Happy Birthday, The Bob

I have long referred to my father as the love of my life.  And he is.  And today is his birthday- so this is for him.

It's lately been a topic of discussion- expectations, ideas.  What to expect from loved ones, what to expect from less than loved ones… what is an expectation to begin with?!?

And here's the deal:

Daughters of great fathers are doomed.

We are doomed for several reasons.  Great fathers create impossible expectations for their daughters.  Great fathers are the guys who come through for you when you desperately need something printed and have no ink left in your printer so leave them a frenic email with sixteen attachments.

Great fathers are the guys who pick up the phone when you are a million miles away from them, stuck on the side of the road with an overheated jeep, and talk to you.  They give you lists that they know you full well will not remember in your state of distress and that you will have to call them back to get the list again, when you are safe and sound.

Great fathers are the guys who pick up the phone when you are a million miles away from them in the other direction, on the side of a different road, with the same jeep- broken down in a different way- and talk to you.  They remind you that it's not a good idea to be standing near the jeep when you are dead weight on a blind curve of I-10 into New Orleans.

Great fathers are the guys who carry you, as a sleeping toddler, from the car to the house.  And who reassure you that he will, indeed, go get Mommy.

Great fathers are the guys who move you every time you ask them to- no matter how far or how much else is happening. They are the guys who google 'futons' because you have no furniture and they want to make sure you can at least have something.  They are the guys who sit with you in the urgent care after falling off a bench, or sit with you in the surgeons office when you need a quick fix on an old ankle injury.

They are the guys who encourage you to be yourself and create your own expectations.  Great fathers teach daughters to pull no punches, command a room, and be bold, terrifying and self-reliant.  They are the guys who love beyond love you.

Great fathers are the ones who make soul-mates and partners and potentials seem impossible (boyfriends seem like boys, not men).  No great father can raise a daughter who doesn't expect the same treatment and care and concern.  And it's impossible.  Because great fathers love daughters the way no other man can.  And daughters of great fathers return that love the way no one else can.

Daughters of Great Fathers are Doomed.

I love you, Daddy.  Happy Birthday.

<<Big kisses and hugs from me and Henry from Windsor, VT. >>

Terra Incognita

Full Disclosure:  I stole that phrase- obviously (but no so obviously because I stole it from another's blog)- but I stole it because it works perfectly here.

A friend of mine in grad school once told me that a four-word line of poetry I wrote sounded good.  And he meant it literally.  Spoken aloud it sounded good, made good noise in his ears.  So I said the line to myself (probably walking across campus, probably looking like a loon):

Oh Atlas, I lied. 

And he was right, it sounded good; it sounds good.  The words flowed out of my mouth and into the air around me. I tried it in different accents, with different pauses and emphases (I'm telling you that I genuinely looked like a loon).  Oh Atlas, I lied.  Four words that I have used in at least ten different journal entries, poems, stories.  I love those four words for the same reason that I love all words: because they are.  And I love them because they are not four words.  They are my words.

But I digress.  I have been pondering and chatting and discussing a lot, lately, about words- spoken and written.  Not exactly terra incognita (say it OUT LOUD) for me or my partner  in crime here (another writer- and yes I say that humbly acknowledging that I really have no right to identify my self as the other to 'another writer'), but absorbing to us each nonetheless.

I rarely read what I write out loud.  I rarely read anything aloud- it hardly seems necessary because I am usually reading by myself, or in a crowd, or in some space that precludes speaking the word aloud (thank you Eliot).

But now I find that I am wanting to give voice to every passage on which I lay my eyes. I want to read Robert Hass in whispered tones to myself and the people I love who love him.  Or shout out the dark passages of John Donne because he writes creepy and terribly lovely things. I want those around me to know that Rilke said 'every angel is terrifying' because every angel is.  And because it sounds good.  I want to be able to recreate what Shel Silverstein thought when he wrote about the moon bird, resting from flight, to cool in the peppermint wind (OUT LOUD SERIOUSLY)

When I lend my voice to beautiful words, dear words- they come to life.  They become conversations over dinner, whispers in bed, debates about infinity, spirituality, goodness, badness, nonsense.  Words become us, in a way.   I think of my favorite words and they are favored because they feel good on my fingers to type or write; because they taste good on my lips to say and echo pleasantly in my ears upon hearing them: Wilderness, brutality, cognizance.  There are far too many to list all- but those are a few to try out.

Ah words.

Until next time, Dear Hearts…

(just try it out- find your favorite book and read one line out loud- it makes such a difference).

On Flailing

What happens when someone who should properly be in a looney bin starts to tailspin? 

Excellent question. And one for which I have an answer because my mind is nothing if not currently spinning its tail...

This someone starts flailing.  And flailing is not necessarily a good thing.  Especially for me. 

I am generally a non-violent person.  I don't yell in anger, only in enthusiasm.  I don't hit anything unless it's called for in sport or game (kicking your foot up to love-tap someone in the bum does not, to my mind, count as violence).  I hate dodgeball. 

But then one of those spectacularly dizzying tailspins begin and I find that I want to smash every mirror, break every reflective surface; I want do dig my heels in somewhere, open my mouth and let out a wail to challenge banshee's.  I want to take all of this essential nonviolence and channel it into a vicious, uncomfortable show of rage.  I want to break bones and hearts and become the Fe Fi Fo Fum giant.  I want to lash out at the people who love me and I want to dive headlong into badness because I don't want to be me anymore.  I don't want to see me anymore.

None of this, however, is appropriate when you are staying in someone else's condo.  A word to the wise- it is generally considered impolite to break things that are not yours.

You can't shatter a world that doesn't belong to you.

So you (I) close your (my) eyes when you (I) brush your (my) teeth, you (I) don't look down in the shower because the crisis brought on by that vision is more than you (I) can bear; you (I) grind every inch of yourself (myself) back into place and plaster a smile on your (my) face.  You (I) drink out of plastic cups.

You (I) pray at the end of every day that the next will be better.  That you (I) will be better. 

And then you (I) wait. Because tailspins do not, in fact, go on forever.  They end eventually- either in a spectacularly dizzying crash, or a quiet slowing-down.

Until that happens, though, here's to plastic cups.

Sometimes My Emails Become My Blog Posts-

-Because I'm sometimes a better writer than even I expect, without even thinking it through.

Earlier today a good friend allowed me to preview something he wrote (he's far wiser than I and his writing proves it fairly consistently.  Although, to be fair, there are toddlers who are far wiser than I) and it started my gears turning.

In response, I sent him an email:

I find myself getting irrationally mad at people, lately.  

I find myself doing this because people are still treating me like I should have a fainting couch or something.  

First of all- I have never fainted, not once.  Passed out cold from lack of sleep during a way-too-long layover in Heathrow Airport, yes.  Fainted, no. 

I have these moments when I just want to start yelling at people- that it doesn't matter than I'm sick- it's MY SICKNESS TO HEAL AND IT'S MY FIGHT TO WIN (or lose as it were)- that it doesn't matter that I was frail for a little while, EVERYONE IS FRAIL AT SOME POINT! 

Again, probably not the response you were truly looking for, but a response nonetheless. I think your line about owning your scars brought it on.  I love my scars.  Each and every one of them, whether self induced (yep, got a couple of those) or from falling down stairs (more than a couple of those) or some other mischief.  I love them because they make me feel strong and they remind me of all the grand trouble into which I have gotten myself.  They are as important to me as my passport stamps. 

Does that make any sense whatsoever?

xo,

K

And in the end, I stand by my email.  I stand by it because Frustration, Loneliness, Fear, Irritation, and Clouded, Lousy Judgment are all a part of life.  And they are beautiful parts of life which reveal the grandeur and depth of the human psyche.  We are allowed to be frustrated, to feel lonely and scared, to find ourselves irritated- both at ourselves and at others.

It is the luxury of being spirited- having feeling.  And we can, and we should, feel all good things and all bad things.  And all things in between.

Until next time.

Two Outta Three Ain't Bad

Once upon a time the first boy who, I think, really ever loved me, asked what I wanted in life.  He was my college boyfriend- my first boyfriend, actually- but not yet when he asked.

When I recall this moment in time, I am often surprised that he pursued me after I paused… and then answered:

"All I want in life is a dog, a jeep, and a house on a cliff by the sea."

All my 20-year-old self wanted in life was a dog, a jeep, and a house on a cliff by the sea.  She did not care about much else.

I wonder sometimes that he did not see the far-away look in my eyes.  Already half a world away, the thought of a simple, graceful life set me light years away from him and from me, from that moment- in the cool evening of North Carolina fall.

I look back on that moment at this moment and think 'well hell- I've got the dog and the jeep.'  And two outta three ain't bad.  And it's nearly three out of three these days because the present Kate would amend that all she wants in life is a dog, a jeep, and a house in the mountains.

New Hampshire is nothing if not mountainous.

These past few days, my first real days has a resident of New England, have proved challenging.  What housing I can afford won't take dogs, what housing I can't… merrily welcomes animals and pets of all nature.  Apartments that are too far away to be realistic and places that are too close to be truly available.

And on top of that, it's still winter in New England- in late March.  Which means Mud Season is yet to come.  Which means both said jeep and said dog are going to be filthy for a good long while.  The jeep does not matter so much, but the dog gets some kick out of jumping on me.  Which means I am going to be filthy for a good long while.

But I still have my boy.  And the jeep is still kicking it.  And the snow, for now, is still bright and beautiful and deliciously deep.

And at the end of the day, it does not matter how dirty, how frustrating, how disconcerting this move proves…

It matters that I am here.

Much love, Friends and Family, and more to come.

Mark It

My life is a carefully measured cocktail of nonsense.

And for the next year, it is going to be an exceptionally well-chilled cocktail.

After many moons of holding back and bolting forward and globe trotting (just because), I am finally making the move north to my beloved New Hampshire.

To be clear- I have been warned: not once, twice, nor thrice, but on more occasions than I can count.  I have been warned that I am being over sentimental and nostalgic.  I have been warned that I am moving at the wrong time for the wrong reasons.  I have been warned that I will, beyond a shadow of a doubt, freeze to death.  Or, at the very least, lose my circulatorily (I did make up that word, yes) delicate digitalia to the cold.

I have been warned.

And yet, here I go.

But I go with a promise to myself (and those of you who follow this blog with some faith know how I feel about making and breaking promises to myself)- a promise that I will give it one year.  Stick it out for exactly one year.  If, after one year, all has gone to hell, then I get to flee back south with tail proudly NOT tucked between legs.  I get to flee to warm weather and four solid seasons.

If, however, I can stick it and NOT freeze, loose fingers or toes, die, etc… I might just try to make it work.

So that's it, kiddos.

Mark it.

My year begins on March 23, 2014.

Yet Another Conversation...

Mom asked me an interesting question the other day while discussing my impending move to New England, the support network I am building for myself there and what to have for lunch:

"Can they handle this ['this' being disordered illness]?"

I paused before responding (which I think shows just how far I've come- both the pregnant pause and the carefully pondered answer) "No one handles it except for those of us with it.  And the only people who can handle us are the ones who love beyond loving us."

To which she replied… "you're not wrong."

I love perfect use of pseudo-double negatives.

More soon, my Dearest of Dear Hearts.

I Am

Annoying
Brutal (sometimes Broken)
Cunning, Coy, Careless, Careful, Calamitous, Chameleon
Diseased
Eloquent, Essential
Fearless, Fearful, Full of It
Grateful
Healing, Hating, Hurricane-like in my Power of Destruction
Inquisitive
Just Shy of Dead (Once Upon a Time), Jealous
Kathrine Seyfried
Lucky to be Loved
Malicious
Nervous and Neurotic and Not a Little Nuts
Obsessed
Powerless and Powerful- Proud
Questioning
Raging
Simultaneously Sinner and Saint and Something in Between
The friend you have who often causes you to roll your eyes
Usually Useless
Vagabond
Weathered
X-many things to X-many people
Young, Yours
Zealous

And that's just the beginning.

The L Word(s)

As I considered an obsessions List for February, I realized (and just now realized this is Valentine's Day month.. how apropos for the title) that so many of my current Loves feature significantly the Letter 'L'.  Seriously, it's a bit weird.  

Let me start with four musical obsessions on the agenda this month.  

Labrinth.  Love this dude.  He has not yet released a full album but what he has released is deliciously contagious and perfectly danceable.  Check out Earthquake.  Trust me. It is the song that first turned me onto him.  

London Grammar.  Okay.  They are drama, and they are pop-y and ridiculous and so melodramatic it almost makes my teeth hurt.  But Sights…. Boundlessly beautiful.  And this gal can SING.

Lorde.  Yes, once again I am Late to the game on that one.  Her music is fun and funky and youthful.  Hello pop-music gladiator (yes, I am slightly obsessed with that Lingo Lately- as exhibited by my previous post), nice to meet you.  And Listen to you. 

Finally, I give you Bastille.  Yes I realize that his name does not start with an L.  It does, however, have the double L going on.  Plus, it is his song Laughter Lines that does something to my soul. This song is beautiful and epic and Lovely to the point of pain.  It is a song about aging and aging again, and remembering, remeeting, revolving around one-another; and the way in which love grows even as we grow up, grow old, together or apart.  I Love it. 

Moving on to other obsessions: this poem blows my mind.  A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy's Day.  There's that pesky L again.  Lucy.  Love. 

Language.  Language is the skeleton key.  It is culture and belief and insight; Language is experience. And I want to Learn them all.  I may be setting myself up for failure, but I need to know! 

That's all for now, I think.  

Until next time.  L all around. 

Winner-Take-All

I cannot tell you why one hates oneself.  But I can tell you how.

Or rather, I can at tell you how this one specific self practices hate.

It starts with a mirror and ends with a gladiatorial battle of the wills (and in my own defense, this is not nearly as vanity driven as a mirror would have you believe).  Gladiatorial.

Because what I see in the mirror is not a person.  What I see in the mirror is a conglomeration- the gathering point of all bad things.  It begins as a person but then, with fracturing subtlety, mutates into a living list of all my faults.  Every horrible thought I have about myself becomes a limb; a strand of hair; an eyelash; a sinew.  My bones become coated with suffusive badness- the infrastructure of disease; the infrastructure to a demon.  Humanity subsides to said disease and demon.  And that demon is a bloody gladiator.

How do you hate yourself?  How do I hate myself?  With boldness and with boundless control; with vigor.  You break your heart, you break your soul, you break your spirit. And then you lose your mind trying to put them all back together with some semblance of grace and goodness.  And for every ferocious inch that you fight, that demon inside of you will laugh and take two back, if not three.  The demon that my body becomes in the mirror has won equally as many battles as I have.

I say equally as many because I am still here.  I struggle every single day and I fight every single day.  But I am still here.  For whatever reason, this damaged brain and brutalized heart, soul, and spirit have decided they, too are gladiators.

I suppose I am writing this because I have to fight.  And sometimes the writing is the only fighting I can do.

Until Next Time..