Jayne Says

Let Me Stand Next to your Fire

Hello Darlings. Okay, make that six months.

Allow yourself to fully experience your desire for an object of pleasure. Even though you may know intellectually that it will lead you down the same old path, you may have never fully and consciously acknowledged your attachment to it. There is energy in that infatuation. The pure force of your own desire may subject you to cellular shaking. Be willing to experience the whole of that force and not go numb or dissociate. Experience the burning of being awake and conscious in a bonfire of of desire.

- Gangaji,The Diamond in your Pocket 

I am willing to submit myself to the cellular shaking of desire.

I am willing to live in the NOW.

I am willing to delight in the joy of existence. I forgive myself. Life is good.

Checking In

Hello . . . ? Is this thing on? 

This Tennessee Williams quote keeps haunting me: “A prayer for the wild at heart, kept in cages.” And no, not just because Angelina Jolie has it tattooed on her arm.

A five month all-consuming distraction sucked me in and has just spit me out the other side. I'm a little bewildered, forever changed and better than ever. But I am in need of a long, hot shower.

For reasons I won't go into here, my heart is breaking. But I have realized that's okay. I am letting my heart break fully, openly, without defense or hope of rescue. I am no longer running from fear, pain, disapproval, anger. Even joy or love. I have been inviting it all in, meeting it fully. I have never felt more present.

I got a new tattoo - pictures once it's finished.

The family is moving up to southern Oregon soon. I hate where we currently live. This town is (ironically) called Paradise. Conservative, religious, retirement town. I'm not ready to retire. T will be fixing up the house here to put on the market while I move pretty soon. I am excited to live on my own for a while, get my head straight. In a community where I might fit in a little better than here.

I appreciate T so much. For giving me this time and space, for giving me a break. A sabbatical - from work, school, marriage, blogging, whatever you need a break from - can do wonders. Trust me.

Anyway, I think I'm ready to return here. We'll see. I can't wait to see who of my blogging buddies are still around, and what you are all up to!

Blog? What Blog?

I seem to have lost interest in this medium. Fickle bitch, me --  I know. I am going away for a while. Not officially shutting down shop, but I honestly have nothing new to say. No engrossing stories, no new insights, no political rants, no . . . need to express. Strange. But good.

If this feeling persists over the next month or so, I will officially say goodbye. I will still be reading your blogs and am so grateful for all of the wonderful people I have met here!

Immodest Mouse

Any of us can indulge in self-congratulatory fantasies about how courageous we will be when crisis hits. It is only when actually faced with danger -- a charging elephant, enemy fire, a blind date gone awry -- that we can truly know of what substance we are made. Hero or coward, (wo)man or mouse?

Having now survived a laser beam trained on my legs and pink parts, I can now walk a little taller, knowing how courageous I am. Braver, smoother . . . poorer.

Paying the Rent with their Rock

I wish I had something more substantial to share, but I'm hoping if I purge my current superficialities here, I can move on. First, The Pilot got me the soundtrack to Tenacious D, the Pick of Destiny. I enjoyed the movie (which you can't take too seriously or soberly) and love the lyrics. We have listened to it over and over.

Here's a little clip from the movie, with Jack Black and Kyle Gass in JB's dream, singing a song called Master Exploder. Why do I love Jack Black so? I think it's because of his infectious creativity, bravery and silliness. He seems so completely un-self-conscious. I would love to be that free! And, Dude, the eyeliner:

Also, I got hooked on Grey''s Anatomy the past few months, renting the disks for the first two seasons. I started watching because three people in a row told me I looked like Ellen Pompeo and I had no idea who she was and wanted to see. She's this tiny little thing, but I do like her character and I got sucked into that show. (And I will be forever grateful to Ms. Pompeo for replacing Cheers-era Kirstie Alley as the person I always used to remind others of!)

The other thoughts preoccupying my mind include laser hair removal, eyebrow waxing and a cool combo hair dryer-brush I just got. Yeah. Vapid is as vapid does, Forrest. We'll save the world tomorrow, okay? But while rocking out, with cute hair.

Epiphany

I have not really stopped moving, other than to be sick (or "exercising my immune system," rather) for the past few weeks. I am in another town, again, today. We had a lovely time in Utah, but endured a whole lot of driving.

Two weeks ago, whilst in San Francisco, I met up with a colleague and friend of mine. She mentioned how several people I work with think of me as blunt, intimidating or otherwise unpleasant. When she said this, I experienced a moment of gripping panic, of disapproval, of wanting to scramble to make it up to these people, prove myself likable.

But that moment, that feeling of a bad child needing approval from some perceived authority figures, suddenly cleared. I felt at peace, I relaxed and smiled at my friend. I changed the topic. I actually finally don't care if people (namely opposing counsel) don't like me. Seriously. My clients like me and pay me well to be an intimidating, blunt, bitch who wins for them.

I know many people learn this lesson early on, in grade school -- that it's okay if not everyone likes me. I guess I'm a late bloomer but it really is liberating for me to be free of caring about that. This is a big deal for me, a breakthrough. No matter what stance you take, how diplomatically and compassionately you try to live your life, somebody, somewhere will be unhappy with your choices.

They won't like the way you look, what you wear, your chosen profession, the words you choose, your partner, the food you eat, the music you enjoy, your vices of choice, or, you know, the dozens of intimidating letters you keep sending, demanding justice.

Fuck them all, my dears. Love yourself, live boldly, take a stand, speak out, be strong and dance a little. Dance a lot.

(I am not blognoring you, really. I will catch up soon.)

On the Road Again

Greetings, from the drizzly Bay Area. (Do non-Californians know the Bay Area refers to the San Francisco Bay Area? I understand you won't always know "the City" means San Fransisco. But do you know you must never, ever, say "San Fran" or, worse, "Frisco" (shudder) when discussing this fine city? Just trying to keep my readership cool, which is a thankless job but somebody has to do it.)

Busy week, lots of travel, briefs due, conference, etc. And I'm just scooting some of those earlier posts down the page a wee bit. Am I the only one who hates and regrets just about everything I write?

Anyway, I hope all is well and I can't wait to catch up on my favorite blogs when I catch my breath.

Support The Troops, Always?

I understand that questioning the collective blind, adoring support of our military troops is (to understate) a politically incorrect concept. I've seen so many, particularly those burdened with the heavy invisible backpacks of liberal guilt, including myself, quickly amend their anti-war sentiments with an automatic "of course, I support the troops, 100%."  Really? Always?

My husband, The Pilot, is ex-military, as are many of our friends. Loved ones have served in Iraq. I am hardly anti-military.

And I honor and support the human traits of courage, strength, loyalty and selflessness, in military and all other endeavors.

But really, are all soldiers, just by virtue of enlisting (or becoming officers) automatically entitled to my adoration?

My heart goes out to all of those caught in grievous situations, torn from their families, mired in a political, religious and cultural swamp. My heart breaks for all of our citizens who are injured or die in combat, on a foreign soil, far away from home.


But my heart equally breaks for the thousands of innocents we are killing on their own soil, in their own homes.

A former boyfriend of mine, in the National Guard (and probably in Iraq now, who knows?) kept telling me he wanted to "serve his country." I guess I was questioning him a bit about his military involvement. I asked him why he couldn't serve his country by becoming a teacher, or some other public servant. He felt called to military service, and I respected that.

Judging from the stories I have heard back from Iraq, our troops and civilian security and other forces are on the whole pretty miserable, and have found themselves in an exhausting, dangerous, confusing, surreal experience. I imagine there are thousands of Iraqi citizens feeling pretty similarly right about now.

Our citizens need the unconditional support (fiscal, intelligence, equipment, honesty) from the people who sent them there, not necessarily from me.

Again, my heart breaks. This war, most wars, make me think of lemmings, following each other off a cliff (do they really do that, or is it a myth?) But that's not the right metaphor. That metaphor is somewhat patronizing and reveals my arrogance; it assumes that the individuals don't fully realize what they are doing. That they have not made fully-informed choices. Otherwise, they wouldn't be killing people in a bogus occupation, right?

However, if our troops are not blindly obeying (as they are trained, as they must, to be unflinchingly combat-ready), and if they are wide awake and aware and thus have personal responsibility for their actions, for the killings that they are perpetuating, then I will not, and cannot, blindly support them all.

Not as some cozy, fuzzy, yellow-ribboned, ideal, anyway.

I support their pain and the fact that they must make impossible choices under questionable circumstances, and that they are away from home, and that's about the best I can do today.

Happy Veteran's Day.

Banner Week

Do you ever have weeks where so much goes wrong, the little and large frustrations cumulate so that you burst into tears a little? (If so, Jeez, suck it up already. Loser. That never happens to me. Really . . .)

I finally got my computer back. She's a little unsteady, like she's just awakened out of a coma. And she has amnesia. Hypnosis helped to recover some, though not all, of her lost memories.

I think I've been unnaturally attached to my laptop.

Attachment and desire lead to suffering, or so they say.

I won't bore you with how shitty this week has been for me, how my normally cheery (or at least stoic) outlook has been challenged.

BUT things are looking up. Yay, Dems. The Pilot thinks this is all a trap, and I am so proud of this rare burst of paranoia, but I hope he's wrong. And we're going to Utah for Thanksgiving ~ choosing friends over family this time.

I Think I Voted

I won't say anything bad about the man who has my laptop. Considering he may have all my files. He may be reading my blog, looking at my pictures (!), rocking out to my music in his double-wide at the trailer park across town. I will say nothing at all about his huge glasses, white hair, trembling hands, that thing on his lip. Or the trailer park (albeit a clean one) Mac service office where he lives.

Heck of a nice guy. And I have nothing but confidence in him and his ability to recover my data, music and picture (!) files and install my new hard drive and new OS. He's only had the bloody thing (my baby! my office!) for 4 days now.

I will go drop off my absentee ballot now. I don't like voting in person for some reason (lazy) and even though the Diebold machines haven't reached my rural neck of the woods yet, for some reason I trust paper more.

I don't know why, it's not like they can run a simple program to hack election results. Check out this video (I'd embed it, but my husband's browser, whine whine whine . . .)

It's short and it consists of a hacker testifying how he was paid to write such a program and tip any election result 51-49 for which ever side pays. Strongly suggesting this was done in Ohio a few years ago.

And don't forget, y'all, every time you vote Republican, God kills a kitten! (I know I've posted this picture before, but Shephard reminded me of it again and really, does it ever get old?)