Don't Forget to Breathe

It's 4:39a as I draft this, typing quietly on my phone while I stay thermally cocooned under the covers.  I don't want to disturb Travis or Leroy with even the lowest of technology's light, because it's still obnoxious in a desertedly dark room.  Travis is hinting at snoring, I hear puppy's small breaths near my left ear; I'm appreciative today for having a few days off.  The heavy cotton over my head affords a slight barrier against the stirs of early morning traffic, heard in the distance.  I wish the earths rotation matched my own current speed.  My head suggests the puppy alarm clock is a more reasonable time to cultivate these unrelenting thoughts onto pixelated paper.  Although, it's 8am somewhere... em I write? {ba da dum}

A few months back I bought a website for an idea that felt under-explored.  But before chunking down the cash for the domain and private registration, I poked around the internet to confirm suspicions that nobody was catering to what I could provide.  And to clarify, it's not a product per se, although I guess it could be someday.  Not thinking about that right now - the goal is to bring my offering to others, through writing, in the hopes you are entertained.  I know, thanks for stopping by cousin vague.

Around 3am this morning, I woke up alert.  Puppy was snuggly asleep by my side on the couch, which is where we snooze if Travis is out.  In my mind I sat straight up, sitcom style; in reality, it was eyes closed, pondering for at least 5 minutes before gently rising to pick up my laptop.  What popped into my head was that maybe I never created an email or Twitter or any other social media junk for my thing!  Holy fuck - taken?  Or did I and forgots?

I opened the laptop, hit the downward glowy button to 1, and started the process.  A few key punches later and I let out a phew of relief... all is well.  Name secured on all the places to be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Coincidentally, earlier in the evening I read an article on the frequency to which people view their product as unique.  And how the often overlooked google search usually proves otherwise.  But it goes on to say you should want to find someone doing it, because then you can ask yourself are they doing it better / worse, does yours solve a missed opportunity?  Should I invest money, time.  I gorge on said information because it helps me make better decisions regarding my interests.  So despite its emphasis on patents & trademarks, I thought why not run my thing via this model and see what shakes out. 

The most basic of questions needed answering: Did I miss the window of opportunity to be the first?  Miss the recognition?  Miss my chance to be heard?  Miss my chance to make a difference?

Search 1: several pages in - nothing.

Search 2: the suggestions - not even close.

Search 3: this one persons' entry - nada.

Then as I'm deleting some letters leading into Search 4, I see it.  almost missing these squinting eyes...

My thing.
Written by someone else.
     {{{sinking}}}

I saw every opportunity I'd been developing start to run away, laughing, teasing as if to say oh you thought you were the only one?
Air hadn't passed my lungs in several minutes.
I exhaled what little breath was left and forced myself to read the entries before me.
I had to know what I was up against.

[breathe, yo]

It was only similar.
KINDA!
SORTA!!
CARTWHEELS!!!
CUE FLASHPOTS!!!!

The site was ordinary, clunky, no clear definition for why I should be reading... I found my excitement levels rising to a point normally reserved for the daytime.  I clicked entry after entry, hoping (not hoping) to see the words I wanted to say; never found them.  Occasionally a concept would be related, but overall, the message they were sharing was not my own.  Travis & I discussed my perception will be totally different from theirs, and different from the future, and different from the person I ask questions to.

X, Y, Z ≠ X, 2, 3.

Our sites can co-exist together on the information superhighway! And that's swell.

In Local Treatment: Step One

I've been working through the idea of therapy for over a year.  Not because I was opposed to going, quite contrary.  When I close my eyes and vision discussing the necessary with a person whose trust I've accepted, it calms me.  The way visiting a garden nursery calms my ocular soul.  In retrospect though, I was simply working through the act of saying help.  A long overdue recognition that no matter how many times my brain insisted it was my fault, it in fact, was not.  Feeling helpless, crying, shuttered in a corner.  Pacing alone, oblivious to my surroundings, wanting nothing more than to scream when I couldn't utter a peep.  Wondering why my life felt so much more together in high school, than with these extra years of experience.

But eventually, I understood that silly bird, it was never my fault - I simply didn't have the right tools within reach.  I've finally squashed any remaining ego that I could handle it all myself.

Step One: Make the call. {check}

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I originally started this entry January 1, 2015.  It was a coincidence and not because it was "New Year, New Me."  I loathe over simplified phrases meant to motivate the unmovable.  I opened it up the other day because even though I've taken a few steps towards progress, per usual offense found myself wanting to pry open old wounds.  Sliced, fileted reminders to display my moments of madness.  I ferociously consumed these jumbled thoughts & half sentences, despite knowing what little value they gave.  Yet the final, poisonous punch to the chest was reflecting upon all these scattered words I'd classified as defects.  The idea that I'd tack them so carelessly to a pole of negativity made me sad, albeit common.

Self perception is obstinately cruel.
I'm aware at just how little inner support I give myself.

Step One: Ready.

Tree of Rage Furniture: Rage Bed

On February 8, we had our first piece of Rage Furniture delivered - Rage Desk. I don't think the pictures do it nearly enough justice, but that seems to be a theme among a "phone cameras are rad but still doesn't replace a great manual" world.

Today, the wonderful chap Josh and his lovely & mighty sister from Arbor Exchange delivered the Rage Bed.  The highly anticipated, extra incredible, years in the making, can't believe it's ours...  Rage Bed.  It's inspired by famed Japanese designer, George Nakashima.  And now we get to SLEEP on this magnificent example of fine, Los Angeles based craftsmanship.  It will be there during spring birds, gusty nights, rainy Sundays, laughs, cries, writings, readings, puppy hugs and lofting dreams.  This wooden form of amazeballs will stay with the Clarks', through life and quietus.

 

  

 

FIN.

An Emerging Reflection

I spend most days worrying about things I need to do, rather than actually enjoying a few of them.  It seems there is something or someone who usually needs my attention.  Therefore time allowances set aside for what I dig is overshadowed by an unwritten list of 'you betters,' dictated by an imaginary taskmaster who looks similar to yours truly.  She is void of any joy and asks a lot of me daily.  For her, there is no accustomation to the word holiday.  I feel obligated to report in, like a child seeking approval of their performance marks.  And when I've finally crossed out a few chores, I ask permission to play.  Please, please, I must have a reprieve from you know who!

Allotting myself the grace to sit back and put my obligatory feet up has been circling the mind lately; the notion of relaxation difficult.  Imagery of the tiny activities I love are being shot by guilty arrows.  I simply can't find a balance between taking care of business and the business for taking care of me.  Travis is quite encouraging that it's ok, to not be so hard on myself, that most things will still be there if I don't get to it.  The analogy of his I'm reminded of is "The post office will always have mail to sort."  drats, he's right.  And of course what he's reminding me of I know.  But we all have things in life "we know," yet still find a way to rationalize otherwise.

Coincidentally Sunday morning I read an article my friend Clementine wrote (read her other lovely words here.)  Although it's context originated while playing with her son, she's applied the "be present" model to other activities.  To spend your time wisely, doing that thing at that moment, forgetting everything else (whether fun or chores.)  To not allow whatever form of guilt you fear to overtake the significance of that event.  At least in summary, that's what I took away from it.  Which isn't that the great thing about writing & art - you get to interpret what it means for you?!  It's nothing more than a simply worded principle I can use while these bones are still upright.


Funny how all we need sometimes is a gentle reminder that it's ok to make ourselves smile too.

The Beast Within

I spent most of the night coughing into a towel so I wouldn't disturb Travis.

I know why (cough... sinus infection)

I don't know why my noodle is making a correlation between that and being a wookie this morning.

(perfectly executed Chewbacca sound)

A Tale of Two Sniffs

Last week I developed a nasty cough, which led to a sore throat, sprinkled with good-time aches.  Although I'm doing better, I went to the doctor Tuesday to confirm aliens weren't colonizing my lungs.  He denied contact, but did find lingering germies in the form of a sinus infection.  wooo.  check it though - the scale had me two pounds lighter than the gym.  BONUS!

He wrote a prescription, but suggested I try a saline nasal spray first.  I avoided the homeo (yo) option until the evening because I didn't know what to expect.  The last time I was given a similar treatment was when this goofy doctor told me I had post-nasal drip, when in fact I had mega infected tonsils (they were removed 3 weeks later.)  So my track record with this stuff was nearly zilch and I probably did it wrong then too.

Randomly, and without consistency, I can turn all nerves when I don't know the expected outcome is or how my body will react.  It's the same way getting blood drawn makes me tense.  Because you never know when they'll blow up your vein!  But with nasal spray, what's the worst that could happen.  My nose will sting?  I'll gag?  It won't work?  I was being lame, so I conceded to give "Ocean" a try.  Which, by the way, is like the silliest and most accurate brand name of a product I've seen in a while.

{cough, cough. why am I such a wuss.}

So there I was.  Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, teary eyes darting between a shallow reflection and the orange capped bottle.  Twice in each nostril... I repeatedly brought the solution to my nose, pausing when I couldn't find enough strength to nudge the thin plastic.  My legs were noodles; empty.  Nervously laughing and seconds away from calling Travis for moral support, he rounded to corner.  mon ami.

I handed him the Ocean so he could practice a few times.  The spray wasn't much to protest, so I said "shove it up and squeeze!"  And on the count of 3, laughing, my sweet fella obliged his lady wife.

{spray spray}  Oh that was it?  I got worked up over a behavior that's nothing more than unnatural.  I turned to him, smiled, and off-offhandedly remarked "What's wrong with me?  Doing lines was easier than this."

And here's why...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I flashed back to junior high, early 90s.

"Don't do drugs" was a learned theme, but the perception as youngins was only if you're doing something nasty like heroin.  And all my parents ever said on the subject was you shouldn't.  pffft, ok.  I didn't know enough to be fearful of pot itself, yet knew smoke wasn't totally my bag.  I watched dad puff away on cigarettes day after day, the pack forever sequestered by his cotton shirt pocket.  My biggest gripe was the foul odor, attaching to anyone and anything, which I naively associated with the smoke, rather than the article burned.

The day in particular was warm, probably around spring - the air dancing, sun eye shielding.  A group of us waiting patiently for early release, in our yet to be baggy pants.  We'd meet at Ryan's house because his parents were gone and his older brother had scored some pot.  The 6 of us were going to get high!  (HA, we dared not brag though for fear our teachers would find out and do, um, what?  I don't know)  It was decided so matter of fact, I never questioned it.  There was no desire to.  I was in the throws of confidence shattering puberty and rebelliousness was just over the horizon.  So why the fuck not.

Despite having the experience of watching pops draw smoke my whole life, I was mortified how my attempt at smoking out would be viewed.  My friends were dear and forever kind towards me, but they were cool.  And as the hour approached, my tension elevated.  Not for the reasons you're thinking.  I didn't know what to expect or how I'd feel.  But I refused to be the fool looking awkward and ridiculous, more so than I already pictured myself being on any given day.  Gah! I could do this.  I could totally do this.  I could get a little high and make out this with one guy whose name doesn't matter.  It would be a day to remember for always.

So there I was, face to face with a hand-crafted pipe made from, no less than 1 foot of durable PVC.  I stared down the barrel and raised the thick cylinder to my mouth.  My beautiful girlfriend calmly said "just breathe in," while Ryan hugged her from behind.  With eyes shut, took the quickest, most powerfull inhale* ever.  Think of when you prepare to hold your breath, now speed that up 4x.  HOLY FUCK MY THROAT!  Every element of hot, seething smoke flew 12 inches down the pipe, hitting every cell of my esophagus.  I coughed, hard, for so many minutes.  Dagnabbit.  My first chance to usher in the next phase of life and I failed. Miserably.

   * with pot, don't ever inhale via quick, jarring breaths.  please.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It would be a few years before trying pot again, finally succeeding naturally with a different group of welcoming people.  Funny how one wrong breath set the stage for shaping not only a rambunctious high school career, but also the positivity that shaped my life afterwards.

This tale of my first experience is meant to acknowledge why I still engage with these often mild, but still mad neurosis.  I've simply traded drugs for nasal spray... apparently.  It's why my brain justified first choosing mind altering & sniffy substances, rather than an herb.  Why once pot was in my rotation, I would take a couple sniffs of speed, only to bring myself down with a bowl or two.  It's may not seem logical now, but everyones story has a place.


I wouldn't change it for anything.

A Day with the Clarks: We're Professionals

Travis and I are believers that healthy relationships need time apart from one another, which we exercise, but we also really, truly, no joke for reals enjoy spending most of our time together.  Sometimes on whims silly things happen and sometimes delightful photos are snapped.

All I was trying to do was take one of my new, swell haircut.

 

And A Day with the Clark's begins...

*** total fucking disclaimer: this shall never be used as evidence because we love each other.  We would never, ever hurt any person, place or thing.  If we ever find ourselves in court, dude, we were having fun.  kay, bye.

Tree of Rage Furniture: Rage Desk

A journal I wrote August of last year eloquented the story of how we found our home.  While that part 1 story dove into the home itself, it also illustrated a particular tree we unknowingly inherited.

The tree of rage story will unfold another time.  This is the story of its bitter wood, after the foliar carnage.

Our plan from the get-go was to keep the two largest logs and turn them into furniture.  What exactly that meant at the time, we did not know.  We tossed ideas into the air: front doors and tables and desks and cabinets and bookshelves and a mantel, a guitar, a bed, and wall sculptures and anything else centerpiecing the mighty beast.

The logs sat for a much longer spell than anticipated.  Jokes of being the worse neighbors, became lovage for it's homing beacon abilities, both for locating our house and for the high schoolers to smoke pot on.  I didn't care and totally would have done the same back in the day, yo.

After months of research and endless phone calls to lameoids, we FINALLY found a portable miller man in the form of Brent (Urban Logs to Lumber.)  He took each behemoth and sliced him up good; dried the planks in his Clark appropriate solar kiln, checking on it often to ensure peak performance. Seriously people, I hope anyone searching for a Los Angeles miller finds this reference.  Stop searching!  Fantastic experience.

After seeing a dozen or so slabs of the most beeuteeful wood, we narrowed our initial focus to a Rage Desk and Rage Bed.  Local craftsman Josh at Arbor Exchange is who we entrusted to build beauty from anger.  He is the most patient, understanding, knowledgeable feller who guided us through the design, process and delivery.  Absolutely top notch piece of fucking handmade realness.

Now, a history in pictures.

The rage desk was delivered today.

BEHOLD ITS GLORIOUS FURY!!!!!!

Merry Monday: Week 1

This morning I walked out to the backyard and saw our mushroom colony was back.  These random fungi pop up every so often and my immediate thought is always LITTLE TINY VILLAGES with parks and pools and giant birds that chirp chirp.

My pop-up colony always makes me smile, so I wanted to share that feeling.  I started a #MerryMonday hashtag.  And although I have no desire to put any effort into sorting whether this is a thing already, I hope you raise those mouth curves high to the sky!

Towards the end of the day, I found it rewarding seeing old photos, goofy photos, and a few say-whats. It was a lovely therapy session I shall do each week.

In order as posted (on both twitter and instagram)

"I need a little fun-gi this Monday Morning."

"a card I drew Travis."

"Grounds for dismissal."

"Important worky stuff goes here."

"My only other love."

"chomp chomp."

"You said it brother."

"I often reply to Travis via text message."

"Don't even get me started on Stassi."

"love and be happy, smile and be kind people."