Most of us have some sort of dream, some sort of interest or ambition that we could imagine doing extremely well some day, perhaps even being publicly recognized for. The fact is, however, that many of us may not have the sheer talent it takes to make that dream a reality, but more often than not what we don’t have is the will, the ambition, or the guts to make our dreams come true.
Sometimes I find myself lost in the pages of a novel, brought deep into the world of fictional characters by the grace and talent of the author. Light headed, I absently turn one page into the next until I am somewhere in the middle of America, or in the dorm room of a prestigious boys prep school in a time before my own. The words speak to me, so delicately and precisely placed on each page, conveying a message and a story that flows and moves like a brilliant symphony.
And then I sit down to a blank screen, a blank sheet of paper, and my inspired dream like state evades me and my insights into love, life, and human kind lose their way from my brain to the paper. They are there in raw from, but the precise and effective words do not come. My hand is not delicate, but heavy and rash, almost forceful and obtrusive to anyone who reads the words that it attempts to write.
When I slowly leak out of the pages of whatever novel I am lost in, leaving the euphoric state of a place where words always move and are never oddly placed, I often find myself staring at a blank computer screen. So what, then, keeps my dream alive when words seem to fail me? I guess its the words that have not failed others, words that lose me within them, and lead me to the computer and keyboard once again.
I can only hope that in at least a few instances some worthyand perfectly placed words do come to me, and when they do, that will be enough.

Written Sept 2004

After the storm I walked along the beach with my family, feeling the wet sand in-between my toes. The sky was a cool grey blue, thick clouds receding to the edge of the earth. Flecks of gold shone through the fading clouds, shedding light on the only recently tranquil earth. As people slowly emerged from indoors, children ran down the beach, voices shrieking with thrilling freedom.
I walked along ahead of everyone, embracing the liberty of aferstorm air. My feet in the whitewash, I was at the edge of a primeval world brimming with life unspoiled.
In this moment I felt the complete and utter tranquility that ensues when I stop to notice all of the amazing intricacies of the world around me. Standing at the edge of the shore where the earth we believe we know so well meets the vast and mysterious sea, I couldn’t help but learn to be still, listening to the crashing of the waves, the rushing sound of salt water retreating back into the sea.
Water washed over my feet, splashed up my legs and filled me, the salt water flooded my body, returning me to my element. The beach I stood on was only a recent evolution, emerging like most other landmasses in recent years from undersea.
And so I stood at what seemed like the edge; a place where human voices faded into the sandy beach behind me as I stood facing a watery Eden. Endless Ocean, the humid sea breeze left me breathless, speechless, and still.

Written Sept. 2004

Some things never change. Some people never change. As you grow up you wait for things to change, for people to get better. But the raw truth of it is that some things never change and most people don’t get that much better.
Good friends, God what an anomaly. Genuinely kind people with no hidden agenda, what a phenomenon. People who will really be there for you, who can really understand you, an almost impossible miracle.
An open heart. An open mind. The intelligence and willingness to want to hear someone else, to want to decipher for themselves what to believe. These things I search for, pain for, but I feel my search is in vain, a search that seems to be proved futile day after day.
But then there are the few. The ones who make the world bearable. The ones who say, “Tell me. I want to know.”
These are the few who won’t abandon you in your time of need, won’t brush you off for that which is more convenient, or because you aren’t what they believe in exactly. A mother, a father, sister or brother. A friend that is still by your side even when you aren’t sure of yourself.
But it is a saddening thought. Expecting this kind of behavior from people. I know that my heart becomes a little heavier, a little more beaten and bruised.
But grudges won’t do anyone any good. So I guess all you can do is hope. Hope for goodness and understanding. Hope for peace.

Written October 2004

Platonic: Pure, passionless, nonsexual; philosophical

Platonic love, Pure. But a love that is pure? Doesn’t that only exist within religion, but even then not really? Love and purity go together as well as fire and water.
Well, I take that back. Romantic love and purity can exist, in the few first love of both parties’ cases. I guess that there, there is a sort of innocence and purity, where jealousy and baggage are for the most part obsolete.

It seems romantic love used to be a much more simple thing. Love, its purpose, its effects, its intentions a lot more clear. But now, now we can only do all we can to not be utterly confused, frustrated, and exasperated by love and what it may mean.
But platonic love, A love, it is said that was greatly admired by Plato himself. Well wouldn’t we all be the wiser to follow in the footsteps of Plato, one of the greatest philosophers to ever live?

Plato once said: “You are young, my son, and, as the years go by, time will change and even reverse many of your present opinions. Refrain therefore awhile from setting yourself up as a judge of the highest matters.”

As the years go by, I seem to often find myself more lost and more confused, more alienated, sometimes more heartbroken, sometimes more lonely then ever. The youthful authority with which I used to designate my emotions, my convictions, and my opinions has faded, and as Plato predicted, has changed me, and has left me somewhere in the dark.

Maybe I ought to take heed of Plato’s fondness for a kind of love that is, in fact, pure. Platonic love. At least it seems a bit less disappointing, a bit less hostile. It seems platonic love does in many cases what romantic love can never do: Platonic love tends to hold less grudges, to be more forgiving, to be, in the end, more eternal.
So as I seek and admire the simplicity of platonic love, I must remember that we will all, inevitably, find ourselves in the position of being involved in what I believe is the lesser of loves, romantic love. And when we do find ourselves in that place, we must remember to “be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

Written Nov 2004

Many of the great writers of our time and far before have lived lives as recluses, or even if popular, it seems they were often tormented by some sort of overwhelming sorrow or anger.
Earnest Hemmingway is considered one of the greatest writers of the twentieth century, writing dozens of novels and short stories, living out adventures as an ambulance driver in the First World War. Hemmingway married four times, and concluded his life by killing himself in a log cabin in Ketcham, Idaho on Sunday 2 July 1961. He tripped the trigger of his double barelled shotgun and was instantly killed.
Tragic? Yes. A great loss to the American public and the rest of the world? Maybe. Personally I could never find myself buried deep in the pages of any of his novels or short stories, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t great, talented, gifted.
William Faulkner led a relatively pleasant life and even won a Nobel Prize for literature in 1950. Faulkner was so famous, however, that this deeply private man was driven to heavy drinking binges. But no matter. Faulkner became one of the most acclaimed southern authors in the United States.
Maybe sorrow, anger, or longing, that is some kind of torment lies behind any great artist, writer or really any great creative achievement. Or maybe its just passion. The greatest subject matter of music, or literature, or poetry is love. Love is definitely a passion. But it is also an agent of torment. Which is stronger?
It seems that through the examination of some of our great American writers, and there are so many more, that in the end, it is this passion of torment that plagues and also drives them.
Because how can you write about love, about loneliness, about despair if you have not some taste of it yourself? How can the conversion occur, from feelings to words, from pondered words to writing on a page? Hemmingway, A Farwell to Arms- the anguish of lost love that burdens your heart forever. Faulkner- Absalom Absalom- the loss of all that you knew, of an innocence that can never be regained.
I often look to these great writers for inspiration. Sometimes for solace. But the greatest thing I have gained from these men and women is that torment is not always a mark of marginalization, but rather, it can also be a mark of potential creative greatness.

Written Nov 2004

Driving through the desert, the purple haze of a still Arizona sky hovers above the crackling black cement. As I glance to my right, I see her straight blonde hair flying through the dry air, her browned skin cracked and dry as she smiles at me. She laughs as I grip the hot steering wheel, shaking her head at my foolish tension. The scene is the same; winding roads dissappearing into endless desert, yet somehow I feel the urgency of the moment, the temporary state of it all this time. I am thrust deep into this subterranean world, here in the desert with her beside me, I know that I will never be here again. Small pools of murky water appear before us on the aspahalt, but then dissapear again once we reach them, an illusion whcih seems to define our muttled presence. Beside me her green eyes settle into a calm gaze, scanning the desert scenery and taking in the photo like frames as they pass at an increasing speed. From far above, the old blue mustang looks like a strange drop of moving water, a forigen object gliding through familar space.

Written March 1st 2005

As I fumbled around my room this morning, I came across the calendar on my desk and suddenly realized it was March. March sounds somehow so different from February. March is spring, its sunshine, its skirts and sandals. And as if right on schedule, the day was warm and there was definitely sunshine. But it wasn’t quite “spring” warm, and as the light of day slipped away into the night, it began to rain. And so it seemed we hadn’t left winter behind at all, that we were right back to yesterday and all the rain filled weeks before.
But there is still something in the air, something that tells me spring really is around the corner, even if it hasn’t fully arrived yet. And that is my promise of warmer days, steadier nights, and perhaps even the hint of something new to come. Spring carries with it visions of new life, of birth, or even rebirth, and resurrection. Perhaps it is time for us all to consider new life, and the hope that consideration brings. Maybe it is time that we offer ourselves personal resurrection. Spring reminds us of the great forces larger than ourselves. Though we go through our lives, loving, hurting, fighting, laughing, losing, and changing, spring comes anyway, and always. Perhaps it is time we take lessons from the constant resilience of the universe and let ourselves surrender to the possibility new life. Forget regret, forgive ourselves, and stop obsessing about the past. Let the warmth of a spring sun melt away our fears, and most importantly let it remind us to give ourselves a break, and move on. Because another season is just around the corner.

Written May 2nd 2005

Bill Gates recently gave a speech at a High School about 11 things they did
not and will not learn in school. He talked about how feel-good,
politically correct teachings created a generation of kids with no
concept of reality and how this concept set them up for failure in
the real world.

Rule 1: Life is not fair — get used to it!

Rule 2: The world won’t care about your self-esteem. The world
will expect you to accomplish something BEFORE you feel good
about

yourself.

Rule 3: You will NOT make $60,000 a year right out of high school.

You won’t be a vice-president with a car phone until you earn both.

Rule 4: If you think your teacher is tough, wait till
you get a boss.

Rule 5: Flipping burgers is not beneath your dignity. Your
Grandparents had a different word for burger flipping — they
called it opportunity.

Rule 6: If you mess up, it’s not your parents’ fault, so don’t
whine about your mistakes, learn from them.

Rule 7: Before you were born, your parents weren’t as boring as
they are now. They got that way from paying your bills, cleaning
your clothes and listening to you talk about how cool you thought
you were. So before you save the rain forest from the parasites of
your parent’s generation, try delousing the closet in your own
room.

Rule 8: Your school may have done away with winners and losers,
but life HAS NOT. In some schools they have abolished failing
grades and they’ll give you as MANY TIMES as you want to get the
right answer. This doesn’t bear the slightest resemblance to
ANYTHING in real life.

Rule 9: Life is not divided into semesters. You don’t
get summers off and very few employers are interested in helping
you FIND YOURSELF. Do that on your own time.

Rule 10: Television is NOT real life. In real life
people actually have to leave the coffee shop and go to work at
jobs.

Rule 11: Be nice to nerds. Chances are you’ll end up working for
one.

And it is exactly that delicate balance between idealism and realism that we must instill in our youth. Because life is hard, unfair, and lonely sometimes, but we do no good instilling fear, dread, and anxiety in receptive young minds and hearts. Rather, we must encourage aspirations to greatness, and dreams for the future, but also responsibility for the whole self. We must all be aware of the nitty gritty reality that is life; pain, suffering, failure, deceit, but we must also remember to feel the good and absorb how much of what drives the universe is love. Ignorance is dangerous, but so is hopelessness. So, what I would say to our youth, adults, and elderly all the same is, never forget that the potential for greatness is in all of us, that opportunity has many forms and is everywhere, and above all, that life goes on.

Written on Sept. 15th, 2005

We all know that we can’t choose our family. We come into this world helpless and vulnerable, left at the mercy of our parents or whoever our “family” or caregivers may be. Some of us are a lot luckier than others; we grow up immersed in love and what we may call stability (because in truth, perfect stability doesn’t really exist), learning as we grow that our family will always be there to care about our accomplishments, share in our joy and listen in our heartache.
When we are young, our familial relationships are defined clearly- we are the children, they the parents. We are the siblings, younger looking to older, or older looking out for younger. But then somewhere in between childhood and adulthood the lines begin to blur. As adolescents we beg for equality, for our words, our thoughts, our lives to be taken seriously, evaluated as worthy and important by our parents or by older family members. But as I have discovered, and alas what my parents of course knew all along, is that I had so much to learn!
The value of age is seriously overlooked in our culture. We value so much, almost incessantly, youth and beauty, but what about wisdom? Perspective. What a valuable asset that we gain as we age. And as I age, I can begin to better imagine what being a parent might be like. With my little wisdom about the world as a young woman of 22, I can already very much understand parental decisions made for young children to protect them, to give them what you think is the best.
But I am still uneasy and very much struggling to understand the parent child relationship of parents with their adult children. As of today I had not spoken to my parents on the phone for about a week (being busy and just not really noticing) and I got somewhat frantic calls from my dad and my mom, including a call by my mom to my boyfriend inquiring about me. It’s nice to be loved so very much, but I have survived these past four years living on my own at college, haven’t I? What I wonder is, will my parents ever really see me as the capable, smart adult that I am, or at least am trying to be?
Maybe financial independence, or a “real” job, will do the trick, but having nether of those does not cancel out what else I have become, and more importantly what I have the potential to be.
All I ask from my family is little understanding, and of course, some perspective. It’s true, I did not choose my mother, my wonderful, strong, beautiful, talented mother, nor my patient, kind, most generous father. I did not choose my siblings, my brave, smart, driven older sisters, but I did choose for myself, for my life, endless times over my brief 22 years.
Family is tricky; you are bound to them for life. Maybe I’ll never understand my parents need to nag their adult daughter. But I have seen beautiful things, felt them, all my life from my family, and I know I am god damn lucky girl.

This day started with feeling foggy, blaze and with the involuntary impulse to simply go through all the motions.
Tired, bored and uninspired, I felt caged and obligated.
But soon with someone else’s dilemmas before me, I forgot myself and emerged from my passive and sorrow laced introversion.
Hearing others stories and woes somehow always seems to put my own life and state in perspective.
Suddenly the bigger picture arrives and I find myself a wise and listening ear.

And so it goes, on with the day, surrounded by the sights and sounds of life so vibrant. I can’t help but feel the endless possibilities of the universe so far stretching. We may run to the coast of somewhere heavy with dramatic sea cliffs, the air so clean and cool it steals the breath away. So small and alive, there is nothing more refreshing.

Or we may stand on the edge of a city so old, so many things created and destroyed, birth of ideas and beauty incarnated in various forms of human expression. The stories told so carefully and graced with the apprehensive but thoughtful hand searching for the perfect words to express the depth of their souls. We breathe in the extent of human possibility and the fragile balance between life and death.

And we may come home. Marvel in love that bounds us to those so precious to us in our short lives. We took a moment to appreciate fierce independence, and now we relent to the pure joy and peace of deeply bonded companionship. A home cooked meal and a hug from mother, a release of laugher with close friends or the sure hand of another in yours of a life’s love.

So take joy from the possibilities of the universe.
The mind, this earth, the fulfillment of human potential create overwhelming opportunities to become wise and inspired.
I feel completely empowered.
Just call me Buddha.