Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Fred Meyer
The red maple has turned to fire, and its been almost tropical, even balmy when it rains. The leaves are slowing falling and blowing around the grass, asphalt, and sidewalk, as everyone wants to own the warm autumn days. The sirens are loud today and some projects are mostly done. There is a calmness and peace while the baby sleeps, yet his cells are busy at work growing and growing and growing. How could people not love children? How could people deny hope and passion and optimism? How can people think to be cruel? Why are people always fighting and needing to be right? Why is everyone obsessed with black and white? Right and wrong? I went to the grocery store the other day and everyone seemed sad, or medicated, or mentally ill, or drugged out. It was as if I were in a movie and all the actors were hired to look terribly down and out. One customer made the checker cry, and another could only slur slowly when she spoke. People are not happy and I want to know why. What is happiness and how can we all achieve it? No one should be left out. Life is too short to live on crushed dreams and anger. Life is too precious to sit idle.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Heroine
I imagine that I have suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I hate psychiatrists (most of them) with a passion, because they force people to live in the past, think something is wrong with them, label people as relentlessly abnormal and bad, and over-prescribe highly addictive and mood altering medication that have serious side effects. Studies have shown that going to a shrink actually does nothing at all for people, or sometimes even makes people much worse. Ugh, and the nerve to drug children, makes me sick. Sometimes I think the same society that has so many shrinks is just a society full of babies who want to complain and feel sorry for themselves. It's as if we have given ourselves permission to be miserable, because we are "damaged goods". Then for some reason we need to pay someone to "talk" about it. They tried to make me go to counselors, but I resisted with diligence. It was as if I were living in some old time movie about institutionalizing crazy women who really weren't crazy. They just hated their bastard husbands and the financial power they had over them. I retreated from society, because society treated me like a science experiment. I retreated from friends and family, because they insisted I go "talk to someone".
But now, after years to reflect, I realize that PTSD is a real thing. Life is one way for may years: comfortable, constant, reliably boring at times, and love is exactly where you know it is. Then one day, things change so much that it is impossible to adjust. Trauma. It comes in so many forms and really changes people and creates brutal identity crises. From my experience, the only option is to "accept" whatever has happened-definitely don't fight change like a 2 year old little spazz. Or, don't scream and yell about whose fault everything is, don't wish for the impossible, and don't bury your kid in a pet cemetery. All of these are bad ideas.
Acceptance. You've heard it a million times in corny self help groups, but life will make you wanna kill yourself a hundred times until you really know what "acceptance" is. Happiness is the sister planet to acceptance. Forgiveness and compassion for yourself and others is the only way to keep from wasting a perfectly good life. Easy for me to say I guess. I have never walked in anyone's shoes but my own, and adversity is infinitely present in all living things. What kind of adversity has created resistance to happiness in your life? For every star in inner space, there is a story to tell of great adversity and courage. Sometimes something great or amazing perceived by one person or an entire community is actually hell for someone else. Everyone has waited for my story-with both love and hate towards me- for so many years and now. I admit that I was quiet, because I wanted to hurt someone. I'm still not sure who I wanted to hurt, but my silence was my payback. It made me feel in control. But now I will tell it.
I was sitting on the porch and wanted another cold beer on a hot summer day. It rained for 9 weeks straight in Portland and we never thought summer would come. Mother Nature (or God) peed on us cold rain in sheets that seemed never ending and filled all the rivers for many many miles. If I had only known how much would change after that long and foreshadowing spring. Then one day, Summer came and she was wearing a bikini top, the sprinklers were on all day, the kiddie pool was full of dirty water, and I wanted to be a sloth. Somehow all the kids still had the energy of bottle rockets and eyes full of excitement and lemonade stands. These are good kids, with wonderful parents in several houses on our street. I really felt blessed to have such a great group of people in our neighborhood. The heat was overbearing, in a subtropic kind of way, dryer than one would think a green belt of life in the North West could be.
I had a small summertime heat beer buzz. I was keeping an eye on my 3 year old son, while he was in front of the neighbors house. We all looked out for each other and respected boundaries by being responsible for our own with out asking for too many favors. But if a favor was needed, most parents helped out, especially Christina, she is the best. Funny, sweet, smart, and a thoughtful mom of 2 girls, one younger autistic girl and one older daughter from a previous relationship. The parents and the kids were always welcome at our house, although, we were not "best" friends, just good neighbors. The family two doors down also has 2 kids, a 5 year old boy and a 6 year old girl. They are "in your face" kids-they are very social. When you are not in the mood, I would send them away, but overall I really enjoyed their company. The little boy was sensitive and so very kind, and the girl was funny and outgoing and a naturally connected soul.
So I sat there, hot and thirsty. I should have been drinking water, but the alcoholic in me just wanted another beer. I got up, looked down the road and saw all the kids out front playing. My son was sitting down and playing with mini skateboards, the girls were jumping on the mini trampaline, and the little boy was over by the bush. I turned around and was holding the screen door with one hand and my empty beer in the other. I started going inside and stepped in ready to clsoe the screen door behind me. I hesitated for a second and felt a strong urge to look at the kids again. SOmehow, I knew something wasn't right, so I looked out and saw a maroon car trying to drive away with Joey in the car!!. I immediatly ran, pushing open the screen door, dropped my beer, grabbed my skateboard, and ran for the car with all my might. I was wearing my god damn flip flops, but I still ran with all the speed my skinnly legs could run. I ran so fast that the car only passed my house by 20 feet or so. I reached behind me with the hand holding the skate board and threw it at full force directly into the back window of the car. It made the window smash for the most part but some glass was still holding the skateboard half way out the back window. The car started to screech off and peeled out burning the ruber tires and shooting the tail end first quickly to the right and then very quickly he over-corrected and skid to the left. He attempted to make a sudden right turn and almost made it, but ended up going up the curb plowed into the neighbors fig tree. The small crash slowed him down enough so I could continue to run down the street after him in my god damn flip flops and jump up on the trunk and through the hole in the window the skateboard made. I rushed through, cutting myself pretty violently as the driver was backing up and going forward to try to get away. The car smelled like rotten food and mold. Joey was in the front seat screaming his head off and I tried to bring him into the back seat thinking I could get him out. He was terrified. His eyes were big and brown and it was a look I will never forget. I should have hit the driver first or grabbed him around the neck. I know that's what I should have done, but I just wanted to get Joey out of there. Then the driver- the pervert, the child rapist, the kidnapper-tried to fight me for him. We struggled with his little body, and I couldnt get a good grip on him. I had to let go of Joey to grab the skateboard again. I tried to hit the driver in the temple several times, but the board kept barely hitting the side of his head and sliding off -making a meager impact every time. I seemed to be in control there for a moment when I helped Joey jump into the back seat, but then I lost hope when the driver turned around and had a gun in my face. A big fucking gun. I put the skateboard in front of my face, and he shot at me. I don't know where the bullet hit me or how bad it was, but the sound was loud enough to blow out my ears. The back door opened finally and Joey got out with the smoke that filled the car and the driver tried to take off. He was shooting at me aimlessly while he was driving...shooting in the back seat as I was trying to take cover on the floor. He kept driving fast and crazy and the he finally stopped shooting for a moment. I got up and took the splintered shot-up skateboard and bashed him in the head really hard right in the temple. He fell over on the steering wheel and the car crashed into a parked car. The neighbors came running over, and the driver still didn't move. I was bleeding terribly from many places. I could not feel my legs. I could see the hole in my thigh was bleeding too much to be good. I thought that I might pass out, but I crawled out of the car and laid on the grass on one of the neighbors yards. I explained to someone that the man in the car was a kidnapper and must be kept there until the police came and Joeys dad came down from his house with a shotgun and stood over the slumped over driver with the shotgun in his face. But, I guess, I killed the driver with the last blow. He never moved again.
He certainly did not kill me though. I was there on the grass, floating delicately between life and death. My breath was shallow and wheezy, and it scared me a little. I was so cold suddenly-on a hot summer day-I was so cold. The ambulance and the cops came, and I mustered up enough energy to tell the cops to go to the drivers house. "You better go look through that guys house, because you know he's done this before." I demanded that the FBI come to my hospital room, and I demanded that they too check his house, because I knew he had done this before. The FBI did look eventually, and I was right. They found mementos and newspaper clippings of 8 other children who have disappeared from several states in the country. That man was a sick fuck. I killed one of the worst kind of people in this world. He cant do it anymore and he wont. But, killing a person was not easy for me. I was not proud of it. I was not comfortable with it, and no one could respect my space for a long time to come. God damn Barbara Walters wanted to come out of retirement to talk to me. I was stalked by the media for several years after this, and I was not seeing the experience the same way as anyone else in the world. I was famous in a flash. I was a heroine of mythical proportions. A superwoman who wanted nothing more than privacy and some space to heal. The world put me on a pedastal and harrassed me.
The media wanted to talk to me while I was on my death bed. I had to hide at a little hospital not used to treating famous people and the media was sneaky. They would pretend to be family or friends, just to get a picture of me. My house and my street was constantly being watched for news, and I was on the cover of People Magazine without my permission. My past was looked into: my parents, my siblings, my co-workers, everyone . My life was under a miscroscope. I know how it works....they build you up before they shoot you down. I was a heroine until they wanted to make me a villain. "No comment" I said. " No comment" At least until I can sit up on my own, you greedy fuckers. Baboons, I tell ya. Baboons are classier than the media. I have a good friend who does PR in Los Angeles, so i called her first, and asked her, what the hell do I do now. She said: "Get a makeover and look good while you are keeping quiet" I thought that was a good idea, so I had someone come in and do my hair, so it covered my blown off ear, and I got my make up done and walked to my car 2 weeks later and went home. The media sat out front of my small house for 1 month, until they realized I had no interest. I was offered 75,000 for an interview. I declined. What on earth do they need to know? Why would I want to be famous? I was just minding my own business one day, and I was on every news channel in the country the next. It was hard. It was traumatic. And I killed someone. I was scarred for life and I was trapped in my own house. But now, fifteen years later, I accept it. I accept it while I sit here in the Bahamas with the money and the computer my agent sent me to tell my story. Well, do you have any questions dear reader? What is it you want to know about me so bad? With all acceptance, forgiveness and compassion in my heart, what is it you would like to know about me and my experience as a heroine?
But now, after years to reflect, I realize that PTSD is a real thing. Life is one way for may years: comfortable, constant, reliably boring at times, and love is exactly where you know it is. Then one day, things change so much that it is impossible to adjust. Trauma. It comes in so many forms and really changes people and creates brutal identity crises. From my experience, the only option is to "accept" whatever has happened-definitely don't fight change like a 2 year old little spazz. Or, don't scream and yell about whose fault everything is, don't wish for the impossible, and don't bury your kid in a pet cemetery. All of these are bad ideas.
Acceptance. You've heard it a million times in corny self help groups, but life will make you wanna kill yourself a hundred times until you really know what "acceptance" is. Happiness is the sister planet to acceptance. Forgiveness and compassion for yourself and others is the only way to keep from wasting a perfectly good life. Easy for me to say I guess. I have never walked in anyone's shoes but my own, and adversity is infinitely present in all living things. What kind of adversity has created resistance to happiness in your life? For every star in inner space, there is a story to tell of great adversity and courage. Sometimes something great or amazing perceived by one person or an entire community is actually hell for someone else. Everyone has waited for my story-with both love and hate towards me- for so many years and now. I admit that I was quiet, because I wanted to hurt someone. I'm still not sure who I wanted to hurt, but my silence was my payback. It made me feel in control. But now I will tell it.
I was sitting on the porch and wanted another cold beer on a hot summer day. It rained for 9 weeks straight in Portland and we never thought summer would come. Mother Nature (or God) peed on us cold rain in sheets that seemed never ending and filled all the rivers for many many miles. If I had only known how much would change after that long and foreshadowing spring. Then one day, Summer came and she was wearing a bikini top, the sprinklers were on all day, the kiddie pool was full of dirty water, and I wanted to be a sloth. Somehow all the kids still had the energy of bottle rockets and eyes full of excitement and lemonade stands. These are good kids, with wonderful parents in several houses on our street. I really felt blessed to have such a great group of people in our neighborhood. The heat was overbearing, in a subtropic kind of way, dryer than one would think a green belt of life in the North West could be.
I had a small summertime heat beer buzz. I was keeping an eye on my 3 year old son, while he was in front of the neighbors house. We all looked out for each other and respected boundaries by being responsible for our own with out asking for too many favors. But if a favor was needed, most parents helped out, especially Christina, she is the best. Funny, sweet, smart, and a thoughtful mom of 2 girls, one younger autistic girl and one older daughter from a previous relationship. The parents and the kids were always welcome at our house, although, we were not "best" friends, just good neighbors. The family two doors down also has 2 kids, a 5 year old boy and a 6 year old girl. They are "in your face" kids-they are very social. When you are not in the mood, I would send them away, but overall I really enjoyed their company. The little boy was sensitive and so very kind, and the girl was funny and outgoing and a naturally connected soul.
So I sat there, hot and thirsty. I should have been drinking water, but the alcoholic in me just wanted another beer. I got up, looked down the road and saw all the kids out front playing. My son was sitting down and playing with mini skateboards, the girls were jumping on the mini trampaline, and the little boy was over by the bush. I turned around and was holding the screen door with one hand and my empty beer in the other. I started going inside and stepped in ready to clsoe the screen door behind me. I hesitated for a second and felt a strong urge to look at the kids again. SOmehow, I knew something wasn't right, so I looked out and saw a maroon car trying to drive away with Joey in the car!!. I immediatly ran, pushing open the screen door, dropped my beer, grabbed my skateboard, and ran for the car with all my might. I was wearing my god damn flip flops, but I still ran with all the speed my skinnly legs could run. I ran so fast that the car only passed my house by 20 feet or so. I reached behind me with the hand holding the skate board and threw it at full force directly into the back window of the car. It made the window smash for the most part but some glass was still holding the skateboard half way out the back window. The car started to screech off and peeled out burning the ruber tires and shooting the tail end first quickly to the right and then very quickly he over-corrected and skid to the left. He attempted to make a sudden right turn and almost made it, but ended up going up the curb plowed into the neighbors fig tree. The small crash slowed him down enough so I could continue to run down the street after him in my god damn flip flops and jump up on the trunk and through the hole in the window the skateboard made. I rushed through, cutting myself pretty violently as the driver was backing up and going forward to try to get away. The car smelled like rotten food and mold. Joey was in the front seat screaming his head off and I tried to bring him into the back seat thinking I could get him out. He was terrified. His eyes were big and brown and it was a look I will never forget. I should have hit the driver first or grabbed him around the neck. I know that's what I should have done, but I just wanted to get Joey out of there. Then the driver- the pervert, the child rapist, the kidnapper-tried to fight me for him. We struggled with his little body, and I couldnt get a good grip on him. I had to let go of Joey to grab the skateboard again. I tried to hit the driver in the temple several times, but the board kept barely hitting the side of his head and sliding off -making a meager impact every time. I seemed to be in control there for a moment when I helped Joey jump into the back seat, but then I lost hope when the driver turned around and had a gun in my face. A big fucking gun. I put the skateboard in front of my face, and he shot at me. I don't know where the bullet hit me or how bad it was, but the sound was loud enough to blow out my ears. The back door opened finally and Joey got out with the smoke that filled the car and the driver tried to take off. He was shooting at me aimlessly while he was driving...shooting in the back seat as I was trying to take cover on the floor. He kept driving fast and crazy and the he finally stopped shooting for a moment. I got up and took the splintered shot-up skateboard and bashed him in the head really hard right in the temple. He fell over on the steering wheel and the car crashed into a parked car. The neighbors came running over, and the driver still didn't move. I was bleeding terribly from many places. I could not feel my legs. I could see the hole in my thigh was bleeding too much to be good. I thought that I might pass out, but I crawled out of the car and laid on the grass on one of the neighbors yards. I explained to someone that the man in the car was a kidnapper and must be kept there until the police came and Joeys dad came down from his house with a shotgun and stood over the slumped over driver with the shotgun in his face. But, I guess, I killed the driver with the last blow. He never moved again.
He certainly did not kill me though. I was there on the grass, floating delicately between life and death. My breath was shallow and wheezy, and it scared me a little. I was so cold suddenly-on a hot summer day-I was so cold. The ambulance and the cops came, and I mustered up enough energy to tell the cops to go to the drivers house. "You better go look through that guys house, because you know he's done this before." I demanded that the FBI come to my hospital room, and I demanded that they too check his house, because I knew he had done this before. The FBI did look eventually, and I was right. They found mementos and newspaper clippings of 8 other children who have disappeared from several states in the country. That man was a sick fuck. I killed one of the worst kind of people in this world. He cant do it anymore and he wont. But, killing a person was not easy for me. I was not proud of it. I was not comfortable with it, and no one could respect my space for a long time to come. God damn Barbara Walters wanted to come out of retirement to talk to me. I was stalked by the media for several years after this, and I was not seeing the experience the same way as anyone else in the world. I was famous in a flash. I was a heroine of mythical proportions. A superwoman who wanted nothing more than privacy and some space to heal. The world put me on a pedastal and harrassed me.
The media wanted to talk to me while I was on my death bed. I had to hide at a little hospital not used to treating famous people and the media was sneaky. They would pretend to be family or friends, just to get a picture of me. My house and my street was constantly being watched for news, and I was on the cover of People Magazine without my permission. My past was looked into: my parents, my siblings, my co-workers, everyone . My life was under a miscroscope. I know how it works....they build you up before they shoot you down. I was a heroine until they wanted to make me a villain. "No comment" I said. " No comment" At least until I can sit up on my own, you greedy fuckers. Baboons, I tell ya. Baboons are classier than the media. I have a good friend who does PR in Los Angeles, so i called her first, and asked her, what the hell do I do now. She said: "Get a makeover and look good while you are keeping quiet" I thought that was a good idea, so I had someone come in and do my hair, so it covered my blown off ear, and I got my make up done and walked to my car 2 weeks later and went home. The media sat out front of my small house for 1 month, until they realized I had no interest. I was offered 75,000 for an interview. I declined. What on earth do they need to know? Why would I want to be famous? I was just minding my own business one day, and I was on every news channel in the country the next. It was hard. It was traumatic. And I killed someone. I was scarred for life and I was trapped in my own house. But now, fifteen years later, I accept it. I accept it while I sit here in the Bahamas with the money and the computer my agent sent me to tell my story. Well, do you have any questions dear reader? What is it you want to know about me so bad? With all acceptance, forgiveness and compassion in my heart, what is it you would like to know about me and my experience as a heroine?
Monday, June 21, 2010
Fear of Failure
I read an amazing book recently...The War of Art. The author, Steven Pressfield, beautifully explains how urgently important it is for me to be writing more, creating more art, and being more actively part of my community. It is clear to me now that there are so many reasons not to be doing my art, but I now will fight all of these forms of "resistance" with all my sweat and soul. Resistance, in all its devilish and invisible skills, can be an enormously evil monster. I have no time for it any longer. It's one of the best books I have ever read, for it has inspired me greatly.
I am excited about blogging, for it forces me to practice self expression with word, utilize my creative mind, and honors my integrity that I will follow through with my desire to participate in a world of art. There has always been a creative part of me that I let go dormant so long ago. I was a constant painter and drawer as a child and teenager, and this constant desire to do art fell asleep somewhere along the way. To my credit, I fell in love with skateboarding and was 100% dedicated to it, but I let much of my artistic pursuits underneath an old muddy clay bed of poorly irrigated wastelands. The only sign of life was an insecure little mole that would pop its head up to check the weather and look for meager sustenance. All of my bullshit was formed in a fantasy world living only in my head, and it just held me back from even trying. I have recently bitch slapped myself into realizing that any and all of my fears will never go away. True accomplishment has always been preceded by great fear. The comfort of catering to my fears made me lazy, dishonest, and pathetic. What a baby to think that "not doing and not participating" was powerful. Doing and being is the greatest strength of an artist and I accept the challenge. Therefore, I will write all the time and prepare daily for all of my welding sculptures. I will post pictures of my art on my blog. I really don't care if anyone "follows" me right now, because I am doing it for my own need to challenge myself. This is my creative journal. The glory of a home run is nothing compared to the immense bravery it takes to step up to the plate. Failure and fear of failure is better than nothing at all.
I am excited about blogging, for it forces me to practice self expression with word, utilize my creative mind, and honors my integrity that I will follow through with my desire to participate in a world of art. There has always been a creative part of me that I let go dormant so long ago. I was a constant painter and drawer as a child and teenager, and this constant desire to do art fell asleep somewhere along the way. To my credit, I fell in love with skateboarding and was 100% dedicated to it, but I let much of my artistic pursuits underneath an old muddy clay bed of poorly irrigated wastelands. The only sign of life was an insecure little mole that would pop its head up to check the weather and look for meager sustenance. All of my bullshit was formed in a fantasy world living only in my head, and it just held me back from even trying. I have recently bitch slapped myself into realizing that any and all of my fears will never go away. True accomplishment has always been preceded by great fear. The comfort of catering to my fears made me lazy, dishonest, and pathetic. What a baby to think that "not doing and not participating" was powerful. Doing and being is the greatest strength of an artist and I accept the challenge. Therefore, I will write all the time and prepare daily for all of my welding sculptures. I will post pictures of my art on my blog. I really don't care if anyone "follows" me right now, because I am doing it for my own need to challenge myself. This is my creative journal. The glory of a home run is nothing compared to the immense bravery it takes to step up to the plate. Failure and fear of failure is better than nothing at all.
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