Dear DJ at the Party I Went to Last Night...

Dude, seriously, what is the number one rule of DJing? Never let the music drop. You let the music drop no less than five times. That's right. I counted.

Also, please learn how to read a room. Here's a tip: if you're playing high-energy mashups of radio songs that everybody knows (GirlTalk, Check it out.) and everybody responds by dancing crazy, singing along, and shouting "wooo!" intermittently, keep playing that kind of music.

If, however, you let the music drop and start playing droll, repetitive trance music and everyone responds by ceasing their dancing and leaving the room altogether, put the other music back on. Don't just keep playing what you like because that's what you and your buds sit around in your herb-infused living room and bob your heads to every other night. I'm sure it's mind blowing after eighty-seven bong hits when you have no intention of moving off your couch, but this is a party dude. We're trying to dance. And you, as a DJ, have a responsibility to your fellow party goers to provide us with beats we can shake our collective groove thangs to.

To be fair, I'm pretty sure you weren't a professional DJ but just some kid who hi-jacked the open Mac on the DJ table, but my complaint still stands.

Special note: I have nothing against trance music or the people who listen to it, or living rooms or bong hits as a general matter of course, it's just it's just that it was not a living room. It was a dance floor. You have to do more than bob your head on a dance floor. Just sayin'.

The Duck

Jeez, I can't believe it's been a month since I updated. Life is, like, flying by man.
Anyway, this is a sort-of non-fiction piece that I wrote for a class this semester. It's short.I hope you like it.
  
The Duck

I close my eyes and walk through a door into a house in my mind. I round the corner into the den and stop. I lay down right there in the floor in between the den and the kitchen, the White Room to my back. I close my inner eye and listen and breathe, trying to see if I can make it real this time. I hear footsteps.

“Lord, Child, what are you doing now?”

I smile. “I’m dreaming, Grammy.”

An exasperated sigh.

“W—what are you dreaming?” Her tone is of one who is flabberghasted. I flabberghasted my grandmother a lot.

“You,” I say. I open my eyes and look up at her. Her face is blurry, but I see her smile.

“Well,” she says, as if gasping for air at the same time. “Well.” She turns and walks back into the kitchen, going, “Mm-mm-mm-mm-mm,” all the way. Soon, though, she is singing.

I turn my head to the right and there is a shiny gray wooden duck. Its bill, which is also gray, is even with my nose. I always thought that was wrong; I wanted it’s bill to be yellow. I’m surprised that I never tried to paint it.

I put my arms around the duck’s neck and I curl in on myself. I start to shrink until I am about the size of a toddler. The duck is heavy again now. I pull against it, and it does not budge. I pull harder, straining my arm muscles, just to be sure. The duck stays stately and resolute. It will not move this way. I am satisfied.

I peer into the duck’s black, fathomless eyes. They are enormous again, shiny, and deep. They seem to move on the inside like water, brimming with the secrets of a world outside these four walls. I talk to the duck. I ask it to tell me its stories. I ask it to fly, to carry me. I jabber endlessly with the duck. Perhaps I believe it answers me.

Eventually, I climb onto its back. I wait. I expect its long, graceful neck to stretch out, for it to ruffle its feathers. I expect it to glide forward gracefully across the carpet, to carry me through the kitchen, through the living room, into the dark hallway. I expect it to move effortlessly. I believe that I will steer it by gripping its neck and turning, this way, that way as I navigate the furniture and doorways of my grandmother’s house. I believe that after we take a test run through the carpet, it will spread its wings and fly us in graceful arcs around the living room. I can hear my grandmother shriek in fear and joy already as the warm wind of her kitchen blows over my face.

 I rock back and forth. It stays still. I push against it, the back of its head digging into my chest. It topples over, onto its bill. Perhaps I say Ow. I pull back and it rights itself. I try to push with my knees, but it is too heavy for me to move in this way. My grandmother comes around the corner.

“You’re going to break it,” she says.

“No, I’m not,” I say. Maybe I smile up at her.

She opens her mouth as if she is going to say something, but doesn’t. She sighs. She makes those humming noises that later I will see other grown-ups imitating and laughing about. There is a general consensus that she is not aware she does it.

She stares down at me and does not tell me to stop, or to get off of the duck, or to do anything other than what I’m doing. Perhaps she knows that I am enveloped in the simple joy of being a child. Perhaps she wants that for me and misses it for herself. Perhaps she recognizes already that I will not break the duck; that it is already a friend to me and I will be careful with it. Perhaps she is simply proud of me for finding a purpose for the otherwise useless decorative item, a use that she never would have dreamed. Perhaps she envies my freedom to not have to care what anyone else thinks yet, that I am free to play, and it doesn’t matter who approves or disapproves.

She turns and walks back into the kitchen, giving me and Duck our playtime alone. 

I fall off of Duck’s back, my arms still hanging around his neck. My body stretches and grows back to the size of a twenty-five year old. I start to cry like a toddler, all noise and snot. I curl around the duck and hold it like it is my grandmother’s memory. I polish it with my tears and secret longings and wonder if she did, too. If she would dust it and all the other curios of her home while dreaming of another world, of another time. I wonder if she is still there, in the ether, looking down with a disapproving frown at some of the things I do, but also with perfect trust that my imagination will not betray me, or her. That I will not leave behind me broken things, but a new life where wooden ducks fly and my grandmother is singing in the next room, forever.

On the Media

I wrote this for a school assignment but was thinking of making a blog about it anyway. Pam is my instructor who came up with the prompt. The prompt was to describe a way in which the media has changed your life. Enjoy!

I wonder sometimes if Pam and I don’t share the same brainwaves, because I was driving in my car the other day thinking about this very subject. Not only has the media changed my life, I think that media is changing the way our brains evolve.

Think about it. What’s the new watchword for parenting, besides autism? ADHD. Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. When I was growing up, I never would have said that I have ADHD. Now that I am an adult, I’m pretty certain I’ve developed it. I have a hard time finding focus, especially in my creative endeavors. I am the proverbial plate spinner. I work on one thing for a while, then move on to another. Not only in writing, but in different mediums. I get tired of writing and make a collage. I get tired of collaging and decide I’m going to learn to sew. Things like that.

At work, also. I’ll start one cleaning project, get tired of it halfway through, and start something new. Something New. I would say my entire work ethic revolves around finding Something New.

Istn’t that the very definition of ADHD? Someone who can not focus on one task for long periods of time? Let me do a Google check. Yep. Also included in the definition are a tendency to procrastinate, to not listen when spoken to directly, and excessive daydreaming. I definitely have ADHD. I would say, however, that I am just a writer. Most of us have ADHD, it would seem.

My theory, however (and for what it’s worth), is not that ADHD is a cognitive disorder, it’s cultural evolution. Who can pay attention in this day and age? With the onset of 24-hour cable networks, smartphones, and digital communication, there is always something to occupy, nay, entertain the mind. There is no reason not to be entertained these days. Unless, of course, you have a job. Or schoolwork. And who wants to do those things when you could be surfing the web learning things they don’t teach you in school or texting your friends about what they’re doing right now?

I think that the prevalence of the diagnosis of ADHD is proof of how ill-equipped our society is to accept cultural change. Teaching styles must be adjusted to accommodate this new rise of ever-prevalent media. Teachers must entertain now instead of merely instruct. I believe that this is happening, but not fast enough.

No, it’s so much easier to give kids diluted meth in an attempt to medicate the problem away. But the problem isn’t a problem. It’s just change. It’s evolution. I do not wish to quantify this change into the realms of “good” or “bad,” either. It is neither. It is simply happening.

We’re in a time of transition as a culture, and someday psychologists will laugh at us for thinking that we could “solve” the problem of ADHD. Or that we considered it a problem. I consider it an evolutionary key that will turn the gears of change. Our institutions must change to accommodate a new world, a new attention span, a new way of thinking, even. Not the other way around: developing dangerous chemicals to infuse our children with so that institutions may stay the same.

In the immortal and always relevant words of Bob Dylan: the times they are a’changin’. And we are changing with them. Myself firmly included.

I Broke Up a Line Today...

I pulled into my local recycling center today, or rather tried to. My initial attempt was blocked by a line of about eight vehicles, just sitting patiently, waiting to pull forward. I peered around and noticed that there was a truck with a camper on it stopped in front of the trash compactors for household garbage. Beyond that, however, was the recepticles for mingled recyclables and mixed paper. There is a space between the industrial sized bins for commingled recyclables and mixed paper large enough for a car to nestle in between. But there wasn't a car there. Everyone in line appeared to be waiting to use the trash compactors for household garbage.

So I pulled around and parked in between the bins for commingled recyclables and mixed paper. And suddenly, as if a spell had been broken, the vehicles waiting in line scattered forward, pulling around the stopped camper, and actually walking a few feet to throw their garbage away instead of waiting idly to pull up flush with the trash compactor before unloading.

I brought a new perspective to the situation. I wonder if it even occurred to anyone else to pull around, to walk before I got there. I'm not saying I'm any smarter than those people, but a line has a certain kind of authority in our society. It's very bad manners to break in line. But in this case, breaking in line didn't mean that I procured a good and/or service before anyone else. It simply meant I had to walk farther to get rid of my trash. And, there was plenty of places to go in front of the line. It's just that the line, once formed, held sway.

That's what it's all about, really. Perspective building. Perspective breaking. So get out there. Read a book. Read a blog. Read a tweet. Have a conversation. Send an e-mail. Talk to somebody new.  Join the human conversation. Learn some new perspectives and maybe break up a line every once in a while.

That is all.

A Revision

Dear Reader,

This is how it works. You stand in front of the mashed potatoes for minutes upon minutes and try to remember something you forgot years ago.

You consider it. You consider all aspects of it. You consider the sharp edge of your loneliness and how deeply it cuts. You contrast it with your happiness and use the two together to devise a sum that measures worth.

This is how it works. You get up at 2:30 in the morning to write this poem, disturbing the cat who is the only body warming your bed these days. This makes you feel guilty, but it speaks through you at the most inconvenient times, that little spark of God inside, and you wish He’d keep a better schedule.

This is how it works. You drag the notebook back over and fumble for the light. The cat is getting very annoyed now and soon he will leave you, too. Not for China. Probably just for the floor, but it might as well be China for how far from you it is.

You thank God again for The Gift. But not for the walls it gives you. Not for the way you can never just say what you need to say, but instead must disguise it; must hide it between these pretty veils. You think this is the way it will always be: a notebook and an empty mattress and a warm body far away who has never quite gotten what he needs from you.

You close your eyes. All else slides away and it is just you and the cat and the whole universe inside you aching to get out.

Sincerely,

T------

These Ladies Are My new Heroes

Handjob, Bland Job, I Don't Understand Job - watch more funny videos

Handjob, Bland Job, I Don't Understand Job - watch more funny videos

Just thought you should know.

A Response

Anonymous said...

Just the same; eventually you would left him for someone else just like you've been doing since you first started dating.
September 11, 2010 6:10 AM

An Open Letter to Anyone Whose Heart I May Have Broken:

I’m sorry. No really, I am. You can’t hear my voice shake or see my desperate eyes as I try to convey the full emotionality of the sentiment, but it’s there. I’m really sorry. I don’t know what else to say. Reasons? I don’t have them. I think I’m just now starting to figure out that I have spent my girlhood in love with the idea of being in love, of falling in love, the act of love; but have not necessarily loved any of you. But see, I didn’t know that at the time. A couple of you I loved, foolishly, because you needed me to, but you weren’t good for me. I’m thinking mostly of my high school days right now. Still, to all the boys who have loved me, there’s something you should know, although I think most of you have suspected or have flat-out known this: The whole time I thought I was loving you, I really had my eye on some ideal or another. A rock star. An actor. A fictional character. The guy in my Algebra class. A professor. A philosopher. A musician. My best friend. I have lived my entire love life with a tragic sense of misdirection. Instead of going for the thing I wanted, no matter how far away or absurd it might seem, I have offered pieces of my heart to, well, whomever happened to be looking at the time. But a lot of you are truly wonderful men and will make great husbands some day. And all of you deserved better. I'm sorry that I was too young and ill-equipped to give it.  I hope you end up very happy and forget all about me.

A couple of you are still exactly where I left you, and will stay there, in stasis, for the rest of your life. Not because of me, mind you. You were like this before me and have stayed so after me. I don’t know what your problem is. But I wish you’d wake up and do something with yourselves. At least one of you will hate me forever. And again, I say. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I wasn’t right for you either, and you know it.


I know what it’s like to love a shadow. To give and give and give and have it taken and taken and taken but never really appreciated. I tried very hard to give my whole heart to the first person I ever loved, no matter how silly or childish that relationship seems to me now. But he wasn’t ready to take it, and so I’ve never really given it away again. (I don’t blame him by the way. Anymore.) I could say the exact same thing about my dad, probably.

Whatever the conditions you loved me under, I wasn’t good enough for you. I’m not good enough for me, at present date, and until I stop operating under the same cliché, Daddy-issue driven assumption, I think I’m just going to stay the hell away from all of you and your kind.

Nothing personal. It’s me, not you. It’s always been me. And I’m not just saying that.

Sincerely,

Tiff.

P.S.: The above is also an excerpt from the book I'm going to write about my Road Trip. I figured out a lot of things about myself out on the road, and my continual habit of, for lack of a better term, fucking over guy after guy emotionally, was one of the things I finally worked through. And I would like to offer yet another apology to anyone who counts themselves amongst the fucked over. I'm human, and this is my human journey. Mistakes have been made, and I am working very hard to correct them and prevent future similar mistakes. I have been hurt, too, and am also working to forgive those who have hurt me. I hope anyone reading this that I may have hurt will try doing the same, whether you feel I deserve it or not. Forgiveness really isn't about the other; it's about yourself. It's about doing what you need to do to reach emotional equilibrium. And letting go of anger and resentment is one of most freeing experiences I have ever had. You should try it. Seriously. Just try it.

P.S.2: Dear "Anonymous" (Don't think I don't know who you are. I know who you are.) You are welcome to reply to this as well. I will read it. And I will consider it. But I will also delete it. This blog is my story. Exclusively mine. If you would like to tell your story, I encourage you to. But please find a separate space in which to do it. Thank you.

1 Week Without

Dear Regina,

This is how it works. You stand in front of the mashed potatoes for minutes upon minutes and try to remember something you forgot years ago.

You consider it. You consider it in all its aspects. You consider the sharp edge of your loneliness and how deeply it cuts. You contrast it with your happiness and use the two together to devise a sum that measures worth.

This is how it works. You get up at 2:30 in the morning to write this poem, disturbing the cat who is the only body warming your bed these days. This makes you feel guilty.

It speaks through you at the most inconvenient times, that little spark of God inside, and you wish He’d keep a better schedule.

This is how it works. You drag the notebook back over and fumble for the light. The cat is getting very annoyed now and soon he will leave you, too. Not for China. Probably just for the floor, but it might as well be China for how far from you it is.

You put the notebook on the empty mattress next to you and thank God again for The Gift.

But not for the walls it gives you. Not for the way you can never just say what you need to say, but instead must disguise it; must hide it between these pretty veils.

You close your eyes. You sleep. You miss him.

This is how it works.

The Grand Canyon

Go see it. Seriously.

No, there's nothing I can say. Just go see it. Stay for sunset. It's like God's IMAX out there. Or Nature's IMAX, if you are not religiously inclined.

-Tiff

P.S.: The picture. I sat on that cliff for about two hours and never got tired of the view. Or less terrified.

From the Road

(Hope this uploads correctly)
Currently in a roadside BBQ joint north of Waco. The above image, if you can see it, is more-or-less the southern stretch of my trip. Saw a comedian in Austin last night and met my father's sister for the first time today. She is amazing. That word sounds cliche these days, I know, but I can't think of a better one right now, which I attribute to mild sunstroke and not any lack of brilliance on my part.

My left hand side is getting a hell of a tan. I'm going to be a smaller, femaler, less scary looking version of Two-Face by the end of this thing.

Here is a mix I made that I have listened to every day so far. I titled it Road Trip Usuals:

1. On the Road Again by Willie Nelson
2. King of the Road by Roger Miller
3. Life is a Highway by Tom Cochrane
4. Route 66 by Chuck Berry (even though I'm not even driving on Route 66. I know, I know. Shame on me.)
5. Little Honda by the Beach Boys
6. Low Rider by War
7. Slow Ride by Foghat
8. Take it Easy by The Eagles
9. Wild World by Cat Stevens
10. No Particular Place to Go by Chuck Berry
11. I've Been Everywhere by Johnny Cash
12. I Get Around by The Beach Boys
13. The Wanderer by Dion
14. Ramble On by Led Zeppelin
15. Crusin from Duets sndtrck with Gweneth Paltrow and Huey Lewis (Don't hate. Bitch can sing.)
16. Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen
17. Here I Go Again by Whitesnake
18. Like a Rolling Stone by Bob Dylan

That's all for now. Peace O.

Finally...

after all these years, Chevy Chase, I was finally inside you.

Took a mini-road trip up through D.C. and up into New York City. Passed through this little crown jewel of a town. Also took a detour to a small winery. The wine wasn't very good (which is why I'm not mentioning their name. The owner was really very sweet and I felt bad that I didn't like her wine.) It sat in the hot car for most of the road trip, so now it tastes kind of like spicy red vinegar. (What kind of wine, Tiff? Cab Franc. Virginia grown.)

Saw the Daily Show, live and in-person. His desk is tiny. He looks shorter/older in person. But he's spot-on. He steps out onto that set, and he's Jon Fucking Stewart. He's got a clever answer for everything. He makes you laugh, then makes you think, then makes you laugh some more. Just like the show. I left impressed.

The wine is better after a few sips, BTW. But then, it always is.

P.S. I think I'm going to start updating this thing more. Stand by.