Morbid? Maybe. But Wouldn’t It Suit Me?

So, I’ve decided I want to have a fun funeral when I give up the ghost. No, seriously. I want there to be quirky music. Maybe a marching band. Have you ever seen battle of the bands? Not at some dive where screamers try to out rock each other. The real thing. Marching bands. Where they darch. Okay, so I made that word up but you know what I mean. That unexplainable combination of dancing and marching all at the same funky time. Yeah, that’s what I want. A ping pong table would be alright, too. Oh, don’t get all uppity and pretend you’re above ping pong. Ping pong loves you. It wants to have your babies. So, you see, it would be totally necessary for an appropriate funeral.

No suits. No hats. No black. Casual. Shoeless if you want. T-shirts and blue jeans.

OH! And here’s another great idea. You could play puppet Cara. Granted, I’d be pretty stiff and probably not the most easy to move about the scene, but puppet Cara could be funny. Especially if you’ve got a grudge against me. Just imagine the things you could make me do. And the best part? No consequences. I couldn’t hit back.

Hmmm. Setback. I want to be cremated when I go. So, puppet Cara is out. Hide the ashes is in!

And I don’t want to hear (which I won’t, ’cause I’ll be dead) all the good things about me (most of which would have to be made up). I want it to be real. And the first person to cry has to become a human pinata. Just don’t hit them too hard because there really won’t be time for a double funeral.

Don’t forget to grab party favors and tip your favorite corpse on the way out.

Meh, I keep forgetting I want to be cremated. The corpses have all the fun!

Angels Made of People

I’ll be the first to admit I haven’t always believed in angels. But then, I was looking from the wrong point of view. I thought angels had to wear wings and halos… and glow. You know, being that they are angels and stuff. I imagined when they spoke, a thousand voices would be heard, not overwhelmingly but gently. A chorus of beautiful unison. I thought they must surely slip into our lives with an unmistakable vision of comfort and glory. That’s why I could never believe in angels. My perception was all wrong. I’ve never actually seen that type of angel. But, I’ve come to believe angels do exist and often times, they come in the form of people. Maybe they remain a life long angel, or maybe as the moment warrants, they become angelic until you don’t need them any longer. I really don’t know how it works to be honest. I just know I was wrong. I have known angels. Beautiful, kind spirits who first came to me as acquaintances, or friends… and even family.

I don’t always recognize the people in my life who give so freely of themselves. I often take for granted my stepfather, who in his foolish loving nature, sees me as his own. I fail to recognize the constant encouragement and endless belief supplied by one of my closest friends. Just as I fail to appreciate the gritty attitude and honest truth supplied by another close friend. I under appreciate the stern guidance of a mother who felt so distant when I was young but tries to make up for that every day as I age. And I overlook the simple applause of a friend who sees great things in my future if I will only take the chance.

This is only a sampling of a life enveloped by angels. And tomorrow, with the stress of a new day, new ambitions, continued responsibilities and unsteady steps as I continue the journey, I will probably lose sight of my angels. I will probably be annoyed by their advice. I will probably overlook their loyalty and steadiness. I will probably forget how valued and precious they feel to me in this very moment. I hope this will not be the case. But angels… are difficult to see when you are not looking. But the good news is, they will be my angels whether I see them or not. And I am so thankful.

Out in the Boonies with the Oogly Mooglies.

I don’t camp.

Well, I camped once. In Washington. No, twice. There were bugs. And dirt. And… well, weird sounds that made me anxious. I can’t deny I had fun though. You learn things about people while camping. For example, the most prissiest friend you’ve ever known is more rugged than you. That’s kind of a shocking revelation. Or, the raciest couple used to be Mennonites. That was kind of unexpected, too. Maybe I just don’t know much about Mennonites? Anyway, for all the heebie jeebies and “What was that?” moments, it was a pretty good time. Maybe even a little spiritual. You know, where you reconnect with nature and maybe even God on some level. Even the racy levels. Heh.

So, there is camping in the works. Me. Yeah. In the boonies. With bugs. And snakes. And… sounds. Guess whose idea it was… go on, guess. That’s right. It was mine. Totally unexpected, random and out of the blue. At first it was a fleeting thought until I asked a friend if she’d go. Then another. Neither of whom know each other. In fact, once all is said and done, I will be the connecting factor for all of them. But, this isn’t some random happenstance. It is totally by design.

I’ve been craving depth lately. Those deep, intimate conversations where you walk away feeling overwhelmed and grateful all at the same time. This particular combination of people I’m trying to put together fit the bill. Each, individually, have taught me valuable lessons about myself through life, and I can’t help but wonder if those connections can ignite with each other. And if they don’t, well, at least it will be fun. And buggy. And snaky. And, oh man, what have I done?

I Like Chaos with my Ramen Noodles.

So, I’m jobless.

I haven’t been ready to really say that out loud. Or, blog loud. Whatever. The thing is, it’s a fairly new situation so I haven’t earned the scars from unknown fear, roadblocks and hopes rising to have them dashed to have them rise again. Plus, I was considering quitting anyway. According to my plan, it would have gone a little differently. I would have secured more work before letting go of the position. Life never works according to my plan. And thank goodness for that because I’ve made some pretty lame plans before and if they’d come to fruition well, Lord have mercy on your souls.

Anyway, awhile back I got word that our company was shutting its doors. There was a small thread of hope that they might be able to hang on if a partner would come to the table with a more fair offer but that offer did not come. We might have been able to make a go of it without them but the man I subcontracted for got mad, pitched a fit and basically took his ball and went home. I don’t totally blame him either.

So, yeah. It’s out there now. I’m still alive. Breathing. Relaxed. Thankful that my obligations begin and end with me. I can’t imagine the burden families go through in this type of situation. I really can’t. I admire them for pushing forward when they would rather pretend it all away.

On the upside, I’ve had lots of time to write. And paint. And sculpt. And play. And internalize. And procrastinate. And distract. Oh, those last 3 aren’t really upsides. But still necessary.

By the way, I’m not really down to just ramen noodles. I just remember last time I was jobless, those cheap nasties turned out to be pretty handy. And versatile. Heh.

Mighty Fine Science.

This is an experiment. I can’t explain the experiment. For example, I can’t tell you if there are rats in a maze or not. You need to just trust me here. Have I ever yanked your chain before? It is an experiment. A very delicate experiment. Which, you should know, reminds me of spearmint, which in turn reminds me of gum and my very favorite gum, if you must know, is orbits sweet mint. ‘Cause it’s sweet. And minty. Swinty. Oh, they so should have hired me for the ideas. Ah, yes. Ideas. I have them, you know. Sometimes fragmented and solitary until they meet with another solitary fragment of the mind. Disconnected, they make no sense. United… well, they probably still make very little sense but at least they have each other. Not all thoughts can say that, you know. When did I start saying ‘you know’ so much?

BEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeep! Times up. Experiment over. You know nothing, you saw nothing, you heard nothing. Now quickly, everyone, hurry to the detox station, strip and get sprayed down. Or, you know, avert your eyes and forget you read this. In fact, you probably should just lean your forehead against your monitor. Go on. You, too. I can’t help you if you won’t cooperate. Oh, and… you’ll still be able to read this when we’re through. You just won’t understand what it’s about like you do now. In fact, it’ll probably feel like you’re reading about it for the first time. Okay then. Just say when!

And… NOW!

If You’re A Lead Character, Wear Matching Socks

I went to a play Friday night. It’s the first I’ve been to a play since my move to Oklahoma. It was “Long Day’s Journey Into Night” and was performed at the Tulsa Performing Arts Center in the John H. Williams Theater. I’d never been to that particular theater before and really appreciated the limited size of it. In Phoenix and Portland, the theaters always felt too large to me and the seats were always packed. Last night, it was such a small group that it felt more… intimate. Maybe too intimate.

Normally, I can get into a play pretty easily. Even if the acting is mediocre and… well, even poor. I don’t mind looking past mistakes or forgiving the rare obviously forgotten lines and the stumble that ensues. Truthfully, if you’re putting on a play, I’m your biggest fan. Even if it sucks. Really. No lie. Last night was the exception to the rule. Somewhere during the first scene, I got distracted by Edmund Tyrone’s socks and was never able to disengage the destraction. One was a neutral solid color. The other? Well, remember the whole happy feet, happy mind discussion? Let’s just say Edmund had one very happy foot. There were squiggly bright colors and not even one speck of matching neutral to go along with the other sock. Now, in fairness, the play was set in 1912. So, I would imagine it is plausible that there were a lot of mismatched sock situations… one sock gets a too many holes to be darned or… a wild boar steals one maybe? Whatever the case, I could have made an allowance had the other sock been… say, I don’t know… another but different neutral color. I guess what I’m saying is, it just didn’t seem like a sock that would have been around in 1912. In fact, it looked like a sock that should not be around in 2009.

Supposedly, it was a good play. Supposedly, despite it’s dark topic and deep dive into addiction and alcoholism, everyone around me seemed to really enjoy it. The company I was with enjoyed it. “It was really sad. It’s amazing something written for that era could have so much relevance to the struggles in families today.”

Oh. Really? Because, you see, I couldn’t get past the sock. And apparently, I still haven’t.

In The Garden Of Good Intentions And Epic Fail

The book of Zoo, Chapter 13:28-33

And long after the Heavens and Earth were created, Zoo planted a garden. Perfect little rows of potential nourishment. Then the rains came. And came. And came. Forget, at first, the garden was planted too early. Ignore that Zoo has no idea how to garden. Overlook that hoeing is much easier when the ground is dirt, not mud. By the time the rains passed, and who knows if they’ve really passed, Zoo was losing interest in the garden. Oh, she loved the spring lettuce, spinach, leaf lettuce, onions and radishes that have already been included in more meals than she can count. And the snow peas, strawberries, tomatoes and cucumbers are threatening to succeed. But everything else… well, she couldn’t care less if they pull through or not. Gardening was a noble idea, temporarily interesting and perhaps, if not for the unmerciful rain, it might have been her thing. But honestly, she’d rather have a modest herb garden in a hot desert than a small farmer’s market in freakin’ rain forest Oklahoma.

It feels like the amount of rain we have received here in one month is copiously more rain than I saw the entire 11 years I loved in Phoenix. Hmmm. Lived, I mean. But I’m not changing it.

It’s not raining now. I’m going out to frolic and stuff.

Hmm. These Ear Plugs Work Too Well.

When I lived in Phoenix, I got into the habit of sleeping with ear plugs. And if my neighbors were especially obnoxious, I even wore them throughout the day. Secret: I am a quiet seeker. I’m a bit compulsive about it. I get mad at clocks if they tick too loudly.

Truth is, the move to OK was as much about finding quiet as it was anything else. What I didn’t anticipate, however, was that I’d become so accustomed to sleeping with ear plugs, I would not be able to stop. They are like a security blanket. I’m not ashamed to admit it. I have security ear plugs. And they’re purple. And soft. And sleep inducing. They’re like drugs. Only, you don’t ingest them and they don’t cause hallucinations. But they are addictive…

So, last night we were put on alert about storms. Might be tornadoes. Might not. Just like every other potential storm in Oklahoma. I wore ear plugs anyway thinking, “If it get’s that bad, I’ll still hear it.” Yeah. Not so much. We didn’t have a tornado, but 2 trees were uprooted and one of them had partially fallen onto the roof above my bedroom. I didn’t hear a thing. Nothing. Not a crack, smash or boom.

Death narrowly being averted aside, I really really love these ear plugs!

And he said, “Man, your lips are flaming!”

I’m trying to imagine the scenarios.

I can see the judge. He’s looking over papers. He’s reading about the history. Then he looks up at one of the two people standing before him and says, “So, I see here you’ve had 3 affairs since you got married.”

“That’s right.”

“Damn gays.” The judge responds.

Or maybe he says, “You have a long list of domestic violence documented here. Seems you like to go off on your wife every couple of months.”

“Yes sir. She stresses me out.”

“If it weren’t for the gays, you guys would be alright.” The judge muses.

Or maybe it’s less scary. “Irreconcilable differences? Care to expound?”

“Yes sir. See, we got married young. We really didn’t know each other. As we’ve gotten older, we have just drifted further and further apart. He’s not a bad guy. I’m not a bad woman. We just… oil and water. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

“I am sick and tired of the gays making a mockery of marriage!” The judge declares.

DIVORCE GRANTED!

Believe it or not, I don’t really take issue with someone being morally opposed to gaydomship anymore than I take issue with someone not being opposed to gaydomship (yes, i just made that up) but to validate the opposition with the idea that gays are a threat to the sanctity of marriage is humorous to me. I think we straighters do a pretty good job of dumbing down the sanctity of marriage all by our little righteous selves.

Of course, I also have this theory that God can recognize a marriage without that crisp little piece of documentation signed by man anyway. But, I’m also slightly rebellious.

On a brighter note, Oklahoma recently voted for its official rock song. Heh. Who knew we needed one? But, since we could vote, I certainly participated. It caused quite a stir. Oklahoma legislature, despite the will of the people (and c’mon, it’s rock. It’s important!) decided they didn’t like the Flaming Lips over a t-shirt and refused to recognize the overwhelming consensus that “Do You Realize?” should be our rock song. And again, heh. Luckily, Governor Henry would not have the voice of his people stifled and will be signing an executive order confirming it as our song. Don’t tell me Oklahoma doesn’t have it’s priorities in order. Oh, we do! It’s not just an illusion caused by the world spinning round.

Marty Thurman.

So, back in the day, when I was a troubled kid seeking salvation, I went to church camp. Heh. I loved it. Seriously. Every year, that one week escape from the troubled side of life felt like welcomed cleansing and security. It wasn’t about God so much for me, though, I’m convinced He was there. I was more interested in the people. Care and concern manifested in a tangible sense… through laughter and even tears. You grow a lot at church camp even if church camp isn’t really your thing on a spiritual level.

One year, and one week only in that year, I met Marty Thurman. She was a counselor. I’m pretty sure her real name was Martha. If she’d gone by Martha, I probably wouldn’t have been drawn to her. Martha sounds so… mature. And motherly. But Marty, somehow, seemed like a peer even though she was probably 15+ years my senior. We hit it off pretty well. We had late night conversations while the other campers were snoozing. I have always battled insomnia. Always. And she had stuff to say. It was a good match.

Though I went back the following year for camp, Marty wasn’t there. It didn’t matter though. We still kept in touch from time to time. I even went and stayed at her house for a weekend. I got to know her differently during that time. I realized she was human (because when you’re a kid, or at least if you are me as a kid, when an adult treated you as if you mattered, they sorta grew angel wings and were put on a pedestal.) I liked the human side of her. It’s where her wisdom most resided. There were no pretenses to wield about and frailty was not denied. I left that weekend knowing that I would always want Marty to be in my life. No matter what.

But life happens.

In 1995, 2 years after I graduated high school, Marty’s life changed in a dramatic manner. She was there when the impossible to comprehend explosion happened at the Murrah building in Oklahoma City. I was home sleeping in Richland, WA. In fact, I might have slept the morning away except for my stepfather calling to tell me to turn on the news. When I finally comprehended what was happening, I could think of nothing else except Marty. A day or two later, when my patience had run absent and even knowing she probably needed peace and quiet and fighting the very real fear that maybe she had been lost, I couldn’t help but try to reach her. She had, thank God, survived. I was one of the lucky one’s to get through. We didn’t talk long. You could hear the complete devastation and exhaustion in her voice. Shock. It was shock you could hear mostly. About 2 weeks later, I got a letter from Marty. It described her experience and what she was doing to cope. It was thoughtful and kind and scary and reassuring. But I just had an ominous feeling it would be the last time I heard from her. I still have the letter. It’s my most valuable possession- both for the history involved and the honor of being one of the recipients.

Anyway, I guess we aren’t always meant to be constants in someone’s life. And maybe we aren’t meant to have constants in our own. But I’m missing Marty. Not the Marty I knew but the Marty I do not know now. I hope she is well. I hope if she had to leave history behind, she did not lose the feeling that she was loved and cared about by a lost kid who found direction through her guidance… even if I haven’t always stayed on the path.

But mostly, I hope she has peace.