The Art of Choosing Bogarts

Well, Halloween is over.  As of five minutes ago, it's now officially All Saint's Day.

I wish I knew a saint to tell you about, but unfortunately, I have no saint-age in my religious background.  Except for the obvious ones like Saint Mary.  And Paul.  Does Jesus count?

I just finished watching Graveyard Shift and have developed an entirely new fear of rats.  Well, okay, that's not true.  It was a fear I already had, due to that one awful scene in 2 Fast 2 Furious with the rat and the bucket and the torch, but it kind of intensified just now.  A lot.

The rats weren't the scariest part, though.  And neither was the gross bat-pig-rat-like creature of the deep that fed on unknowing and injured cotton mill workers (although, I must admit, creatures from the deep are never scary, in my opinion). The scariest part of the movie was watching everyone go crazy with fear.

I realized that the power of fear is more terrifying than anything else.

Everytime I watch a Stephen King movie, I go through this thing where I sit for awhile and ponder just how I plan on going crazy in my old age, whether it's from the power of fear, or not.  Like after I watched The Shining for the first time.  I had to completely rethink my life and the likelihood of a normal, healthy aging process.

There's so many types of crazy, you know?  Don't you ever wonder what mental illness you're prone to?

I do.  All the time.

I mean, honestly.  I could go bi-polar.  I could start seeing things.  I could hear voices.  I could develop a complex.  I could start murdering people in cold blood.  I could start hoarding, or develop OCD.

I could do all of those things, realistically, but I think the only valid and probable mental incongruency I would develop would be multiple personality disorder.

In fact, I know I would.

All writers have some form of multiple personality disorder, in my opinion.  It goes unnoticed, however, because we're actively expressing the disorder through the development of characters and plotlines.  It's not locked inside our minds.  Our illness is alive in our words.

And I'm okay with the idea of developing multiple personalities.

I'd rather do that, than start hearing voices.  Or seeing things. Or feeling bugs crawling underneath my skin nonstop.  At least with MPD you aren't conscious of what's going on when the "alters" are in control.  You can't hear them whispering things in your ear.  You just become them for awhile.

Things like these fascinate me.  I'm alternately terrified and enthralled by the world of the psychologically insane.

So are a few of my friends, which is absolutely wonderful, because then we get to have the most stimulating and controversial discussions ever.  Like last week, we discussed the sanity of serial killers and whether or not they're inexplicably cruel animals or intellectually unsurpassed geniuses.

All this to say: I'm too keyed up to sleep.  But not because I'm terrified to move from this spot on the couch, just because I'm all thoughtful and contemplative now.

Although, because it was Halloween, there's a lot of updates about Paranormal Activity 3 in my various minifeeds, and I'm trying not to remember the time I decided it would be a good idea to watch the first one all by myself late at night.

Because let's be honest, here, folks:  I still have nightmares about that movie.  Give me ghost stories, vampires, campy werewolf monster horror, zombies, psycho thrillers, aliens, even killer clowns, and I'll be fine.  But when you throw demons, exorcisms, hauntings and paranormal entities into the mix:  I am the biggest basket case on the planet.  Nothing terrifies me more.  Well, I also deeply dislike cannibalism.  But that's more irrational than anything else.

So, don't ask me why I watched it in the first place, because I really can't tell you why.

And now that I've started thinking about it, I am a little bit terrified to go to bed.

I need a man, you know?

But let's not go down that road, either.  That might be the most terrifying road of all.

Regardless of what I'm afraid of,  it's been a fine Halloween this year, and even though it doesn't really bother me, I am still glad it's over.  The Holiday Season can officially begin. 54 sleeps 'til Christmas!

Yeow.

Sweet dreams, lovers.

XOXO and Chocolate Chips to boot,

Hannah

The Rev

Okay, lovers.

I'm sending this straight to you on a mission of urgency and beautiful music.

So go grab yourself a foamy cup of hot coffee and some rainclouds, sit back and be moved.


Hugs, kisses and chocolate chips.
<3

Pivoting

'The time has come', the walrus said,
'To talk of many things:
Of  shoes- and ships- and sealing-wax-
Of cabbages- and kings-
And why the sea is boiling hot-
And whether pigs have wings.'
-Lewis Carroll


The time has indeed come to talk of wondrous things.  Things of heartache, and melancholy.  Things of decisions, and ambiguity.  Things that cannot be comprehended without the power of words behind them.

Words are wondrous things.  They are weighty, and come with heavy responsibility.  They can transform and heal, they can dissect and destroy.  Who are we to understand them?

And yet, we do.

I've put some new quotes on the fridge  today.


A quote for acceptance:

"How 'bout me not blaming you for everything.
How 'bout me enjoying the moment for once.
How 'bout how good it feels to finally forgive you.
How 'bout grieving it all one at a time.
Thank you, India.
Thank you, Terror.
Thank you, Disillusionment.
Thank you, Frailty.
Thank you, Consequence.
Thank you, thank you, Silence."
-Thank U- Alanis Morissette


A quote for grace:

"If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be.  Now put the foundations under them."
-Henry David Thoreau


A quote for healing.  A quote  that made me cry when I first saw it at a Craft Warehouse a few days ago.  A quote that made my mother cry as she also looked at it for the first time, and we hugged our sorrow and indignation out in that aisle, surrounded by family quotes and all-too-fresh remembrances of what we've recently lost.  Which ultimately, is a story for another time.

"Nobody can drive you crazy unless you give them the keys."
-Anonymous


And last of all, a quote for encouragement.  A quote that has meant the world to me time and time again.

"Keep on beginning and failing.  Each time you fail, start all over again, and you will grow stronger until you have accomplished a purpose- not the one you began with, perhaps, but one you'll be glad to remember."
-Anne Sullivan

Pivotal moments are what each of these quotes represent to me.  Pivotal moments that have changed  life as I knew it.  Signals, flashing red and yellow lights.  Obstacles, signs,  visionary moments of reveal.
"Speaking words of wisdom, let it be, let it be."

I knew I needed to change the quotes on the fridge today because not only did I feel it was time to start the cycle again, but because I knew it was time to pivot.  It was time to be overwhelmed by the end of life as I know it right now.

This morning I made myself breakfast as I listened to a playlist particularly ripe with memories. I didn't think anything of it as I fried the turkey bacon and sipped my hot, strong cup of coffee.  I didn't even have to think about what I was doing, I never really do when I'm making food.  Everything just goes together,  it always has.

Before I knew it, a completely assembled open-faced breakfast sandwich was sitting before me on the counter. Ezekiel bread, sharp cheddar cheese, two overeasy eggs, turkey bacon, sliced tomatoes.
Dido on the iPod dock behind me;  and I realized that as I stood with a cup of coffee in my hand and a hot plate of warm breakfast in front of me, I felt like the ruler of the world.

When I cook, when I make food,  I feel like a goddess.  Nothing can touch me.

Writing is something that I love more than life itself, when I think of how much I yearn for it, and how much I would sacrifice and give for it, I want to cry. Tears well up behind my eyes because nothing I do can free me quite like writing can.  But it comes at a very high price.  For every feeling of happiness, euphoria and relief that it brings, there is twofold of pain.  No matter what it is that I write, a huge part of me is taken away once the words hit the paper.  Writing is something that I have to give myself to over and over and over again. I sacrifice a part of me for everything I write, and it never gets easier, it never gets less painful or less exhausting.

Am I complaining?  Never.  I've been given a gift.  I have a way with words and I would never exchange that for anything less harmful.

But cooking doesn't hurt me.  It doesn't split me into a thousand tiny pieces and it doesn't make me sad.  Writing is what I'm good at, it's who I am.  But cooking is what heals me.

And I think that's why I'm going back to it, all of the sudden.

There's a 12 week course at an infamous cooking school in Ireland called Ballymaloe, and I think that's where I'm going after bible school.  The only way I'm going to be able to travel and meet people, have life-changing  experiences and eat amazing food is if I'm writing about the food that I'm eating.

Students at Ballymaloe have gone on into various fields including restauranteering, becoming private chefs on yachts, and food journalism.  Food writing.  Travel writing.

I've been sitting tight on this for a week, now, but it's not the first time I've encountered this school, or this thought process.  I researched it fairly extensively a year and a half ago, but ruled it out when I ruled out Le Cordon Bleu and the Art Institute culinary programs.  I didn't want them, even after multiple interviews, so I figured I wouldn't want Ballymaloe either.

And then by chance last week at my doctor's office, I came across an article about the school in one of the magazines.  And so I ran the numbers, and I told my mom.

I'm not making any plans because my plans have never worked out in the past.  But I'm feeling happy about it.  I'm feeling peaceful.  And that to me is more important that figuring everything out right now, anyways.

Who knows where it could take me?

Maybe someday after that, I'll go to bartender's school.  Maybe I don't need a four-year college degree.  Maybe I just want to learn a little about a lot, instead of a lot about a little.

Pivotal moments.  The end of life as I know it.

Work Stories

The decision has been made at work that we're required to dress up tomorrow night, in honor of it being the Saturday-Before-Halloween.  Apparently we're all going to be pirates.  Needless to say, I'm not exactly thrilled about donning a scarf and boots just to seat people so they can eat their pizza and laugh at us, but whatever.  I get that we're just trying to spread some cheer.  Or something.

A few of us were talking about it last night, and trying to figure out how on earth to dress up without actually having to dress up, when I jokingly told my coworker that he should put a fake parrot on his shoulder.  This led him to confess that at one time in his life, he owned 72 birds.  Among which were 5 cockateels and 1 parrot.

72 birds.

As the evening wore on, and conversations had run amok as they usually do, it had been unofficially decided we were switching from pirates to hippies.  Unofficial meaning by the time I left, everyone was so muddled and unsure, that the term "Hippy Pirate" was coined to describe our costume guidelines.  I guess I'll find out tonight exactly what that means.


I was busing one of the booths last night and I couldn't help but overhear a phrase uttered by a customer in the adjoining booth.  "I didn't get your inside joke to Darci."  A thousand questions immediately poured into my thoughts.  I carefully observed the situation.  A wife, a husband, and their tweenage daughter. Judging by the length of time it took for the husband to respond to his wife's unsettling question, I jumped to the ultimate conclusion that he was having a lurid affair.

Who else could Darci be?  Maybe Darci was a coworker.  An old flame.  An old friend who was really much more than that.  Where had they been that the wife was in the same surroundings as Darci?  A work party?  A soccer game?  Was Darci the babysitter?

I looked for a moment at the young girl's face.  I looked away and left the table shiny and wet behind me.

Stolen

S.

I want you to know that I will always love you.  In some way, with some strange magic and practical disaster,  you still own the place where my thoughts go to hide, to play in secret.  The place where my thoughts dapple in the world of What If and Where Are You Now.

I was a child and you were a child, although the moments were anything but childlike.  I remember them all, still, as vividly as if they had happened yesterday.  But that time was eons ago.

I've been thinking about you a lot lately, and that's not a good thing.  I thought I was at the place where I could look back on all the memories and regard them simply as memories and nothing more, but I can't.  You are a Pandora's Box of mistakes and all-too familiar feelings, and even though in every Pandora's Box there's a touch of hope mixed with all the hurt and sorrow, I can't hold on to that little whisper of hope at the bottom of the box anymore.

I have to let go.  I have to let you go.  Trust me,  I'm shocked to find out I haven't already yet, too.

I was unwise to think that I had let it all fall behind me.  Wishful thinking, I suppose.

I know this couldn't mean anything to you now, but I know that it would mean something to the 14 year old you.  You cared much more than you let on, and I saw through to that.  Tender soul.  I do miss you, still.

The time for missing is over, though.  I need to prepare for the changes ahead of me, changes that do not in any way involve you or the memories of you floating around in that corner of my mind labeled "Stolen."

A dear friend told me today that closure comes in many forms.  Sometimes the most from private reflection.  Closure is something people seek as a decoy; it's an excuse to keep winding their thoughts around and around whatever they're trying to close.  I've been lying to myself for awhile now, telling myself things would be better if I only had closure.  Closure of what?  Any closure I received would only open everything right back up again.  Any closure I received would act as a black hole.

And so this is a final goodbye, gentle heart.

This is the goodbye that needed to happen all along, but never did because I was holding so tightly onto that faded, weak glimmer of hope, that I was blind to the world of hope and possibilities outside of the box. Outside of you.

Promise me one thing, before this all settles into dust and infinity.  Promise me that you will never change who you are.  Promise me that you will never stop smiling, and absolutely, under-no-circumstances-ever, will you stop giving out those incredible, life-changing hugs.

Cheers to the moon and back, and always wishing you all the love and sugar-coated-cereal in the world,

Xx,
Hannah


 

Status

Do you ever get the idea for a particularly enticing Facebook status, but you don't post it out of courtesy to some of your friends that might take offense?

I do it all the time.  I'm not okay with it, either.  Should I have to feel guilty or apologetic for my own personal, private 140 characters?  Should I really censor my thoughts just because someone who I haven't seen in 5 years might be offended on the off chance that they should see my post, and actually care about it?

That's ridiculous.  I'm serious.  I've thought several times about deleting my entire Facebook, starting over from scratch and only accepting friends who I can have these sorts of conversations with, just so I don't have to give myself grief over whether or not X will think I'm a scarlet woman.

Like why on earth should I feel guilty for wanting to post a quote with the word "bastard" in it?

Here's what I don't understand about Facebook, and Social Networks in general:

There's a formal adding/accepting of friends that you can choose to either ignore, or allow, depending on how close you feel your relationship to that person is.  That's it.  No strings attached.  If you want to be friends, sure, click the accept button.  If not, hide the post.  Whatever.

Okay.  So where does the moral issue come into play?  Why does it suddenly turn into a freaky mindgame of guilt, shame, and horrendous fear over whether or not the other person will accept or deny you or hate you forever if you deny or accept them?

Some of us who started Facebook when we were sadly young and immature, got caught up in the "Oh I Know This Person I've Met Them A Few Times I Will Add Them On Facebook" syndrome, and are, thus far, stuck with gads and scores of people that we don't actually want to be Facebook Friends with.

What do I do now?

 I am a firm believer that deleting people off of your Facebook is a really petty thing to do.  Or, at least I was.  Now I'm not so sure.  Now I'm wondering why on earth I have an obligation to remain "friends" with people who have no honest business knowing anything about my life?  People who, if I ever do see them again, won't ask me how I'm doing, or engage me in conversation, but who will probably exchange snide remarks if they see a Facebook post of mine that they don't agree with.

Or what about those awkward people in your past who you knew at one time,  because you were mutual friends with another person, who you eventually grew apart from, and now there's this awkward elephant in the room of "I know you, but I don't really know you, but I don't want you to think I don't like you because of what happened, so I'm just going to stay friends with you, but really I could care less about what happens in your life?"

Or on the flipside, what about those extremely annoying people who actually get into heated arguments and debates on someone else's random Facebook post, and you're left absolutely bewildered, wondering, "Why does this generation have so much unearthly time on their hands?"

Since when did the need for Social Networking seriously start taking over all of our lives?  I feel like more and more I get into a constant state of stress worrying about whether or not people will chastise or take offense at something I've posted on Facebook,  or over whether or not I've posted an update in the past three hours, or, God forbid,  I miss a friend's crucially funny or important update and am suddenly left, lurching, out of the loop and out in the cold, wet, fog of mystery and good-old-fashioned 1950s house-wife-to-house-wife perception.

And yet, in the midst of all this ranting and raving about what other people think,  I'm left considering whether or not anybody really cares.  Who honestly gives a damn?

Who are these conniving, contrived, conceited people I have made up in my head, waiting like sharks to brutally attack and tear apart any snippet of controversial flesh and status update I throw into the water?

It's Facebook, Hannah.  Nobody really cares what you think.  Nobody really cares what you say.

Facebook is a double-edged sword.  It's a great way to keep up with people you haven't seen in years, or a great way to reinforce a quick "I Love You" to someone you've been too busy to call.  But it's the single, easiest way to thrust yourself pell-mell into a world of self-centered, nosy, self-righteous and absolutely disgusting mockery.  And I'm starting to get quite sick of it.

"A Dream Made to Order, South of the Border..."

I like cream in my coffee, I like to sleep late on Sunday, nobody knows me like my baby.
and I like eggs over-easy, and flour tortillas, and nobody knows me like my baby.
Nobody holds me, and nobody knows me, nobody knows me like my baby."


Last night I stayed up late watching P.S. I Love You with Becca over Skype.  I didn't cry so much this time.  Either it's loosing its effect on me because I've seen it so many times,  or I was too distracted by the dizziness of my head and the pocket of phlegm stuck at the back of my throat.  Sickness has struck again.

Still, there is one scene in the movie that always gets to me.  Towards the end, when Daniel reads the final letter that Gerry sent to Holly, in the middle of Yankee Stadium.

"You made me a man by loving me, Holly... Promise me that whenever you're sad, or unsure, or you lose complete faith, that you'll try to see yourself through my eyes.  Thank you for the honor of being my wife.  I'm a man with no regrets, how lucky am I."

I know that it's just a movie,  but I can't help but feeling as though great love stories like these really happen.
Love stories of epic proportion.  The kind that are full of tragedy and impossibilities and....  magic.

 I may be what you consider a hopeless romantic,  but I don't really think that's what it comes down to.
It's not a matter of whether or not I believe in love at first sight, or romantic candle-lit dinners, or following your heart, or any other of that Disney, Rom-Com cheesy Hollywood garbage.

It's more or less that I believe in love,  and fate,  and the power of "it could happen."


But it was a dream made to order, south of the border, and nobody knows me like my baby.
And she cried, man, how could you do it, and I swore that there weren't nothing to it.
But nobody knows me like my baby. And nobody holds me, and nobody knows me. 
Nobody knows me like my baby.



I also believe that it's the people who determine the greatness of their own love stories.  There are people who are destined for greatness in whatever form.  Greatness in their lifestyles, their careers, their characters, their experiences, and then there are those who are destined for greatness in love.

Neither of these people are greater than the other, I honestly believe that.  It's not my intention to put one on a pedestal over the other, because there are people in my life that could fit any of these categories, and not a single one is "best."

But I do wonder what it takes to make the kind of person destined for great love?

I think it must take a little bit of bravery, and a great deal of stubbornness.  I imagine it takes a large desire for adventure,  and a dash of fragility,  a sprinkle of insanity, a dusting of chaos.  The need for interaction,  the craving to be understood, the will to fight, and also the ability to stand alone.

One must have the incorruptible faith that everything will always turn out in the end.

So, I guess now the question is, do I have what it takes?

Because that is the area in life where I want to be great.  I want to be capable of the greatest kind of love story; that is the legacy I want to leave behind me.  Not in careers, not in lifestyles,  but in love.

And I like cream in my coffee, I hate to be alone on Sunday, and nobody knows me like my baby.




Xx,
Hannah


P.S. " Nobody Knows Me"-  Lyle Lovett