Our Willingness To Wait Reveals The Value We Place On The Object We’re Waiting For

“Actually, I’m unable to wait can I speak to your manager?”

I’m such a broad sometimes.

This is the reason my credit card company has miraculously ‘forgotten’ to send my new credit card out and I was without petty cash for two weeks. Lovely. I’m busy, I don’t have 87 breaks I can take from my life to care for trivial things. Woe do I miss the times I could collect stickers, work on my acrylic painting, clip coupons, send thank you cards, not flake on lunches. You know, listen to he voices in my head. The voices—they say interesting things. You get where this is going.

I attribute waiting with being passed on, passed by, not chosen, missing the boat, something slightly short of hopeless. So since childhood I haven’t liked waiting. Patience is for the birdies who don’t have anything better to do than wait in line, wait to be replaced, wait on someone else to cook up a recipe for something else Lalanii should spaz out about.

And then, I met someone who surprises me regularly. Surprises force you to have patience.

I took up high intensity interval training. Patience begets results.

I gave up sweets, carbs, and took up stock in something I haven’t in a while:

Myself.

I’ve been trusting myself and my judgments for a good six months now. Those voices, remember (there’s quite a few in there)—I’ve quieted. I’ve started to believe in my track record. Slowing down.

I still broke a glass bowl with my lunch in it today—but it wasn’t because I was rushing. It was because I was distracted. I was looking at how beautiful it was this morning. A cerulean sky kissing a lavender cloud and two off-white birds fighting over a piece of bread until the babier bird of the two decided to give up. The mean bird walked away seemingly pissed and dismissed of the situation. Baby birdie then pecked the bread, leaving a lot of it on the floor possibly for mean bird. Mean bird swooped down and they then finished the last piece together. If I’m not shocked–or shocked—did the birdies just share?? Did I forget I was holding anything and crash goes my pyrex bowl? Score.

All worth it. Still serene. There are a few things that have tested my ‘wait limit’ but  I was able to have numerous things go wrong this week and still complete the finishing  whoo hoos on my final manuscript,  fill out paperwork, order thesis bindery, cater to a sick editor/friend, and have patience enough to accept that a few things might not go my way this week.

But they may go my way in another week.

My threshold for waiting it out… extended.

I have a certain zingy feeling  now that I have more patience. Having so has made me stronger, happier, and given me more faith, first in myself and then those around me. Before I get too ‘churchy’ I must say—when I do happen to lose my patience now, it returns quicker than it used to. I also found something I like to believe is true:

“Our willingness to wait reveals the value we place on the object we’re waiting for”

—Charles Stanley

The birdies have all gone and the magical moment passes and I’m back to waiting. Writing. Reading. Editing.

And waiting is ok, and if something passes me because I’ve been busy–waiting… there’s a good chance it’s not anything I’m meant to have. I’m valuing the person I am now. I like her better because of her patience. And in case you haven’t heard it’s a virtue.

Excuse me while I go get my masters degree real quick.

Pictures from FLOWmarket. You genius people you.
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“Where Is This Love? I Can’t See It, I Can’t Touch It. I Can’t Feel It. I Can Hear It. I Can Hear Some Words, But I Can’t Do Anything With Your Easy Words.”

One of my favorite movies of all time: “Closer,” Alice says this.

She asks about why come she can’t see the love? Touch it, feel it. Then she repeats that she can hear it—but that hearing it is easy. Those words are easy.

Tell me some hard words, if any words.

Make me speechless. Heart swerving, then plunging.  The hurdle, twitch.

I want to do the splits on it. Somersault into a soaring enormous and ask him what took him so long?

I want to see it, feel it, touch it. I don’t want to hear it or hear about it anymore.
I want it sinking in my pores, I want to breathe it, be it.

I don’t want it to be easy, I want it to be uphill so I know what sleeping in is like.
I want it to hit me like an implosion. Locking my legs around it. Like plumdrops.

I want it to be so awfully good it goes stale if not immediate. Mean and fighting like rocket ship tears.

Hurry.

I don’t want  fear. I want to speak it into resistance, make it persistent and lengthy.

I want it to stay like a pose, pastel roses on my pillow. I want to be warm.
To write it into me until my joints are sore. sworn. sure.

Until the hugs take longer seconds, until stares are in sync with a later perpetuum.
Until I bloom and he shivers. When I wanderlust, he’s with me.

Until I can do nothing but call off my streetlights, blink, kiss.

You Have Specifically Been Placed In A Box Marked “Why for?”

Honeydew and Orchids

He said “I want the opposite of everything with you because you only remember the bad”
I gave him a sad face and said if you keep saying things like that I’ll stay sad.

So these are your orchids. And then he asks me if I’ve ever seen orchids. Because these orchids, he said—eyebrows up—are talking orchids. Crawling up stucco—designer orchids on glowing wallsides, heaploads.

Let me tell you what they’re saying, he leans close. They admire the way you laugh, and the way you love your Dad. Acquired tastes. They love, your neuroses–spun together–next to the space heater.

Well this. I tell him. Is honeydew. It is sweet, unless spoiled. It doesn’t need water or sunlight, it needs to be savored. It has a window of time, and this honeydew. She has a line. Like the lining in your collar, or your lack of consideration.

And it can’t be suckled into the ouch patch, you know the part you can’t get back,

A line that,
Cross it if drawn
Balance if it waves
Careful in anomaly, (no
matter how little we have.)

He said oxygen, you need oxygen.

I said, not just yet. I want “Come here.”     .    “Right now.”     .     “I’m. in. this.”

He said, I haven’t promised you anything. Which is otherwise clandestine, which is microscopically kaleidoscopic, which is bullshit if I never heard it, otherwise known as art deco blue. I wanted Tinkerbell’s castle, I would’ve given up sadness for a clue where.

And I’d have grown him more than fruit and flowers.  He as in you, you as in admirer.
But I guess I have to love you from afar. And I guess I have to love you where you’ve fallen,

which means move on.
Which is a line. A line once drawn—
if crossed is gone. Which is how I know it,
that does not offer you honeydew or glowing orchids anymore.
And so I leaned over to the flowers, and whispered to their spines:

“You have specifically been placed in a box marked ‘why for?’”

And the world, which is how I now know it, has aligned.


—Happy Valentine’s Day to all those I secretly admire, love Lalanii

“It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it’s not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”

It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.”

—Oriah Mountain Dreamer, The Invitation

Spilt

I think he’s drunk dialing me in his sleep,

from a foreign country,

and the background noise is fluffy,

but still I made out how much he loves me.

Grabbing my pinky,

swinging it around,

calling me a clown fish,

telling me to drown here.

He’s coming.

On his way.

Go on ahead without him.

He’ll catch up.

Meanwhile, the petunias are blooming together across the overhead projector.

I cannot teach class today I’m dying of reciprocation asphyxiation.

Just once,

did I want,

someone to play better poker,

wake up playfully humming the peach rose petals out,

slowly, no—slower.

Just once,

did I need,

someone to call my bluff,

blow bubbles in the figments, the harp in my heart, the magic.

Cartoons are on,

acrylics over canvas

and little pink splishes of wine we had until we were silly enough.

He was lights on, then off,

black gate pulling across the entryway,

shaking head ‘no, we’re closed,’

when I can see everything I need in the front window.

The day we hung up

I wanted to walk him alongside that wine glass

two-thirds of the way finished,

but the door evaporated as it closed gently behind him.

They say not to cry over the spilt,

but I’m not sure there’s anything better to cry over.

 

And the song of the week, you have to hear: “Moving in You, Moving in Me”

 

 

The stick figure girl is from my stop motion animations, if I figure out how to upload them as little movies, I might share.

Can’t Find The Man of My Dreams ‘Cause I Don’t Sleep

 

I'm definitely the baby in this picture

I'm definitely the baby in this picture, lol

Every five minutes the thing nearest me changed into a mistake and disappeared. —Tao Lin

I’m in, if, of, and. I miss him like writing with my left hand. Tea cup got up and said “damn, that’s bad.” The what you’ve got til’ it’s gone. Watching me sleep. Zumba drop out. Clothes don’t fold themselves. Walls don’t happen to paint themselves fireplace red. Over my head. Send to journals. Write it. Revise it. Read it. Scratch it out. Insomniacs anonymous. He winked at me! And then I am there. I love it when a man winks. Then I have blacked. Then I am where? He said welcome to my world and held my hand while we were going under. I don’t swim like a fishie. How come they don’t tell you the things you want are gonna hurt this much? I’m poppin’ Motrins on a roller coaster.

~~~

*Woman of my dreams, I don’t sleep so I can’t find her* actual lyric by Lil Wayne

My Poems are featured in The Scrambler today

I read at Beyond Baroque last night, and two of my poems are featured in The Scrambler” today:

“Went to Bed and a Kite Sunk” and “Wildflowers”

Click my picture to read them:

Performing last night at Beyond Baroque in Venice, CA

Performing last night at Beyond Baroque in Venice, CA

I Am Falling in Love with…

We woke up overlooking the water, french doors overlooking the bike path, his left arm crossed over my neckline and collarbone like it’d been there forever. It was such perfect poetry I thought I’d never move. But I did. I ran straight to the Keurig machine. Starbucks was needed, and I would have preferred Coffee Bean, but that would have taken too long.

Well, everyone, my vacation was superbly startling, and unreal. You know when you have unexpected moments and your heart pivots on its axis and all I could think about the whole time was… Jim Daniels.

The view from the hotel

The view from the hotel

Yes. I have fallen in love with CNF and Poetry. I recently made the switch from my major being Poetry to CNF (Creative Nonfiction). Poetry has always been my first love, but when I started putting words to the memoir I’ve been writing for eleven years, something creatively nonfictiony took over. Poetry is my minor now. I am riding the wavey-rainbow to the pot of gold, or at least to a few golden tickets. Jim Daniels is a mentor at my school and the residency schedule came out on the same night of my vacation. I checked it on my droid phone. There was no way I was concentrating on anything else.

He knew. I even heard him say something to the extent of “You are so, not, here, right, now, are you?” in front of my sugar rimmed margarita, I was just checked out, altogether. I felt bad.

Whyever the love of my life has to be writing and learning, I do not know… but it is. And it, means everything to me. My career-crush on Jim Daniels resulted in a dream after his lecture (on the residency schedule) was placed conveniently at the same time as my current mentor Christine Hale—both conveniently at 9am ON RED’S BIRTHDAY, December 15th. (Is this crazy?) I then dreamed about floating over Jim and Christine’s lectures as a ghost in two places at once—screaming because I couldn’t understand what they were both saying ‘cause they were both talking at the same time. My yell interrupted both classes and I was asked to leave. An impossible nightmare, I know. Yes, I laughed too. It’s the type of feeling that makes me never want to graduate, never stop reading, never stop educating myself. The poor guy.

The Perfect Ambiance— so colorful!

The perfect ambiance—so colorful!

Since my switch over to creative nonfiction I’ve subjected myself to possibly not being able to have Jim as a mentor, and this pains me, to the bottom of my bones. But again, my memoir’s revisions and workshops are what is most important at this time so it involved an executive decision on my part, CNF it was.

I question my ability to give enough of myself to anyone. But is my “I’m too busy” a scapegoat for not wanting to get hurt? Possibly. Is my “I’m too busy with memoir, mentor, studying” a diversion for falling for this one might cause me to have to trust, which is the number one rule I’ve seemingly already broken, somewhat. How many times do I have to fail to get it right? Rejection letters for submissions, break-ups, set-backs bigger than my panic attacks?

“Cheer up beautiful girl, you will love again and it will be magnificent”

My Daddy says things like this to me all of the time. My Mama says things like “Erase, replace.”

Brunch the morning after

Brunch the morning after

Everyone knows you can’t plan love, you can’t plan life, you can’t plan. But I plan. I plan to take 3.5 showers a day, I plan my reading schedule, my Masters lecture, responsibilities, my shopping list. When I go somewhere, I’ve usually checked the ratings, the weather, the menu and the reviews. If I haven’t, I either trust the person I’m going with, or I’m having a particularly “off” day. That’s just a “light example” of the type of over-the-top I am.

Jess McCann author of “ You Lost Him At Hello” says it’s not a game, it’s a strategy. She also says:

You need a strategy to get anywhere in life. If you wanted to start a business you would need a business strategy. If you wanted to lose weight, you would have a diet strategy. If you wanted to get your finances in order, buy a new house, land a new job, you would need a strategy!

I believe in a blueprint. I believe in growth and gradual increases. I believe that there is some type of (at least) semi-strict form that one must stick to, or else, there is not going to be any progression. No progression = boredom. Boredom eventually = unhappiness. Unhappiness + Stagnancy + Complacency= Resentment.

Resentment for anything is the worst feeling I’ve ever had. Worst feeling you’ve probably ever had, that you didn’t know you were having. This is what happens without conversation and a plan, people get let down.

Daniel G. Amen, M.D says in his book “The Brain in Love,” that “no forethought equals no foreplay. Understand how the brain works and influences our behavior—and intimate relationships.” Sometimes, the worry is worth it, sometimes the anticipation is worth it. Sometimes when you have such high hopes for career, for love, for life in general, the apprehension helps you along. Other times you freeze up.

I am in the middle of a hot pan, frozen scared. Everything on the verge of anything. Over and over and over. In the middle of a vacation, I’m stuck on impossible, planning the lectures I want at residency. In the middle of a vacation I am stuck for words, somehow I have “Talkers Block,” which far surpasses Writers Block—and my disbelief in it enough to ward it off. Which makes me [seem] less witty, carefree, and sexy. And more gigglish, nervous, and scared. I probably should have woke up surrounding him in French kisses to match the French doors, but all I could think about was if maybe Jim might read a bit of my work and give me a few words of feedback, and anyway if the guy is right, he’ll understand.

I thought about Jess McCann again who also says midway through her book: “This is real life and not a chick flick. In real life you have to be smart and savvy to get what you want.”

P.S. walking along the beach, [redacted] held my hand.

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