic to this little city. But instead of fellow sidewalk patrons soothing me with an understanding, "I can't believe what I just saw! Not even a verbal acknowledgment!" they stare at me as if I were an annoying crack in the sidewalk. As if I should have moved.

The immorality that no one but myself and a few other East Coasters recognize which is deemed as even more contentious than the shoulder jolt is the lack of the phrase, "Excuse me." Berkeley is home to a large international population, yet "Excuse me" is a two word phrase in the front of every pocket dictionary for foreigners. And even if you don't know any English there are cognates close enough, such a "Excusez moi" for Pierre et Elodie and "Scusi" for Roberto e Antonella. Aside from that, the international symbol for anyone foreign needing any sort of assistance, whether it be the Heimlich or asking for the time, is a smile. A simple smile will wipe away any ill feelings I incur from the omission of "Excuse me" or the lack of recognition noting someone else (me) would like to walk on the sidewalk with the same luxurious strides other people are privy to.

Berkeley's Rude Walker epidemic is a daily struggle. Some say, 'if you can't beat em' join' em.' So I tried to join them. I walked down Shattuck the other day ignoring oncoming pedestrians. At first I felt rude. I mean, even in New York City people say 'Excuse me', even if they add an expletive to emphasize urgency. But the more people I forced onto the road and into bushes the more the feelings of remorse subsided. Take that, JERKS. This is what happens when you mess with Mapes. Watch that shrub, sucka!

From a short distance I saw a stroller and that's when my moral judgment was tested. A cute couple taking a leisurely walk. They never did anything to me- but wait, it's not about them or what they did- this is about the greater good- this is about taking back to sidewalk, for myself.

Thorns in my forearm and branches licking my neck. I moved aside for the couple and their stroller, right into a bush as they walked along, unaware of the rash I would receive from whatever plant I was just choked by. I couldn't do it- I couldn't ruin their walk.

In the end, I can't ruin anyone's walk. Is it an East Coast thing? Morals? Laziness? Politeness?

No. Just the ability to let people walk all over me and my friggin' sidewalk.

Mmmm mmm good.

I definitely just ate a huge custard cream puff, a large slice of homemade quiche, a heaping portion of broccoli zucchini soup (also homemade), some strawberry shortcake and another homemade treat; apricot almond tart. We do not play in the household. It's gluttonous. It's enviable. It's delicious.

Goodnight.

MishMash

It wouldn't be a generalization if I stated all libraries have at least 3 crack-pots employed in their establishments. Today, after much delay, I went to sign up for my Berkeley city library card. The young woman at the information desk pointed me to the check out desk where a man resembling Rip Taylor if he were a truck driver was busy fiddling with a computer. After clearing my throat I waited until he decided to abandon his important library science tasks and assist me. When he finally did he ignored when I clearly stated I needed a library card and asked me to annunciate. Fortunately for me, speech challenged that I am, the rest of the process was done on paper and through the computer.

I left the library satisfied that my yen for reading has returned. After I finish Me Talk Pretty One Day I will either begin Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil or The Brooklyn Follies. This return to reading combined with my writing class has spurred a desire to go to grad school and pursue an MFA in Creative Writing, my concentration being non-fiction. I've looked at a few schools and the requirements are a bit daunting. 10 pages of poetry, 20 pages of fiction and of nonfiction, and 30 pages of a children's book! I love to write, but thinking about creating all those pages makes me apprehensive!

Despite the recent upswing of my mood, I've been having some rough patches, today being one of them. And it's weird how just some random man at the library knew that I was incredibly hurt today. Though he looked like a member of Hell's Angels, he was rather sweet and told me to "Smile Big" because it would make me look beautiful. Someday I want to be beautiful.

Sicky poo poo.

I've always known that my blog is insignificant and goes unread, but it just hit me that it is really insignificant. Kind of like those moments when you realize the coffee at Starbucks is mediocre and overpriced however you consistently return. Similarly, I will continue writing know there is better use of my time. . .like. . .organizing my sock drawer. . .?

Tomorrow is the Fourth. Big BBQ and boozin' day and I'll be stuck at my un-air conditioned job with a sore throat due to the stagnant air at my hopelessly vapid retail job. Yes the highly profitable chain retailer where I work has a broken air conditioner. Wah, poor Lindsay, right? If it were a day-long inconvenience I might not spend much energy babbling about the sweat dripping from every crevice my body with only a few fans to ease our heat exhaustion. However, it's been three weeks without and will probably be three more weeks before our air conditioner is installed and functioning. It's a crowded store, with high traffic and poor air flow. The affects are cranky customers, cranky workers and poor sales. In addition I've been fending off a cold and sty in my eye for about two weeks. I'm pointing my fingers at the heat and germs festering on every counter top. That and the redundant customer complaint that, "Gee, it's hot in here, can't you turn up the air conditioner?"

Hopefully people take hints from the industrial size fans in the store and my scowl, and spare my fun holiday from being completely ruined. Sick and hot and not at the beach watching fire works. Exactly what I want to be doing.

Being sick in Berkeley is tough. Actually being sick any distance from my mom makes recovery long winded. Moms have that magic touch. Gaging your body's temperature with just one gentle touch on the forehead, whipping up miracle soup that rids your body of every toxin within hours ignoring your urges to bottle and market the stuff for a lucrative cure-all, and ordering a thick coat of Vicks on your chest and throat draped with a hot towel. They're miracle workers.

Since my Pennsylvania medicine woman can't cure me when we're 3000 miles apart, I've resorted to Berkeley's homeopathic remedies. So far, so good. Rare teas and 8-syllable vitamins can't compare to my mom's curing powers, but it will have to do if I want to make it to work on tomorrow's holiday. Which I don't want to do, but I have to.

My lazy competition.

Monday morning after a crazy weekend. Groggy with a side of mussed up hair. Work at 4. Myself and my two roommate's boyfriends are in separate rooms on our respective laptops, sipping our coffees and searching the internet for jobs. One English major, one Anthropology major, one Sociology major. We're all content to squeak by at the end of each month, hoping our rent checks don't get cashed until we get paid. But we've all got the hopes for something better. A salaried job with health benefits. Ahh, to be young and partially employed. Here's to Monday mornings; a fresh start from the alcoholic haze of a weekend, a new week to lazily search for jobs. Cin cin!