the fog

i step slowly through the dark heavy doors and pull them closed behind me, head bowed in lengthy deliberation. worn brass door latches close against one another with a tiny underwhelming click as though voicing their disdain. i am abandoning the transparent sunlit life i have always known for this ignominious place. the doors know this, and they scorn my choice.

i raise my head in cautious defiance. i am taking these steps for a reason

its not cold and its not hot but i can feel the air coursing over my entire body as the fog envelops its newest addition.

dense. white. it conceals my naked frame from other eyes, while concealing everything from view, even the hand i have outstretched in front of me. the doors have disappeared right behind me. i cannot see anything, and nothing can see me.

glorious

the path under my bare feet feels soft but strangely dry unlike my damp skin. it pulses with a living energy that in other situations takes time to tune into, but here is vivid like the scent of orange blossoms. you cant help but notice it and be seduced by its appeal

not knowing where to go, or if there is a 'where to go' i begin to walk, slowly at first. the garish translucence of my past makes this future feel ungainly. acquiring blindness at this late point in the game requires due diligence and respect, so i walk haltingly, eyes open wide darting too and fro searching for a break in the fog, a glimpse of what lies in my path

but the fog doesnt break, it doesnt even twitch, and soon my darting anxious expression is traded in for quiet rapture.

i continue to walk and the path begins to change, leading up at some points and down at others. i sense that i am not alone, but in my wanderings i stumble across nothing that confirms that hunch, so i begin to believe it simply because it feels true, and thats the only sense i can rely on.

and i walk on
for hours,
and then surely for days,
and then time starts to fade like a dream.

still, my mind is heavy. and my heart is dark.

nothing masks the reality that brought me to this place. that made blindness safer than the false clarity of those who see. nothing overshadows the fact that i made this choice because i could no longer see with my heart and my mind what my eyes had me convinced i was looking at. the dissonance was so deafening that the world became an impossible place. so i closed the doors on it, and sought comfort in the predictability of the thick ever occlusive fog

i am giving up on knowing the future. it cant be done and the constant pursuit of it breaks my soul. i am giving up on living side by side with my past. mistakes of yesteryear never get to be of yesteryear if they are repeated cyclically

my only choice is to go blindly, timidly, and to work toward the beauty of the unknown.

i cannot see, and i cannot be seen therefore nothing is expected and nothing is required. my life is once again my own, without cause for disappointment, anger or fear.

in the fog, i begin to feel restored

tea time

The icy skeleton
of my former starbucks
chai tea latte
pools on the desk
in a heap of
muggy condensation
the logo's goddess now appears forlorn
at her sudden transparency

oh how i feel her loss!

and still
theres beauty
in the empty clarity of loss
beauty in the organization
of a system left wanting
for virtue and life

hope in the relic of past potential
and of future goodness

I need a JOB

so im officially asking the universe, in a public forum

please, send me a job


i have looked, and applied

and been overqualified

but

massage and skin care arent recession proof

as i am regretfully learning.


. . .

i still need a job though.

low maintenance, high yield

Several years ago, I was sitting in a fifth Sunday combined Relief Society/ Priesthood meeting where the Second Counselor made a lesson out of his garden, and it stuck with me.

The premise of his lesson is the title of this post, and it goes something like this:

Backyard vegetable gardens are fun projects but are, at least initially, a very bad investment. Top soil, ground plastic, planter boxes, fertilizer, watering systems and seed can run a very high tally, so much so that, at the harvest of the first growing season, the toiled over tomato crop may run about $17.75 a fruit. However, take that same planter box, soil, ground plastic, and watering system the next season, add a little more fertilizer and some more seed to it, and not only does the cost of your tomato crop drop drastically, but the yield is generally much much higher.

This principle can be clearly seen in old well established vegetable gardens where perennial berry bushes, fruit trees and rich soil produce beautiful plentiful harvests once, twice, or even three times a year, with little more than an occasional weeding and regular watering at the hand of the gardener. The once expensive, high maintenance, low yield investment is transformed into an inexpensive, low maintenance, high yield and highly cherished contribution to the gardener and her home.

The second counselor drew the parallel that we should seek to be low maintenance, high yield with God too. I have since drawn several parallels to this parable within varying aspects of my life.

Most recently, a friend with whom I had long ago shared this analogy declared that a person either is or isn't low maintenance, high yield, and that relatively few people legitimately are. He believes attempting to become such a thing is as dubious an endeavor as attempting to become more funny or more witty. Basically, you either are, or you aren't and thats that.

His girlfriend was high maintenance, high yield. I perceive that this is a fairly common attribute among women. Put at lot into a woman, give her a lot to work with, and she will do many brilliant amazing things. But, the investment should be constant and large volume, akin to remodeling the basic structure of the garden every season. Adding a fountain, taking out a planter, relocating a fruit tree. You get the idea.

But then, according to my friend he himself is low maintenance, low yield. Often, men need very little input, and they can pretty much maintain a status quo indefinitely, but will also produce only the minimum needed to sustain that status quo. I feel this is much like spitting watermelon seeds into the sandbox. Yeah, a plant or two might appear, and maybe a small melon, but no intent is given to the outcome of those tiny seeds.

And here, I begin to puzzle. I feel strongly that, at least within an individual, it is possible to be low maintenance, high yield, but it does seem to defy the common course of things. What drives some people to seek perpetual support, to essentially be high maintenance? Conversely, what prevents others from independently pursuing their dreams, basically making them low yield?

Many of us are limited by what we believe we can accomplish. Culture, religion, family, and personal expectations bind us to a reality that is no accurate representation of our capabilities or talents. Unfortunately this misrepresentation is skewed toward the low end, so consequently, our personal confidence is trapped behind prison bars that don't actually exist.

Others of us are limited by our desires; we don't know what we want. Not because the information isn't available, but because we aren't listening to the source of that information as much as we listen to the running commentary proffered by those evaluating our desires. Similar cultural and social limitations encroach on our dreams, tying us to the desires of other people, drowning out our own.

I wonder what might happen if we let them go? What if we blew the bars off the prison around our confidence and let the dove of our desire fly free? Would we ultimately land in a place where a deep well of inner strength and peace meets a boundless passion for living life completely? Would we finally be home? Is that really what a low maintenance, high yield life looks like? I'm inclined to believe it does, and if so, I for one can't wait to get there. I bet the tomatoes from that garden would taste unbelievably great.

where the music lives

i go to sleep at night, and in that twilight that comes between wakefulness and sleep often my brain starts singing to me.

i know, its weird, but i swear its true.

slowly, as my consciousness starts to wander, i inevitably come to the beginning of a dream, and the soundtrack begins. its always a song i've never heard, to a tune i've never even imagined, but i can hear it clearly, and if im aware enough i can sometimes even manipulate it.

and i realize somewhere in the back of my mind if i stopped beginning to sleep at that point, and grabbed a tape recorder or some similar device i might be able to transport this secret other-worldly soundtrack into the world i live in by day, but most usually i am so entranced by the landscape of dreams that thus far i have never retreated with the composition.

but the fact remains: there is music inside me. i told esther this years ago and she bugged me for months to pursue that fact in some tangible way. so far, i never have, and for better or worse thats the reality.

though, the true lesson i glean from these symphonic experiences ends up being one of curiosity. if i, a lowly nursing student and massage therapist, have music beating a path around the inside of my brain, what other extraordinary creations grace the soft squishy parts of my friends and cohorts?

are we all really creative genius waiting for the right force or motivation to press a unique perspective out of us and into the world in which we reside?

who else dreams in soundtrack? who dreams in something infinitely deeper?

i may never know, but i get caught up in the hope of that possibility.

perhaps that is the gift we casually label humanity.

ode to wally world

Walmart sucks
Walmart sucks so much
They suck because they make crappy crap
Then they sell it to you for 2 cents cheaper than everyone else
And then it breaks
And you throw it back at walmart
And you break the window
And then the cops come
But you don’t care
Because its walmarts fault for making
Crappy crap
And making
Small
Chinese children
Work in sweatshops
To save two cents
Walmart is the devil
And they make
Crappy crap

my female brain

i got to spend the fourth of july weekend in salt lake, it was really fun. . .

not so much the broken car on the way up, but more the company, especially the conversation.

i realized this weekend that i looooooove good conversation. i dont discriminate either, it can come from boys girls men women i dont care. just make me think in such a way that i have not thought before.

kate, my friend, does this for me, and i want to thank her for that. we spent over 36 hrs driving to and from utah, and neither of us slept the entire time, we just kept talking, thinking, sharing.

and as a result i have discovered that i have a decidedly distinct female brain.

if i can say something in 50 words instead of 5 i will do it, not to hear myself talk but to ensure that im communicating completely.

i cant speak on any one topic without arguing myself into and out of every opinion or position.

and i believe in my heart of hearts that if i were more beautiful that my life would be a LOT better.

the first two discoveries were fairly routine, just not discussed.

the third was somewhat unsettling. kate expressed the same discovery, and a similar unease about its reality.

dont misunderstand me, i dont feel completely unfortunate looking. mostly to the credit of my friends, i feel i am a beautiful woman. however i recognize that there are women of greater beauty. its that greater beauty speak of.

something, somewhere, somehow i have not only heard but internalized that its my job, nay my duty, nay my purpose to be VERY beautiful at all times, and that the better i achieve this, the more happiness/success/pleasure i will get out of my life.

i want to refute this belief. but i have much evidence of it

so then i want to change the circumstances from which this belief grew, but i cant take on the culture of the world

and then the whole other success driven/prideful part of me starts hollering and screaming something to the tune of "if you cant beat them, JOIN THEM"

and then im stuck

power is represented in beauty, money, persuasion, and fame. any or any combination of these generally yields opportunities to gain more power. power tends to be what you need to get what you seek. ie those with power get what they want.

i want to be happy.

what power will get me that?

do i just keep doing what im doing and hope that happiness finds me before i die? do i take $150,000 and sink it into a new face/body in hopes that the power of beauty will catalyze my happiness? do i just forget it, stop seeking happiness, and find simple joy in day to day pleasures or interactions?

i dont have these answers. i dont know what will bring me to the equilibrium i so desperately seek. eastern philosophy suggests that letting go of wanting anything, including happiness, will ultimately yield it; and though that sounds good, it still feels a little too . . . uncertain

and ultimately i still wind up believing that if i were more beautiful my life would be directly better.

this woman knew how to want

Eva Cassidy only moved out of musical obscurity two years after her death, and only thanks to a trusting BBC radio DJ. . .

i hope you enjoy her

free to choose but not free to want; therefore not free to choose

its like breathing
and crying
and dancing
and laughing till your belly hurts and you cant stop coughing

im free to choose because im free to want
no limitations
no shoulds
no appeals to or diminishment of a greater good

just free to want

to have passion

to desire

to become infatuated
to chase
to follow
to be led

i dont have to want what you want but i might
and you dont have to like what i want but you might as well


if i can learn to want completely. to give into desire, i will have learned or unlearned something real


is there a good way to explain it?

i dont know what i want because ive forgotten how to want. i only know how to please or to dissappoint.

all my desires, thoughts, behaviors center around pleasing or dissappointing other people, therefore its all im worried about, and all i can be happy about achieving

the last thing i really wanted was neb

and i was so conflicted about that completely engulfing desire that the opportunity diminished

i want to desire so much that its not even a choice that i pursue.

i want to feel and experience, and proliferate, and generate

i want

to




live

genuinely, happily, fully, passionately

then. . . what am i?

i am not my mother.

this came to me yesterday.

most women turn into their mothers. i feel this inevitability is directly tied to the age at which that woman marries. my mothers mother married the weekend after her high school graduation. my mother married weeks before her 21st birthday. i am now 26 with no vows in sight, but with the slightly profound realization that i am certainly not my mother. perhaps i never was going to be, though i feel most strongly now that no matter what, thats an unlikely end for me.

strange tho, that i am not my father either.

last night this line of thinking drew me down

down

down

until i came to something i couldnt name. something ayn rand has undoubtedly mulled over.

it went something like this:

i am not my mother
i am not my father

i am not even my relatives or ancestors

i am not any of my relationships

i am not my beauty
i am not my ugliness
i am not my gifts and skills
i am not my mistakes and misgivings

i am not my emotions
i am not my logic

i am not my experiences
i am not my goals and aspirations

i am not my education
i am not my bank account

i am not my resume

i am not my memories
i am not my friends
i am not my enemies

i am not the place i was raised
i am not the places ive been

i am not my insecurities
i am not my strengths

i am not my religion
i am not my sins

i am not my judgements
i am not my tolerances

i am not all good
i am not all bad

i am not all of any one thing.


but, this all begs the question:



what,

then,

is left

that i am?

retirement

i dont know what came over me.

really, i don't

but it just sounded like a good idea.
and you know lately everything's just been so. . . malleable

so, today i started my retirement account.
partly inspired by mr mark's new blog, and partly due to the fact that moving seems to flex all the organizational muscle you have, i did it, and its a permanent thing.

and by permanent i mean like super glue permanent.

literally.

it went something like this:

i took the biggest glass bottle ive ever seen, the kind chicago deli's keep their pickle spears in, i took a screw driver to the top to create a slot, super glue to the lid to help me keep my spending impulses at bay, and a black sharpie to the front, which now reads:

'Tacy's Retirement'

then i dropped into it every spare penny, nickel, and dime that i came across in my unpacking/organizing spree.

all told ive got something to the tune of 4.39 saved, but for one day, thats not bad.

and hell, we've all gotta start somewhere.

and it begins. . .

so, i'm going home.

again.

and im really trying to do it without feeling like a big fat failure.

its hard though, to not feel the defeat, when the school you hired to educate you fires you.

ahhhhh well, life lesson #1,297,563 learned.

in reflection of my time in colorado, i did make a lot of connections.

i have acquired dozens of friends whom i will keep for a long time.

and i have to admit that in and of itself is worth the grief it took to come.

i will miss the mountains, and if i could take the weather back with me, this might be the perfect situation.

colorado, i will miss you. . . friends and family gained, i will take you with me in my heart, and please keep me in yours as i endeavor a new beginning yet again.

my new beginning

my genesis.

-tacylane