Sometimes you have to go away to come back

My eyes are stinging. Haven't cried at work in...

A long time.

I heard something hurtful this morning from someone who means a great deal to me. Something once anticipated is now not happening and there is disappoinment, especially after the conversations we've been this week about shifts in life and realizing that we are both learning what it means to be close in a friendship, how to give of ourselves, what to share, how much to share, and not giving up on one another.

I felt betrayed by what I heard, yet compassion when I heard the reasons why, and then anger at this person and myself all at once.

Which tied me in knots, you see?

My knee-jerk reaction was to close off entirely, that way I won't get hurt again.

But then I had a really good conversation with another friend, who said some very wise things. She reminded me that we are indeed on a learning curve in this situation that we find ourselves in, that grace is necessary because I don't know how to deal with it any more than said friend does. She also said that perhaps I, in my habit of projecting feelings and motivations onto others, am reading the wrong things out of this situation.

And she's so right. I felt pinned, really gotten. I was guilty of wanting said friend's world to revolve me, and couldn't stand the idea that it didn't. Huh...

So, this afternoon the cloud has lifted a bit and I can look down on myself from above and see how personally I take a lot of things that aren't meant to be taken personally and that I (me, myself) put myself through more emotional stress than I need to.

Ah life, what would I do without your lessons?

Is sugar and spice the only thing that you're made of?

I love being a girl. It's so...dichtomous.

I spent a significant amount of time yesterday making a red velvet cake. I'm not a baking powerhouse, but I enjoy a spin in the kitchen from time to time and well, it became my muse, calling to me in the late afternoon.

As my cake pans were baking, my friend Mike called, asking if I wanted to play poker later in the evening. I need to pause for a moment and point out that I played my first game of Texas Hold 'Em just a few weeks ago. Mike said that even though we had talked about playing with funny money, there was a $10 buy-in for this game.

Mike: "Is that okay?"
Me: "Sure, I'll probably lose my ten dollars, though."
Mike: "Now there's a winning attitude."

So then it's 8:30, and my cake is baked, and after a particularly arduous time getting the cake frosting into the proper consistency. I headed to Mike's and I stopped by Von's to buy toilet paper, because a) we were out, and b) I needed cashback for my buy-in, since I am notoriously cash poor. Debit is my crutch. As I waited in the checkout line, admiring the particularly diverse ethnic neighborhood that Mike apparently lives in, I began regretting my decision to play. I had turned down two offers to hang out with other friends under the auspices of wanting to save money, and there I was, getting cashback for a poker game I knew I would surely lose.

My hesitancy increased when I showed up at Mike's, a large white frosted cake under my arm. Marc and his friend Matt were sitting at the table already, and suddenly I felt very small. Marc's a teddybear, but Matt's a longshoreman, complete with an armful of tattoos and a huge can of Tecate in his meaty fist. "Who is this girl?" They must have been thinking. I looked like a pretty easy kill.

The intimidation factor was upped when the game commenced. Ninety dollars were ponied up, and no one said a word. I need to remind you that this was merely the second time I'd played in my life. And these guys weren't talking me through the game this time. The table was silent and to keep my head above water I payed more attention to what I needed to go at each turn rather than concentrate on game strategy.

(An aside: Maybe I should not be writing this...to preserve the rather laissez-faire attitude I managed to carry off last night -- rather by accident -- poker's no place for sincerity)

But as the evening progressed, the mighty began to fall like trees in a forest, making sounds indeed. I don't remember when the balance of power shifted, but soon it was me, Marc, Matt and Hank. Hank was the last to crumble and Matt went the loudest. To be fair, I had some pretty unprecidented hands, as if I had rolled around in the poker fairy's magic dust before coming over. I was tickled to be the humiliation tool of these guys, and maybe it was dumb luck, but to the victor went the spoils, and I ended the evening with $60 in my pocket.

She comes in with a cake, she leaves with a wad of cash.

I don't mean to gloat or anything, of course... ;-)

My heart is beeping

Last night, my roommates and I went to a screening of a documentary called Invisible Children. The film documents the plight of the Northern Ugandan "night commuters," children who are forced to walk at night from their home villages to the nearby city of Gulu to sleep without the threat of abduction by the L.R.A. rebels, who, over the past twenty years have abducted and enlisted over 20,000 Ugandan children. The children live in constant fear of abduction, when they know they will either be brutally murdered or forced to fight and kill. Nightly, thousands of children cram into the local hospital or bus shelter to sleep, often times literally on top of one another. The majority of their days are spent without adult supervision nor education. They have become the especially innocent victims in a war that no one remembers the purpose of any longer.

The three filmmakers, all under the age of twenty-five at the time of filming, took advantage of their youth to show the war from the perspective of children. At first, it seemed that "oh here we go, here are three more bleeding hearts to show us horrible images of an overwhelming humanitarian crisis that seems too big to solve, so let's just all nevermind." Yet, their movement and movie have all started at a completely grassroots level, and the enthusiasm and passion they have for this cause is not only palpable, but infectious. It's so easy to say "it's the Ugandan government's responsibility, or the American government's responsibility," but the more I think about statements like that, the more they sound like excuses. Sure, the problems are complicated, and simply going in and taking out the leader of the rebel movement -- the rather 'Colonel Kurtz-ish' Joseph Kony -- would not necessarily mean a better life for the Ugandans, whose own president has yet to visit the war-torn parts of his country.

What am I saying here? I'm saying that affecting change maybe does not take huge means or governmental support. Three kids with some camera equipment and not so much as an idea of what was going on in Africa before they went, are spreading the word of these atrocities, making good on promises made to these Ugandan children.

It's made me think about how pointless it is to have talents and not give them away. I'm asking myself "I've been told I can turn a good phrase, but how am I using that to help tell the stories of those who cannot tell their own? I can take a good photo, but where does that lens need to be pointed?" I know how selfish my heart is, how I want to keep my gifts to myself, to bring myself glory. After last night, there seemed to be fewer and fewer excuses. A good job? Not that important. A comfortable apartment? Some people don't even have a blanket in this world.

As I continue my self introspection, I urge you, those who live in North America, to get involved in what's called the Global Night Commute. Next Saturday, the 29th, thousands of people will "commute" to their respective downtowns to sleep outside on the street, to call attention to the invisible children of Uganda. You can sign up here. The women of this house are going. If you live in L.A., I'll see you there.

As You Wish

I love a perfect serendipity moment.

This one goes something like...

Me, after work, driving to Trader Joe's to get groceries. Levon calls, telling me he's got a flat tire. The conversation meanders to Princess Bride quotes, and Wesley's famous line "As you wish!"

Levon: "What did he call her? Dear or Darling?"
Me: "I don't remember."

The conversation ends and I buy groceries. Fast forward to the drive home, and I pass this sign on Venice Blvd...



Buttercup! That's what Wesley called the Princess -- of course! I was so excited I pulled a U-ey and took a snapshot of the sign.

Perfect.

Wee Man

Jackson with Auntie Clee.

He's cute but he's not mine!

Here's a funny little story from my friend Clarice.

winning some and losing some, or some randomness culled from the last 24 hours

Last night I finally got my scanner hooked up, after about a million years of having it sit on the office desk, collecting dust. The photos look beautiful from the scan...



as you can see, but I was getting frustrated at my inability to scan the prints in larger than just a few inches deep and wide (that's as big as they're getting!). This one above is from my meet-up with Ludmilla, probably the nicest Brazilian girl with a Russian-sounding name you'll ever meet.

And then, this morning in the shower, I renounced the lie that I don't make a difference in people's lives. That everyone I ineract with, even friends, are merely tolerating me as much as they like and/or care for me. This probably all sounds very kum-by-ah, renouncing lies and such, but having thought of myself in that way for so long was such a major source of fear and loathing for me -- it was like having my defense mechanism up 24-7 -- how utterly exhausting. The fact that I can now freely believe the opposite about myself (otherwise known as "the truth") is a huge weight off my shoulders. The shower, by the way, is becoming God's favorite place to talk to me (we're back on speaking terms). I suspect it's because I'm quite literally naked and vulnerable at that time of the day, it helps the intimacy in our relationship.

I feel it's a step in the loosening of my wanton, desperate need for control of things, which I'm now learning to laugh at when I feel it coming on. Take this morning for instance, when I hit backed up traffic, all sqeezing together in the midst of lane closures on major streets during rush hour traffic (how smart). I used to fume, today I chuckled. Then I called a woman with Nebraska lisence plates a jerk and promptly spilled coffee on myself -- now who's the jerk?! :-)

I miss all of you. My bok-choy says hello!

look who dropped by

The Vahtel/Kaups clan has never held a strong suit in communication. The fact that my nulear family moved three thousand miles away from most of our relatives didn't help. Over the years, our visits would take the form of occasional visits to Toronto or New York, and in fact, the most I've ever seen much of my extended family was while Dad was sick last year.

So, imagine my surprise when I saw a missed call on my phone last Friday from the 304 area code. "Where the hell is 304?" I wondered.

West Virginia is the answer. My cousin, Dennis, who grew up being known as Dennis William, to differentiate him from his father, was in Los Angeles on business. Turned out he'd been here for two whole weeks before remembering I lived here and asked my aunt for my phone number. I haven't seen Dennis since the summer of 1995 when I saw 'Apollo 13' with he and his sister Marika and my mom. I was fourteen.

Fast forward to 2006. We roamed around on Saturday afternoon, Dennis scouring souvenier shop after identical souvenier shop, trolling for the "perfect" gifts of Hollywood kitsch for his East Coast friends. He reminded me very much of my brother, a fact that I find endlessly interesting -- makes me wonder what those family-wide traits are that can cause two people who grew up with virtually no contact with one another to turn out so similarly thirty years down the road.

I took him up to Mulholland Drive to see the view, clear and cloudless and windy, the city's sky scrapers shining in the sun. Then a trip to Aeomeba Records and a dinner at Canter's Deli on Fairfax before he caught the red eye at LAX. The company he works for has offered him a job to stay in Los Angeles. Dennis says that if the position hasn't been filled by the time he finishes school, he'll take it. L.A. set stars in his eyes, and in part I hope he makes it out here, though I can only begin to imagine the shock of a boy from West Virginia as he settles into the City of Angels.

Like I need another blog

For handy reading and referencing, I've made a fiction repository site. Most of it has been posted here, some hasn't yet. If you have some extra time, go take a look. It's called Parts Unknown.

Hi, Dad!

Early last week I had a dream that, when I woke up, made me think of the day my dad's oncologist suggested that radiation treatments be stopped, because they were doing more harm than good. Later, we were waiting in the hallway by the CAT scan room, surrounded by other patients, quietly reading their Better Homes and Gardens. Our family friend Chris Zukin came by and soon, one of my dad's bosses, to tell him that the company would pay for two more month of Dad's salary. Dad, far past the stage of coherent speech at this point, broke down in tears. I watched this unfold from afar, not comfortable with my father showing such raw emotion. I never did find out what that show of emotion was -- the reality of his situation settling in, or thankfulness to his bosses in their continuance to provide for us, or fear of how his family would cope without him -- I don't know.

I don't think about my dad very often, or the time he was sick. The further I get from it though, the deeper the grief is, which seems backwards to me. With this remembrance the other day, came a wave of instantaneous stress, as I laid in bed, listening to stray cars drive past in the dead of night -- I've clearly not dealt with a lot of the emotions surrounding dad's death, yet. I don't know how long to expect it to last or what form it will take, either.

This picture was taken last year at the Ocean Diner as my parents were en route to their Hawaiian cruise, the last big thing they ever did together.

running : hiding : not working

I can't pray, I feel silly, I don't know what to say. I feel like God and I are have some sort of staring contest, and it's my move. I've been hemmed in, brought to zero, dried out. The perfect opportunity to let God come and be my "portion forever," but I don't feel safe -- with anybody. The image of God as lover, complete with intimate knowledge of me makes me want to hide under the brush. But I'm in a spiritual desert, and tumbleweed makes for crap cover. I know I am pursued, I know I am lovely in the eyes of God, yet as I sit and type this now I feel not one ounce of genuine love and devotion to him.

Weekend, linked.

Blogged
Hiked
Met
Photographed
Drank
Watched
Lost
Directed
Modeled
Ate
Loved

Fin.