Holly’s Blog

It’s a Pleasure to Meet You...

Fri, 5 Feb 2010 18:43:50 -0500

This reading for pleasure business of mine is starting to get out of hand.
As much as I am nursing a reading addiction now, it’s still not to the level that it was when I was 11. When I was 11, I read all the time. I read in the car on the way to Wal-Mart (now, the equivalent would be reading in the space between 7th Ave, where Paige gets off the train, and 34th, where I get off to catch the Path – which I don’t do. I spend those few minutes just listening to music on my earphones and wait to pull out my Nook on the Path train). When I was 11, I read on one couch at my Mannaw’s while she sat on the other, which hurt her feelings – she wasn’t a reader and couldn’t understand why I lost myself in books instead of chit-chat or T.V. (the equivalent of this would be me reading while actually being on the train with Paige; I now choose to spend the time talking, even if I’ve been with her for the past 8 hours at school). And when I was 11, I read while at school, in the middle of class (now, I write blogs). [this isn’t entirely true – I do read during class, but it’s some other’s classes notes (I’m not an auditory learner, but background noise doesn’t disturb me, and just like when I was 11, I can still answer and ask questions pertinent to the lecture when I am barely paying attention) instead of whatever I am currently reading for pleasure (this is even in contrast to when I was 19 and took a Cosmo to the first day of class because going over the syllabus was past my level of tolerance (this is actually how Jennifer and I became friends, because she too brought a Cosmo the first day of Accounting I))]. Wow, that was a lot of parentheticals.
But I still read a LOT. I haven’t always loved to read, though. A period of my life existed when I pretty much hated to read anything other than Glamour or Cosmo; these were my four years of high school. I resented being made, through my classes, to read books that were deemed to be important to my growth or superior to any book I may have chosen on my own. And with the rejection of the Scarlet Letter came the rejection of all books. This wasn’t complete stubbornness on my part (not to suggest that I am above hating something just because it’s suggested that I should love it); I really just didn’t enjoy the type of books that I was made to read: I didn’t like the writing style of years-gone-by, I didn’t like the characters, and I didn’t find anything about the stories applicable to my own life (this, to me, would be the biggest sign of immaturity in this issue). But when I tried to get my senior English teacher to take responsibility (along with her predecessors) for killing my first love, for bursting my book bubble, she refused because she could see that she was just pulling me down a road (albeit, kicking and screaming) that I wouldn’t walk down on my own and probably wouldn’t be taken down by anyone else. It was her job to introduce me to a bigger world of literature and let me find my way back on my own. And she had complete faith in her words when she answered my, “I used to LOVE to read, but you people have ruined it for me and I hate it now!” with “Once a reader, always a reader. You will find the love again.”
And I have found the love again.
But one thing that I have slowly learned about myself having to do with books is that I get stuck in my ruts. I don’t get in many ruts in my life – I don’t like doing the same thing over and over again. I will take a different way to school or a different way home just to see different scenery or I will go to a different Starbucks to see different people. But apparently my brain doesn’t keep up nearly as well as my soul does. Simply put, magazines and books do not mix, do not play well, and do not make space for each other. If I’ve been reading books, magazines don’t hold my attention; even more devastating, though, is the opposite.
I discovered this magazine phenomenon in the summer of 2003 when I went on a three-week trip through Europe; the friend I went with, Melissa, and I drove a circle around the western part of the continent, leaving lots of time for reading. She brought three books along with her, and I read all of them. When I arrived back home and tried to sit down and read a magazine (probably Oprah’s O Magazine by this stage of life), I couldn’t focus. The choppiness, the lack of a cohesive story, and even the constant flipping through ads bored my mind and created too much distraction for me to enjoy the reading material. BUT, when I forced my way through the magazine, and probably a few more of them, and then tried to pick up another book, I felt that same resistance again – but this time against the book, reminiscent of those times in high school when as soon as I opened a book to make myself read, I could feel my hands wanting to instinctively close the pages in one fail swoop. Suddenly, it felt too dense, too wordy, and dammit, there weren’t any bright colors to keep me entertained.
What did I get from all of this? Well, nothing at the time. I acknowledged it and went on, fighting the resistance over and over as I switched back and forth. But recently, when I started reading a LOT again, book after book after book, I saw the issue present itself in terms of different styles of writing (but within books). I will read a comedic novel and then a drama and then a memoir and then a spiritual one…all to keep myself interested and stimulated. But my brain resists against the different styles of books. If I have gotten used to reading story type books (think Harry Potter or one of Jodi Piccoult’s novels), I don’t settle in as well and as easily to a memoir such as The Happiness Project because its research sets on top of the pages, with small, superficial stories woven in. I, at that point, have gotten used to going from point A to point B and then on to point C, and I suddenly can’t appreciate something that doesn’t exist for that purpose.
When I was having this conversation with myself on the train the other morning, telling myself to “buck up and continue on,” with The Happiness Project, I began to wonder if possibly, some of my resistance to the literary Classics was ground in this idea. I only chose to read magazines back then. I had grown out of the Babysitter’s Club and then Christopher Pike’s books, but Harry Potter was still not glimmer in his parents’ magical eyes yet. So, the only books being presented to me probably WEREN’T books that I would have chosen, and so I pushed them away. The more I pushed them away, the more I read magazines instead; and the more the hatred built, the more I attributed it to most books in general (I did enjoy The Great Gatsby and Brave New World but nothing by Jane Austen). It makes me question now if I would find some enjoyment in these books. As mentioned before, I am definitely over the idea that I couldn’t find anything applicable to my own life in these “old” books. Life’s truths are eternal.
I still have no desire to supplement my Cliff Notes reading of Pride and Prejudice with the actual book, but at least now I will occasionally curiously stroke one of the Classics when I walk by the shelf at B&N instead of refusing to even glance its way. I wish I wanted to read The Count of Monte Cristo or War and Peace, and I think that’s a positive step. The Nook having come with a few free e-books, all Classics, makes it even more possible that I might decide to garnish some pleasure from these books, some 15 years later.

Window Thoughts

Wed, 3 Feb 2010 18:41:45 -0500

Earlier this evening, I went through my myspace blogs...I was looking for any that I should put on here.

One that I found on there was one with a link to this Interactive Johari Window

http://kevan.org/johari?name=hollyjolly1225

This site has a series of nice words to describe someone - when you set up your account, you pick several things that you see yourself as...then, your friends go to your grid and choose the six words that they think describe you. This begins to create this other grid with some words in the Arena box (where words will show up that both you and your people chose), Blind Spot (where the words that others chose but you didn’t choose for yourself show up), Facade (where words you chose for yourself but your people didn’t choose show up), and Unknown (where all the rest of words lie in wait to possibly be moved to your Blind Spot). [If you have any interest in doing this for me, you should excuse yourself now and do it - it takes like 20 seconds - but I will be discussing it to the extent that doing it after you finish reading this will kinda defeat the purpose]

The whole process is a neat one and it shows a few things. Number one, you get to see how well or how un-well your perception of yourself and others’ perception of you match. I have five things in my Arena Box as of this writing: Confident, Independent, Intelligent, Shy, and Witty. And I have several more things in my Blind Spot: bold*, brave*, caring, clever*, dignified, idealistic*, introverted*, knowledgable, logical**, loving, organized, reflective, self-assertive*, and trustworthy. They bold things that show up over and over (which I asterisked). And I have one thing in my Facade box, which is spontaneous. I don’t think this is a facade, or something I kid myself about - I scare people with my tendency toward the spontaneous sometimes. But that’s what happens when you only get to pick six words, I guess. But there is another challenge to this grid - obviously, some of these words have very similar meanings. Intelligent, clever, and witty overlap. Shy and introverted overlap (I actually filled this out a few years ago, and looking at it now, I would actually switch out those words and call myself more introverted than shy, but I am still very much both). But there is another curious things about it - it shows you who picks what. And not only is it obvious that people pick out things about you that they specifically appreciate in you, they also tend to pick things that they are also.

For example, Tami (when she filled this out a few years ago) chose, among her six, brave, loving, and caring. I know that Tami very much appreciates this “brave” quality in me that everyone seems to be able to see (I really can’t as much because I know how scared shitless I am most of the time), but she is also one of the most loving, caring people I know. “It takes one to know one,” apparently. Among my sister’s choices for me were bold and clever. I know my sister wishes she were as bold as me, and I personally believe that she is as clever. Cindy and I are alike in our independence and reflectiveness (as evidenced by her choices for me and me knowing her), but I am much more organized than she is. And although I am very organized, it’s not one of my top words to describe myself (why it’s now showing up in my Blind Spot) - I can’t help but think that again, people seek out two things - what they appreciate in the other but don’t find in themselves and what they share with the person in question-the things that create their bond.

This, then, led me to a slight detour. I’ve been reading a book called The Happiness Project, and the author mentioned the Seven Deadly Sins in one chapter. In case you don’t remember them, they are greed, sloth, anger, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony. While reading it, the one that I think I am the most prone to jumped out at me quite quickly: Anger.

I have read before a definition of anger that says it is simply, “misplaced sadness.” But I don’t agree with that. I think when Jesus threw the wall-eyed fit in the Temple, he was downright pissed. Was there an element of sadness? Sure; but again, there is always overlap when it comes to emotions or traits. And many times that I have felt Anger, I have also felt Sadness. They are not mutually exclusive, but one does not mask the other, either. They both exist; sometimes one ebbs while the other flows; sometimes they both flow (and sometimes they both obviously ebb). But when you really start looking at the definition of Anger in terms of the Seven Deadly Sins, it is obvious that the Catholics define Anger much more harshly than I do. I don’t wish bad things on people; I definitely don’t partake in genocide. But the way I define those words, and the way I see the word “sin” in terms of them (meaning, something that keeps me from being the best person I can be and the person I am meant to be), I have the most tendency to give way to Anger.

Sometimes Anger is motivated by Sadness (again, I see these as entirely separate emotions), sometimes it’s motivated by Fear. For me, it is usually motivated by a sense of injustice. When Amy died, the whole thing felt unfair. I was angry at the nurses and doctors; I was angry at myself for not being there, for not knowing, for not being able to fix her; I was angry at anyone and everyone who had ever hurt her (especially those who had in the recent past); and I was angry at her for leaving. When someone makes promises that they break and I am holding up my end of the bargain, I get Angry. It feels unfair. That feeling of unfairness actually comes from a pretty big part of my personality that was not accounted for on the Johari grid - an innate sense of justice. When I was about four, and my mother owned a 1977 Monte Carlo that I rode in the middle seat of the front seat of, I told my mom one day (after witnessing a car cutting her off and her expressing her irritation), that when I could drive, I was going to write down the tag numbers of every single person who ever let me over and didn’t let me over and repay them in kind. This was obviously idealistic and illogical and showed the black-and-white viewpoints of a child, but it also showed me - I come by this very honestly, and I still see evidence of this type thought process in myself every day.

But it begs the question - if every flaw in a person is tied to a wonderful quality in that person, where do the Seven Deadly Sins fall? Does someone who is prone to Lust the same person who appreciates beauty better than the rest of us; does that person stop and stare at the roses? Is someone who suffers from Sloth the most patient soul on earth?

And then, would our friends be able to pick out our most Deadly Sin? Would they tend to share the same one, or do opposites attract? If you don’t share your vice with your friends, are you attracted to each other because you can handle each others’? Or because you have something to learn about that wonderful quality that lies beneath? Or, do we pretty much ignore each other’s vices?

Just a few thoughts for today...share yours if you will...

Mike and the Bunnies

Wed, 3 Feb 2010 17:59:26 -0500

i originally posted this on my myspace blog some time ago, but when I was going through all the blogs on there, I figured I should add this to this blog. It’s one of my favorite stories of all time, and I want to give people who’ve read it before the chance to read it again and give the people who haven’t had the joy of hearing it...

Pop quiz: What do bunnies and Judge Judy have in common?

Answer: Mike Rhodes

If you are especially sensitive to court cases, mutilated feet, or those in wheelchairs, you should not keep reading.

The beginning of this story takes us back to Mother's Day, approximately 2001. It might have been 2002. But I'm pretty sure it was 2001. Not that it matters. Judge Judy has been around for quite a while...and bunnies have been around for...well, slightly longer.

A knock sounds at the front door of my friend Mike's house. It is his neighbor from a street over--she tells him that she is pretty sure that her dog is in his backyard. Okay, so Mike's house backs up to a greenbelt, and his backyard is strangely shaped. It has pretty much three sections to it, each fenced off from the other parts. It's hard to explain, but suffice it to say that there are three distinct parts. One houses his dogs, one is the main backyard, and the third is where his wife's garden is, with the bunny cages set about three feet off the ground up against the fence. For some reason, Mike doesn't believe that the dog is in the backyard--maybe he looked out and didn't see him, maybe he is a man who believes that his fence could not possibly be penetrable. Who knows. The woman, though, insists that, yes, her dog is back there. They go back to assess the situation and see the dog jumping up over and over again underneath the bunny cages. And bunny blood is everywhere. The two bunnies have done a fair amount of hopping, but there's only so far you can get in a 2' X 2' X 3' cage. Both have severely injured feet. All eight of them (feet, not bunnies). Some are worse than others, and one bunny on the whole is worse off than the other (this is important for future identifying).

Okay, the sad part is over. You can open your eyes now. It just gets funny from here. Remember, it is Mother's Day. Mike uses this as an excuse for the next set of events to this day. Mike's wife takes the bunnies into the house and starts trying to clean them up in the kitchen sink. They are not happy bunnies, and it becomes apparent pretty quickly that they need medical attention. After trying their regular vet (and failing...as it IS Sunday afternoon), Mike ends up taking the bunnies to an animal urgent care facility. Where the bunnies remain in Bunny ICU for approximately a week and then a semi-private room for another week. When the bunnies were released, they came with a $3000 bill.

Pop Quiz: How much do bunnies cost?

Answer: About $10 a piece.

Pop Quiz: How long do bunnies usually live?

Answer: Usually less than 5 years.

This is the only part where the year in which all this takes place becomes important. Both bunnies have been dead for at least five years now. That means they died no later than 2004. Sorry to ruin the end of the story. But that's not really the end of the story, so keep reading.

Okay, so, we left off with two bunnies who have mutilated feet that will never be the same and a $3000 bill. When people say, "What the fuck?!?!?" or some version of this question, Mike always says, "My wife was CRYING. And it was MOTHER'S DAY!" Regardless, he didn't realize when he took the bunnies to the vet that the bunnies would be put on constant IV's with multiple antibiotics for several days. And then there was the plastic surgery and prosthetics. Okay, so I don't think either of those things happened. But $3000 is a lot of money for bunnies. Who were nearly in retirement anyway. It soon became evident that the bunnies should have just been put down after the incident. They would never be the same, and he had just shelled out $3000 for bunnies. But it was Mother's Day.

So, Mike did what any other red, white, and blue bleeding man would do in that situation. He sued the neighbor. Now, understand, this wasn't spiteful. He wasn't intending on hurting the neighbor--she knew about it before he actually filed the papers and was okay with it. He was essentially suing her homeowner's insurance carrier because it was her dog who did it. He had to recoup some of the $3000 and his dignity somehow.

Enter Judge Judy.

Apparently, it is the job of someone in her employ to look throughout the country for crazy cases, the kind that get a lot of viewership. This part of the story falls a little flat, though, as, although Mike called the number and was willing to discuss taking that avenue in the settling of his case, he never heard back from them.

Now, fast forward to the next spring. The bunnies are still disabled, and about 15 bunny years older. Mike is at home, recovering from a heart attack and bypass surgery. Things are pretty crazy around the office (this is my relationship with Mike, for those who don't know...we worked together) because the other Mike and I are doing three people's jobs during a time when we would already be working 60-70 hour weeks. The 80-90 hour weeks, which normally aren't due to start for another couple of weeks, have already begun. And everything that would normally be given to Bunny Mike is automatically forwarded to me.

Including phone calls from the vet.

In between me hanging up with them and dialing Bunny Mike's house, our receptionist must have gone around and told everyone, for the sake of entertainment to my fellow accountants, what was going on. A small congregation begins to form in my office as Mike picks up the phone. I duly put the conversation on speaker phone.

Holly: Mike, do you know where your bunnies are?

Mike: That's not funny, Holly.

Holly: Mike, I'm not kidding. Do you know where your bunnies are?

Mike: Fuck off. I'm at home recovering from a fucking heart attack.

[Mike is such a sweet, gentle soul...in truth, he actually is...but like he said, he was recovering from a heart attack...and he knows me to have a bit of an evil side.]

Holly: Mike, seriously. Did the phone ring just before I called, and you didn't answer it?

Mike: [panic rising in his voice] Yeeeeesssss....

Holly: Look at the caller ID. It was the vet, wasn't it?

Mike: Oh my God. [panic fully evident in his voice] Why? What happened?

Holly: Someone just called the vet's office and said that they saw two bunnies just hopping down the street, just outside Ski Island [a neighborhood near Mike's].

[Door opening and closing, footsteps,...sigh of relief]

Mike: Oh my God. Thank God. They're here.

He pants for a while, probably fondles the disfigured paws of the bunnies, and then continues...

Mike: Why did the vet think that they were mine?

Ladies and Gentlemen, I must interrupt myself to give a little background information pertinent to the next part of this story.

Keith is another person from my office; his evil streak at least rivals mine. It is a different kind of evil...rather than causing pain, he is famous for laughing at other’s pain.

A past example of his insensitivity would be from a few years before the bunny incident. We had a receptionist for a short while named Elaina. She nearly choked to death on a diet pill the first week she worked with us. At the time, the "kitchen" was in the file room, and she was at the sink gagging while Keith was on the file room phone with a client. Bunny Mike happened upon the situation when he came down the hall to see Keith out in the hallway, with the phone cord stretched as far as it would go. Keith held the phone to his ear with one hand, while alternating gestures with his other: the international choking gesture, pointing into the file room, and plugging his other ear (to apparently tell Mike that he couldn't hear because of her gagging noises). Elaina was fine, no thanks to Keith.

Now, let's fast forward to the day Mike was having chest pains. As men are, he was being an ass because he didn't feel good. I told him to go to the doctor, I think he told me to get out of his office. I yelled at him to at least go take an aspirin. I probably was halfway hoping he would choke on it at this point. Anyway, he encountered Keith in the kitchen (nearly a real kitchen at the new office), who took notice of what Mike was taking. He had quite a heyday taunting Mike about his "heart attack"--which we found out not long after really WAS a heart attack. Keith felt like an ass. Keith is actually a great guy and would never wish anything bad on anyone. He just can't help himself sometimes, and he never misses a chance to have a great laugh at someone else's expense.

So, here we were, a mere three weeks after Keith practically swore to never laugh at another's pain again, lest they actually die...Mike has just asked me why the vet's office thought the bunnies were his. Two things to remember, my fearless readers...I have Mike on speaker phone and one of the bunny's feet were more badly injured than the others...

Holly: Well, [laughing] I guess that they knew you to be an irresponsible bunny owner...

Keith: MIKE! The reason they thought they were yours was because one was in a wheelchair and one was on crutches, and they were going down the street saying over and over, "I wish I were dead. I wish I were dead. I wish I were dead...."

I cannot write what Mike said next.

May the bunnies rest in peace.

And may the curse put on Keith's great great great great grandchildren and all their pets be lifted.

Dreaming of Unicorns

Sun, 31 Jan 2010 06:43:27 -0500

Last night, I dreamed about a unicorn. He (?) was white, dainty almost, and had no horn. Why, you ask, do I think it was a unicorn? Because I knew it was unicorn - you know, the way you know stuff in dreams. You just do. And so I knew this hornless beautiful creature with its piercing blue eyes was a unicorn who had something to tell me.

I was standing in a street but not one I recognized as one I’m familiar with. He (I will leave out the “?” from now on, but let’s just say for the record, I don’t know what sex the unicorn was. And in fact, now that I think about it, I’m wondering if unicorns have a sex...it would seem to go along with the “uni” part if they were just hermaphrodite-like and could reproduce simply by willing it to happen) was standing in the equivalent of the median of this street and saw me nearly immediately after I saw him and nudged my friend (I have no idea who this was - I knew no one in this entire dream last night) to tell her to look. As if the unicorn could hear me, he too “looked,” with those eyes that saw right through me. I stuck out my hand the way you do to a dog to let it smell you (palm down, fingers relaxed...which, I learned from the movie “Wild Hearts Can’t Be Broken” a long time ago, is not the way to let a horse get to know you...and let’s face it, unicorns are closer to horses than dogs...but whatever), and the creature walked over to me. And then he was behind a fence...or I was behind the fence...but it was high and white-pickety and friendly. And then there were others around, and they were trying to talk to the unicorn too.

When the hornless unicorn was closer, I noticed something else about him. All these other people around had the effect of making the unicorn constantly shift his head (smelling people? reading souls?), and the light caught his very thin mane, a mane that was apparently as white as his body until the rays gave it a Rainbow Bright quality. It was really rather ridiculous. This unicorn looked like something I would draw, trying to show with my feeble artistic ability that this animal was different from all the rest. So, it shook his head, leaving out the expected neighs and I watched his hair shimmer, and I hoped for the other people to get away for just a minute so I could have the conversation with this unicorn that he came to have and that I needed to have.

And then I started feeding it something. Logic says it was probably sugar cubes; but this was a dream, and let’s face it, dreams are not known for intertwining logic in their storylines. But this fact still seems odd to me - this unicorn didn’t simply seem magical or a novelty to me (what I couldn’t help but think the other people around did think); it seemed wise and important. And yet I was feeding it, an action that usually suggests that one (the feeder) is somehow stronger and older and more capable than the other (the feedee (yes, I made that up)). And the unicorn was letting me, in this humble sort of way, and yet also was seeming to be using the treat as a way to pass the time - we had a conversation that needed to be had.

And I don’t remember the conversation. If it happened at all.

The dream I actually woke up to was entirely different (though weird in its own right).

So, I did what I do when I have something odd show up in my dreams - I googled it.

To see a unicorn in your dream, symbolizes high ideals, hope and insight in a current situation. It also symbolizes power, gentleness, and purity.
The current situation that is taking up most of my disposable thinking time (and a decent portion of that which should be spent concentrating on Rheumatology and Immunology) is a confusing one, and I spent most of the time that I was in the gym yesterday ruminating about all of it. I’m not very good at just letting things go - I need clarity. And then, when I get it, as if by magic, I do let go - sometimes it’s scary how easy it is for me at that point to do so. But without answers, I am crippled (unlike some people, I’m not usually entirely paralyzed) and so it’s like I’m in a boat with a stuck rudder (?) that just goes in circles. There does seem to be some forward movement, but it’s a very tight spiral course my boat is on.

This brings up something that I am SO entirely confused about myself about. I am the queen of flying by the seat of my pants. My third grade teacher once threatened to tie me to my chair in class, and many times since then I have gotten the feeling that people were trying to proverbially tie me to a chair or to a plan or to a way of doing things. And I resist at all costs. BUT, conversely, I am very capable of focusing on something enough to get it done (a lot of people who fly by the seat of their pants never get anything done, and although I, at any given time, have several un-done things, I for the most part finish what I set out to do). I just never seem to focus the way that people think I should. What does this have to do with anything (the digressing girl acknowledges the lack of focus in this blog)? I have an innate belief that everything will work out perfectly. In most areas of my life, I set out fearlessly, I don’t push things too much, I work hard and trust that everything will fall into place in the perfect time. I may struggle at times with not having what I want RIGHT now (like getting into med school), but I still have faith and accept that I just need to keep doing what I’m doing. In affairs of the heart (and anything that involves vulnerable emotions), I don’t do so well. Let me rephrase that; I suck at it. I constantly rethink my course of action. I go over and over Plans A, B, and C. I suddenly need a plan to cross bridges that aren’t even built yet (whereas, in normal life, where apparently I don’t feed the operative word “vulnerable,” I get excited over the idea of encountering new bridges - what will they be made of? what will the view be like? what tools will I get to use to get across?).

So, last night, while taking a bath (with time I couldn’t necessarily afford) after my shower (to wash off the gym (haha...I first wrote “guy”...must have been freudian...)), I decided that today was not the day to try to break a lifetime long habit and that I needed to quit fighting and just indulge myself. I made real Plans A, B, and C. I made “rules” that made me feel like I was in control so that I could quit being so afraid of being caught off-guard. And I feel good about the plans. Is everything suddenly clear? Hell no. But I acknowledge that emotional issues are not my strong suit and that these are the cards I’ve been dealt; I will play accordingly and do what I need to do to loosen the spiral course my boat is on so that I get more forward movement.

Now, this all happened several hours before the Unicorn dream, but I can’t help but think that maybe God or the universe or whoever is in charge of dreams was letting me know that maybe I’m onto something. I definitely have high ideals - have even been called idealistic by the cynics of the world. I always have hope, even though what I hope for sometimes changes. And maybe, just maybe, my approach to the situation shows insight...and maybe even my solution and plan does, too. The unicorn definitely was a manifestation of power, gentleness, and purity. The funny thing is that if I were to describe what appeals to me most, in terms of character traits, these would, without a doubt, make my top five list (with purity taking on the meaning of purity of intentions and absolute honesty). These (yes, even power) are what allow me to honestly trust someone fully. And it’s probably not coincidental that there was a conversation that needed to be had - but this doesn’t seem to be directly in line with things going on in my life because the Unicorn was supposed to be telling me something I actually needed to know, like a piece of sage advice or something that would help me attain what I wanted most, rather than me soliciting the Unicorn for information.

Sadly, I have a feeling that I’m not going to meet the Unicorn again. I may never know what he came to tell me. Or maybe he whispered it to my fingers while I fed him and my soul is slowly absorbing it and one day it will occur to me as something I simply Know.

Explanation

Wed, 27 Jan 2010 13:02:34 -0500

I also wrote this as a comment on the blog it pertains to, but since that was technically “after-the-fact,” I wanted to explain less succinctly, thus better, in its own blog.

I’ve written a few blogs where I’ve written a series of statements directed toward specific people. This is based upon a format I’ve seen on Facebook where people were supposed to say 10 things to 10 different people, without saying who they were to. I do these for my benefit - unlike my other blogs, which are fun to write (because I like to write), but are meant to entertain my “readers,” these blogs serve the purpose of letting me unload on here. In that way, it’s a journal, but I choose to make it public because I’m at the same time still sharing a part of myself. One reason that I don’t say who things are written to is for that person’s privacy, but the main reason is that it technically doesn’t matter...these statements aren’t about that person - they’re about me (why they’re on my blog) and my thoughts and feelings.

I’ve received emails from friends before asking if, God forbid, they are one of the people I’m writing to when I’m obviously mad (and for the record, sometimes I sound mad when I’m really just being sarcastic or at least light-hearted). I’m not a passive-aggressive person. It might be awhile before I’m able to tell someone why/how they’ve hurt my feelings, but I don’t say or do mean things to get the point across that I’m mad. If anything, I will avoid the person until I have it all worked out in my head. So, I don’t write things on here when I’m mad to have that person see it and then come to me to deal with the problem. I just simply say it cause I need to say it. But, the people I have written directly to in a mean way don’t read my blog. Is it possible that one day, one of them will stumble upon it? Of course. Which is another reason to explain this - this blog is about me and my thoughts and feelings. If I think something needs to be fixed, I will fix it. Not always immediately (because I don’t know how or whatever), but I will. In no way am I looking for a fix or to shift the problem onto the other person by writing of it on here.

Now, that said, in full disclosure, I have used that format to communicate my ill feelings with one person (this was my only contact with that person). And I have to admit that another time, I was honestly hoping that the person in question would happen to find this blog and read my shitty statement to her and recognize herself - again, though, this was a person whom I had no other contact with (I had exhausted all efforts). But the formerly mentioned person was someone whom I knew would see it and it was the only way I knew to express my hurt. But it produced no reaction [reason #57 I’m not a passive aggressive person...it doesn’t work... :)] so I let it go. Amongst other reasons, I’m sorry I took this approach even in that instance.

So, for future reference, you’re not going to find yourself being given a “talking to” in my blog. And because I use very specific words for very specific purposes, at any given time, you, even if you know me REALLY REALLY well, are probably only going to be able to correctly place two of the statements on people. And that’s taking into account that I think I have ALWAYS said something to Amy, even before she died....because I always have something to tell her. I have further evidence of this “placing issue” because although I’ve had plenty of panicked emails from people worrying that they’ve hurt my feelings, I’ve NEVER gotten a comment or email from someone whom I’ve said something very nice and sweet to acknowledging my words. I think people simply don’t recognize themselves when you’re telling them how great they are. But again, it’s not my purpose on here. It’s my responsibility to tell those people those things when I find better words or a way to say it - I’m just laying it out there in the world for the time being when it shows up in a blog.

Because of this issue and in the interest of happy blog readers, I’m going to revisit my last blog of things said to people and kinda sorta tell you whom I was talking to and explain what was behind it.

1. This one is me being mad and hurt, and I’m not going to publicly call this person out. Again, they don’t read my blog as far as I know, so I don’t expect it to hurt their feelings in the meantime while I figure out how to handle it.
2. I was told once that the true opposite of love is indifference, and I think that is one of the most honest statements ever made. In light of that, I’m not going to tell everyone in the world about the person I have these feelings for (or rather, lack there of).
{I realize I probably don’t seem to be playing fair so far - my apologies}
1. I’m simply not ready to talk about it.
2. This was to Wendy.
3. You know who you are. Again, I’m sorry (eventually we will run out of things to apologize for). And coincidentally, I don’t think I really would have had to say what I said on here one day later [another testament to the fact that I write what I write on here as a way of working out my own thoughts and feelings and desires and uncertainties]
4. This was a perfect example of a few points I made. For one, I wasn’t mad at all, but apparently I sounded like I was. And this was VERY literal. This was to a Dean at my school whose doctor’s office I actually went to with my recent bout of bronchitis. It’s a long story, but I wanted to kill him when he kept quizzing ME about which inhalers I should be on (taking into account symptoms, mixtures of medicines, side effects, and personal needs) and then when he told me to call them in. But it was all light-hearted.
5. Haha...this was the first time I’ve done this...this was actually to MYSELF.
6. This was to Katherine. In the interest of both of our privacy, I’m not going to say exactly what I meant. I think she would get it. Maybe not. [K, I can explain if you need me to.]
7. I don’t want to share this one either. This is one that I’m just not ready to have this conversation with the person it’s to, and so saying it would probably force me to.
8. This was, of course, to Amy. Whom I shared my first martini with one night in Kansas City. I was asked, in playful conversation, a few weeks ago when and where I had my first martini, and I almost started full-on crying when my brain found the answer in its googlish search. It was terrible and terrible timing. But I never want to quit having those moments.