What's in a name? Why is Rosalie Lillian Hale so exacting, so precise, so demanding — yes: so b!tchy! — about her name?
I think I know why a little bit. At least for myself, I know, because ... well, read on.
You see, I have three names. Most of you know me by 'phfina ... which is a nickname of a joke of a joke. I don't even know the original joke, but it involved my two brothers, both twice as old as me, and an XBox and Halo. Me, it sounded Greek enough, so I bore it, and then really took it on, especially as I've been told its meaning in other languages. And so now that name has a new joke, a new life. I like it. I call myself "'phfina" all the time in my self-talk.
My 'public' name is Violet. I wear that name at work. I wear that name to group. I like that name, too. It matches my eyes. It matches my disposition. Yes, I'm blue, but blue can also be electric, ... feisty, even. And my death glare? You do not want to be on the receiving end.
I also wear that name to protect myself, because ... well, because I have been stalked ... well, not really stalked stalked but I get a little nervous when an old flame sends me a note where I work. I'm not all that sure B-... is aware she's an old flame — I mean, she's sweet, and all, but it was a little weird, her being older than my mom and her son older than me and her wanting the 'two of us kids to ... play'? and then the mothering? ... well, I'm not sure she got the hint with me up and leaving the State leaving no forwarding address — and a visit to the sbux where I'm working where none of my coworkers/partners know of my ... preference ... No, I'm not 'out' at work, and if she were to make a scene?
Shudder! Big time.
I also wear that name to hide from ... well, nearly everybody, except family. And lovers. And dear friends. These know me by my name-name. If you've read Rosalie and Me, you may not know it, but I really, really did expose myself there. I even gave my name. Do you know how sick I got writing and then publishing that story?
I was actually afraid I'd end up back in the hospital ... again ... publishing that story.
But that name is actually my second first name. I don't think about my first first name. I haven't since I've been ... well, fifteen, 'cause, you see, at thirteen, something happened, then at fourteen I was in the hospital for a ... while, ... 'a while' meaning like for six months ... and then when I got out and got back to school, I didn't use my first first name anymore. 'Speak of the devil and she doth appear.' Well, one visit was more than too much for this little girl.
Yes, I'll tell that story ... that's coming up in Sirens and I am afraid chapter 2 will be where my first first name comes up. And maybe I can put that to bed, and maybe I can't. Maybe it's not for me to bed it. I don't know.
"Love until it hurts"
But that does bring up something: "dear friends." I mean, obviously you know what a dear friend is. Some of you have dear friends. Some of you are my dear friends. So you know what that means, right? Of course you do. Do you know that sometimes I've saved a friend's life? Do you know that sometimes — more times than you will ever know — they've saved mine? That's a dear friend to me, but, of course, it goes much deeper than that, even. A complete stranger can pull me out of the way of a truck as I'm thoughtlessly crossing the street (yes, that happened), which shows me, as I'm writing this that, sometimes, people fundamentally do care and are caring.
'phfina, lesson for you there, and for your charity and patience with other people ... and yourself.
A dear friend will do that, like I'd gladly take a bullet for one, but a dear friend also listens to me, puts up with me sometimes, and other times, either patiently, kindly, or angrily points out how full of sh!t I am. I think my dearest friends are the one who are the ones who get angriest with me when I'm hard on myself; I think they are the ones who test me the hardest.
"Love until it hurts" I heard at Mass one day, and it's not the Samantha-loving-Chris-hurt the priest was talking about. I'm pretty confident about that one. No, it means that, God! Ouch! This just hurts! you are scared out of your mind for yourself because the other person is looking right into your heart, and the blunt honesty is a cudgel. It really hurts what they are saying.
But after the hurt, do I come out a better person? No, I come out a new person, and the neat thing? The person delivering the hurt? She's still there, loving me, gently, patiently, unforgivingly, demandingly, but still there, propping me up, but then pushing me forward to walk where she knows that I can. And she sees the good in me, too.
Yes, she'd save me from a truck that would have flattened me whilst crossing the street, but more importantly, she saves me from me and my self-wounding self-talk, so I can be me, so I can take off the mask of suffering, shrug off the Atlas weight and now be me, unencumbered with the worry of being me.
That's circumlocutory; so it's a round-about way of saying with my dear friends, I can be more like me, and when I'm not, they pound away at me until I am.
That's what 'love until it hurts' means to me, I think.
[Edit: "'she,' 'phfina?" Yeah, there's my prejudice raising its head. Some of my friends are 'he's and would probably appreciate more inclusive language, right? Like I appreciate being included in a conversation? *sigh* I just have so far to go, ... all the time!]
Monday, August 23, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Frustration!
*SCREAM!*
(Insert image of 'phfina throwing back her head like that cutie in the poster of the movie Drag Me to Hell)
(oh, this is a blog ... so I just did insert the image ... that was easy!)
No, sweeties, I'm okay. You haven't heard a peep from me, but that's not 'cause I've been drug to hell (haven't seen that movie, either), but because UGH! LIFE and stuff is just so-o-o-o-o getting in the way of my writing! Really! I think it's hurting me more than it's hurting you that I haven't updated. I mean WHAT HAPPENS TO ROSE, REN AND BELLA?!?!?!
Yeah, what!
But, you know, when I do get out and I do meet people and they are nice and sweet and smart ... well, then, they invite you into their lives, and I could be ... you know, me — a total b!tch — and tell them what to do with themselves because I just hafta write, gosh darn it! ("'gosh darn it' 'phfina?" Yeah, ... problems?)
... or I could ... sigh! ... get involved with them, their lives and pursuits and ... you know, grow, and have fun, and stuff.
And then there's work! Ugh! I hate it when work gets in the way of my writing ... I'm thinking about taking out a personal ad: "Writer, b!tchy, penniless, very high maintenance, inattentive to your convos 'cause she's writing the next chap in her head, seeking thick-skinned fem to take care of her and not get offended when the 'huh? what?' comes up when you're sharing your deepest revelations or the 'Leave me alone!' when she's at the keyboard and you're feeling a bit frisky and romantic or the staggering into bed at 3 am's and staggering out at 1pm's or the ..." well you get the picture. Yes, I am an artiste! Bohemian doesn't even begin to cover it (I mean along with the shy and boring bits: at a party, I'm the girlie texting her non-existent friendies who runs to the bathroom at the hint of eye contact). But I'm not going to take out that ad: I haven't seen nor read Misery, but I'm also a paranoid little b!tch and I think I'd have a seizure if somebody did answer it.
*Shudders!*
But, really, m'dears, I am being eaten alive by Madam Muse and her imperious demands that I write that next chapter ... for three stories AND RIGHT NOW! (1, 2, and 3 (unlinked, because it's totally unwritten but it better be sent for 'betaing' by tomorrow or I will so never forgive myself!))
But that's not happening today, nor tomorrow, nor ... sigh, again ... but, yes, I'm still here, thinking about my stories (almost nonstop) and I will get back to writing them, okay, sweeties?
(Insert image of 'phfina throwing back her head like that cutie in the poster of the movie Drag Me to Hell)
(oh, this is a blog ... so I just did insert the image ... that was easy!)
No, sweeties, I'm okay. You haven't heard a peep from me, but that's not 'cause I've been drug to hell (haven't seen that movie, either), but because UGH! LIFE and stuff is just so-o-o-o-o getting in the way of my writing! Really! I think it's hurting me more than it's hurting you that I haven't updated. I mean WHAT HAPPENS TO ROSE, REN AND BELLA?!?!?!
Yeah, what!
But, you know, when I do get out and I do meet people and they are nice and sweet and smart ... well, then, they invite you into their lives, and I could be ... you know, me — a total b!tch — and tell them what to do with themselves because I just hafta write, gosh darn it! ("'gosh darn it' 'phfina?" Yeah, ... problems?)
... or I could ... sigh! ... get involved with them, their lives and pursuits and ... you know, grow, and have fun, and stuff.
And then there's work! Ugh! I hate it when work gets in the way of my writing ... I'm thinking about taking out a personal ad: "Writer, b!tchy, penniless, very high maintenance, inattentive to your convos 'cause she's writing the next chap in her head, seeking thick-skinned fem to take care of her and not get offended when the 'huh? what?' comes up when you're sharing your deepest revelations or the 'Leave me alone!' when she's at the keyboard and you're feeling a bit frisky and romantic or the staggering into bed at 3 am's and staggering out at 1pm's or the ..." well you get the picture. Yes, I am an artiste! Bohemian doesn't even begin to cover it (I mean along with the shy and boring bits: at a party, I'm the girlie texting her non-existent friendies who runs to the bathroom at the hint of eye contact). But I'm not going to take out that ad: I haven't seen nor read Misery, but I'm also a paranoid little b!tch and I think I'd have a seizure if somebody did answer it.
*Shudders!*
But, really, m'dears, I am being eaten alive by Madam Muse and her imperious demands that I write that next chapter ... for three stories AND RIGHT NOW! (1, 2, and 3 (unlinked, because it's totally unwritten but it better be sent for 'betaing' by tomorrow or I will so never forgive myself!))
But that's not happening today, nor tomorrow, nor ... sigh, again ... but, yes, I'm still here, thinking about my stories (almost nonstop) and I will get back to writing them, okay, sweeties?
Friday, August 13, 2010
This is Just to Say by William Carlos Williams
This is Just to Say by William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
— 'phfina comment: Got nothing, m'dears. I got nothing. But how come I want to cry when I read this poem?
Okay, I do got something. Breathe after each line. "I have eaten [breath] the plums [breath] that were in [breath] the icebox [breath] [breath] ..." This poem's soul is in its breaths. It says so much in its silence and pauses. So little is going on in the foreground, and behind it, behind the apology and regret is an entire world, a well of sadness than I can only take a tiny sip from the ladle drawn from just a bucket-full pulled from this infinite depth that is this poem. To read this poem is to die.
Damn it, my eyes are leaking! Excuse me a sec while I go to the bathroom (a.k.a. 'phfina's crying/recovery room), your drink will be on the bar momentarily, sir.
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
— 'phfina comment: Got nothing, m'dears. I got nothing. But how come I want to cry when I read this poem?
Okay, I do got something. Breathe after each line. "I have eaten [breath] the plums [breath] that were in [breath] the icebox [breath] [breath] ..." This poem's soul is in its breaths. It says so much in its silence and pauses. So little is going on in the foreground, and behind it, behind the apology and regret is an entire world, a well of sadness than I can only take a tiny sip from the ladle drawn from just a bucket-full pulled from this infinite depth that is this poem. To read this poem is to die.
Damn it, my eyes are leaking! Excuse me a sec while I go to the bathroom (a.k.a. 'phfina's crying/recovery room), your drink will be on the bar momentarily, sir.
Customers
God's testing me. He [yes, He] is always testing me. I hate Him. But that's another entry, even though it's appropriate for this one, too.
So, you know, when it's 10 am and there are 17 cups lined up on the bar and some jerk comes up as I've milk foaming and asks all fakey-polite in an annoying whine: 'Did you forget my drink?'
You know those days that you don't know whether you're glad or you're sad they make you check your AK-47 at the door ...?
Actually, I prefer the Katana ... it doesn't run out of bullets, and that's important when the zombie flood rises ...
'phfina, stay. on. POINT!
Oh, right. Sorry.
So, today I had a doozy of one. This big hulking guy comes in, about my age, but I mean, football player? Hell, he could eat football players for lunch! You could pack, hm, four of me in him and he'd have room to spare. Tee shirt, shorts, flip-flops. His tee shirt proclaimed angrily: "King of the [Effing] Remote!" as he shambled off with his drink, and the look on his face? Sour puss, anyone?
And then his Dad came in: looked exactly like his son, a slob, his tee shirt said: "Still here!" and he looked positively wild with a bandana tying back his long grey hair.
Scary, the both of them. I mean, I'm a nimble thing, so I could use my grrl-ninja-skliz and take them, but if they got a hold of me, I'd be meat pies.
But then they sat down with their drinks and they just sat there, and mostly looked at each other and just talked, quietly ... for more than a half an hour.
And I was like...
And I was like, when's the last time my Dad sat and talked with me for a while, quietly, just looking at me, not distracted by himself or anything? And that man/boy, the "king of the [effing] remote," at least he was king of something, you know? What am I the queen of? Coffee? Am I proud of that? Sometimes. But am I fiercely proud of anything enough to scream it out to the whole world, damn what they think?
And I mean, who the hell am I to judge him? Had I walked a mile in his flip-flops? Did his dad give him a ride in an exclusive liberal arts college to get an oh-so-practical degree that he immediately applied to become an sbux barista? Or have a Dad who would be falling over himself to bankroll him buying a used bookstore in nowhere Greece? Like my Dad would? Who the fvck am I to be judging this father and son who obviously care, no, love each other this much?
And then, later, more customers. A ton of them, all really, really old women, and the cordoned off our big table where the father and son had been before, and they got out their crocheting things, and they started chatting away and ...
... and having fun. They were laughing and smiling and crocheting and chatting. And they were all shapes and sizes, hairstyles, styles of dress. There was one woman in the group, and she was in her 30s or 40s maybe? So a lot older than me, but I thought: how brave! She looked so comfortable in that group because the group was just so comfortable with each other, so warm and accepting. And I felt a pang, because I know they would just let me join them, but I am just so different than them.
Then, oh-my-God! a girl about my age just joined them with her crocheting needles and the group just continued along as if nothing amazing had just happened, because it was the most ordinary thing, this really cute, hot chestnut girl (and girls, hm, she was so cute in that blue tank-top!) joined a group whose average age was senior as in citizen.
And then I saw them all, and they were all so, so beautiful. A smile would light up a girl's face, be that girl 65 years old, and it was just so beautiful to see, them all being with each other and for each other.
So, you know, when it's 10 am and there are 17 cups lined up on the bar and some jerk comes up as I've milk foaming and asks all fakey-polite in an annoying whine: 'Did you forget my drink?'
You know those days that you don't know whether you're glad or you're sad they make you check your AK-47 at the door ...?
Actually, I prefer the Katana ... it doesn't run out of bullets, and that's important when the zombie flood rises ...
'phfina, stay. on. POINT!
Oh, right. Sorry.
So, today I had a doozy of one. This big hulking guy comes in, about my age, but I mean, football player? Hell, he could eat football players for lunch! You could pack, hm, four of me in him and he'd have room to spare. Tee shirt, shorts, flip-flops. His tee shirt proclaimed angrily: "King of the [Effing] Remote!" as he shambled off with his drink, and the look on his face? Sour puss, anyone?
And then his Dad came in: looked exactly like his son, a slob, his tee shirt said: "Still here!" and he looked positively wild with a bandana tying back his long grey hair.
Scary, the both of them. I mean, I'm a nimble thing, so I could use my grrl-ninja-skliz and take them, but if they got a hold of me, I'd be meat pies.
But then they sat down with their drinks and they just sat there, and mostly looked at each other and just talked, quietly ... for more than a half an hour.
And I was like...
And I was like, when's the last time my Dad sat and talked with me for a while, quietly, just looking at me, not distracted by himself or anything? And that man/boy, the "king of the [effing] remote," at least he was king of something, you know? What am I the queen of? Coffee? Am I proud of that? Sometimes. But am I fiercely proud of anything enough to scream it out to the whole world, damn what they think?
And I mean, who the hell am I to judge him? Had I walked a mile in his flip-flops? Did his dad give him a ride in an exclusive liberal arts college to get an oh-so-practical degree that he immediately applied to become an sbux barista? Or have a Dad who would be falling over himself to bankroll him buying a used bookstore in nowhere Greece? Like my Dad would? Who the fvck am I to be judging this father and son who obviously care, no, love each other this much?
And then, later, more customers. A ton of them, all really, really old women, and the cordoned off our big table where the father and son had been before, and they got out their crocheting things, and they started chatting away and ...
... and having fun. They were laughing and smiling and crocheting and chatting. And they were all shapes and sizes, hairstyles, styles of dress. There was one woman in the group, and she was in her 30s or 40s maybe? So a lot older than me, but I thought: how brave! She looked so comfortable in that group because the group was just so comfortable with each other, so warm and accepting. And I felt a pang, because I know they would just let me join them, but I am just so different than them.
Then, oh-my-God! a girl about my age just joined them with her crocheting needles and the group just continued along as if nothing amazing had just happened, because it was the most ordinary thing, this really cute, hot chestnut girl (and girls, hm, she was so cute in that blue tank-top!) joined a group whose average age was senior as in citizen.
And then I saw them all, and they were all so, so beautiful. A smile would light up a girl's face, be that girl 65 years old, and it was just so beautiful to see, them all being with each other and for each other.
'phfina's brilliant observation for today
Yes, today is Friday, the thirteenth. Thanks so much for telling me that again for the thirty-seventh time today. *sigh*
I'm on a tear here
You know what I love about judgmental people, says 'phfina the judgmental person: there is just no slowing them down or stopping them. They know what they know, because they know it. Sophists.
You know who judgmental people hurt? I sure do! They hurt every single person they come into contact with. You know why? Because they don't treat people as people. No, they treat them as: 'what's wrong with you' and 'this is why I hate you' without even giving the other person the benefit of a doubt.
That other person over there? She's me. That's what I try to think: she's me, where I was sitting, or where I will be sitting.
So I give her a chance when I have heart that's beating. After all, that's why I have a heart, right?
À propos de rein, that Samantha ... she sure is an annoying little fvck, isn't she?
You know who judgmental people hurt? I sure do! They hurt every single person they come into contact with. You know why? Because they don't treat people as people. No, they treat them as: 'what's wrong with you' and 'this is why I hate you' without even giving the other person the benefit of a doubt.
That other person over there? She's me. That's what I try to think: she's me, where I was sitting, or where I will be sitting.
So I give her a chance when I have heart that's beating. After all, that's why I have a heart, right?
À propos de rein, that Samantha ... she sure is an annoying little fvck, isn't she?
Thursday, August 12, 2010
l(a leaf falls)oneliness by e.e. cummings
l(a leaf falls)oneliness by e.e. cummings
l(a
le
af
fa
ll
s)
one
l
iness
— 'phfina comment: You know in japanime (you know ... yuri *blush*) when a character is so overwhelmed by whatever, by emotion, by the other person, by the circumstance, she is supposed to say something, but she can't so the speech-bubble shows this: "..."
Have I experienced loneliness like this? Like in ch 2 of BloodBuzz? Sure. But it's also so easy to snap out of that feeling. How do I do it? Well, sometimes (okay: a lot of times) I just wallow, and I waste the night in tears. But sometimes I get fed up with my emo angst, and I just get off my butt and just go out, you know? Go out to eat (mmm, grilled salmon salad!), or go to a bookstore or go ... Clubbing ... and get picked up by this really pale cutie (but why are her eyes so black?) or not ('cause she dumps me for her famous cousins ... b!tch, who cares if she's related to the great C.J. Rae and Vogue cover model Rosalie Hale? What am I? Chopped liver?) and just people watch, and even just doing that, I feel a bit more connected and alive.
So, yeah, I'm a good moper (one of the best), but I'm actually finding out I can choose not to do that if I don't want to. And finding that out? Trying that on? It's pretty cool, sometimes.
l(a
le
af
fa
ll
s)
one
l
iness
— 'phfina comment: You know in japanime (you know ... yuri *blush*) when a character is so overwhelmed by whatever, by emotion, by the other person, by the circumstance, she is supposed to say something, but she can't so the speech-bubble shows this: "..."
Have I experienced loneliness like this? Like in ch 2 of BloodBuzz? Sure. But it's also so easy to snap out of that feeling. How do I do it? Well, sometimes (okay: a lot of times) I just wallow, and I waste the night in tears. But sometimes I get fed up with my emo angst, and I just get off my butt and just go out, you know? Go out to eat (mmm, grilled salmon salad!), or go to a bookstore or go ... Clubbing ... and get picked up by this really pale cutie (but why are her eyes so black?) or not ('cause she dumps me for her famous cousins ... b!tch, who cares if she's related to the great C.J. Rae and Vogue cover model Rosalie Hale? What am I? Chopped liver?) and just people watch, and even just doing that, I feel a bit more connected and alive.
So, yeah, I'm a good moper (one of the best), but I'm actually finding out I can choose not to do that if I don't want to. And finding that out? Trying that on? It's pretty cool, sometimes.
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