Apparently August has come and gone.  The traffic on the bridge can only be explained by the influx of students and parents back to the daily grind.  I've noticed myself looking back a lot these last few days, trying to assimlate new information, new faces, and new feelings into my daily doings.

I believe one of my greatest strengths is in analysis.  Also, as an introvert, my natural tendency is to look back and assess my and others' behaviors and words (read: obsess).  Both of these personality traits combined makes for an anxious aftermath to social events, and I often feel that I severely mirepresented myself, wish I would have not said ___, wish I would have done ___, etc...and suddently, that swift and severe axe of self-judgement comes swinging down upon my head.  Now, I'm bleeding and blind.  I wonder if other people do this?

It reminds me of a year or so ago after a particularly grueling ladies' night.  Lots of wine had us loosed-lipped and  unabashedly weepy.  I remember waking up the next morning not only nursing a nasty headache, but feeling particularly sheepish about my vulnerable behavior and spent a few hours replaying everything I said just in case I needed to apologize to someone.  I desperately wished to go back in time and regain the composure and control I then seemed so eager to rid myself of.  I comforted myself with the notion that the other girls were probably feeling the same way and wrote one of them a letter to that effect, encouraging her not to succumb to false insecurities, to not berate herself for something she may have said,  and to take all parts of the others into her being with willing acceptance, gracious forgiveness, and fierce loyalty.

In the end, there is nothing to do with my analysis of people other than to love them.  This includes myself.  I am human.  You are human.  We can be decidedly virtuous and altruistic. We can be atrociously maleficent and grotesque.  Even the most composed of people have hurt someone else with a flippant, impulsive comment.  Lord knows every single one of us has been hurt by the same.  We can spout off so much of our bull shit and soapbox about our arbitrary opinions that can crush others around us at worst, or (at best) keeps them from sharing their own opinions.  We do not listen well, we do not speak carefully.  We intimidate and dominate and in our eagerness to be known, bulldoze those in our company.

All of this to say that I feel this great need to analyze and obsess and ultimately forgive.  I also feel the need to assure myself of people's affections for me.  But in the end, my acceptance of Candace is what is really in decline.  I could easily demand assurances from others, but I know, oh dears, HOW I KNOW - this is my battle.   It is no one's job but my own to be confident and to trustingly accept people's words at face value without criticism or manipulative self-deprecation.

Speaking of insecurities, I have recently been stopped short by fear.  Many of you know I am working on a humble collection of poems for self-publishing.  I am in the editing stages, and I have to tell someone - the poems are total shit. They are simply not good enough to put out into the world; a world I love, a world of Plath and Rilke and Shakespeare and Donne.  I do not think the world needs another mediocre poet.  For the most part, I am a confident writer and care little about how my work is received (coming from someone who has received only positive feedback, so I realize I am lacking in the character formed by artistic rejection).  Now that I am really looking to put myself out there, fear is taking hold of my throat. I feel it very physcially.

One one hand, the fear makes me pissed and frustrated.  On the other, I see it as a necessary birth pang.  What mother wasn't afraid to give birth?  What artist wasn't terrified to put their canvas on display?  Fear is a right of passage, and I'm beginning to trust its presence and leave it alone.

"Oh hello Fear.  I forgot you were there.  You may go now."

(a small adaptation of Doc Holliday in Tombstone)

I am sick of the portayal of artists and designers and stylists online who chose to convey an overly-white, overly-simple, overly-amiable, overly-clear, and annoyingly overly-painless process to creating.  Even if it sometimes gets muddy for them, it seems they are unable to express the sheer disgusting ugliness that comes from birth.  Have you ever seen a woman deliver a baby?  It's completely violent and gross.  It's also the most naturally beautiful occurance.

What I am saying here is that creating is ugly. I am prepared to work hard on these poems and puke them up and be doubled over in labor pains and fight like holy hell to bring forth that which has been placed inside of me.  I am on the verge of something wanting out and it's gagging me and tearing me and I am not sure I will survive it.  

Oh wicked Thursday. I had planned an entire day for myself complete with leisurely morning, fabulous lunch date, movie, evening alone. I still did all of these things, but dears, today I did them with the heavy burden of my life-long friend, Insecurity.

She woke up with me and said some unkind words. These words they hurt my feelings.

Perfect. Now my own feelings are hurting my feelings.

The saint had his weekly brewther's night at his parents, so I have from 8am until 10pm alone. I decided to execute the plan even though I felt like crawling into a bottle of french red wine for the next 12 hours. What else could woo my woundedness out of my being like a luxurious day out? Also, it was freaking gorgeous here today and my new dress needed walking.

But I couldn't ditch her. Every time I turned a beautiful downtown corner, she was there. Every time I ran ahead and thought I had lost her, there she was. Every time I took a sip of champagne, she stared at me blankly from across the table.


By all definition, I had a fabulous day. Correction: I DID a fabulous day. I donned my strapless dress (don't tell joel, he hates them) and tennis shoes, plugged in my Depeche Mode, and sauntered out to a new-to-me French bistro downtown. I sat outside after braving the "table for one?" question THREE times (the hostess/water girl/server) during the lunch rush, and enjoyed every second of it. Champagne? Yes. Baguette? But of course. Artichoke lentil soup? Naturally. Profiteroles? I suppose I must. Espresso? Well, shoot.

I then wandered around the market with my film SLR and shot away...and in that small vacuum of time, I forgot that it had a nasty little bite in my heart that kept scratching.

I wandered up Pike to see a chic-flick. I was the ONLY one in the theatre. Typically I would find this funny and a bit ironic, but not today. I needed not to be alone there...apparently the gods heard and sent in two girls to sit behind me and watch my back against theater rapists. Because they totally exist. I got my girl-fix of tears and headed home in the breezy late-afternoon.

Two chili-cheese corn dogs later (sigh), I am sitting here with a long night ahead of me and wondering how much money I will have to spend to pamper myself out of this insecurity and actually FEEL pampered today.

And that's the thing. I should seriously know better than to avoid my soul like that. After I scrubbed the kitchen without even knowing it, I realize that I was thinking about a very long time ago in grade school when I was ditched by everyone (don't feel pity for me, I did it right back), and then even further back to a big man getting in his car and driving down the street. And these are the scenes that replay when I turn to face my insecurity. They hurt a bit too much. This is why I usually ignore it, deny it a voice, abuse it, etc.

What's the alternative? I could continue doing this and live with the guilt of my reaction to it, which is to say, think, or do something wicked to someone else whenever I feel insecure...so as to restore the balance. I'm not great at that first strike, but I can strike back with cobra-like vehemence. However, I am really, really tired of making a smeary, toxic muck of people I love and convincing myself that it was their own misunderstanding.

I would like to be that femme fatal who turns around, runs towards her predator with double-fisted guns blazing, and looks really hot in a muddy tank top and shorts in the process.

Unfortunately, I am the chubby little 2-year old with tear-stained red cheeks who is left behind and who never wants to feel that way again. But it is becoming apparent from the scratches left behind by my soul that I must turn around and find courage to face it. Though I cannot take big girl steps and look fabulous doing it, I can take steps the size of a child.