stop. go. stop. go.

When we were little, the game was 'Red Light, Green Light,” and it was actually pretty fun. Someone would stand at a declared finish line, at the end of a stretch of asphalt or a patch of back yard and that kid was the one that managed a race to the finish.

Stop. Go. Stop. Go.

When the light was green, we ran as fast as humanely possible to gain on our opponent. When the light was red – we balanced on the tip-toes of our tennis shoes in sheer anticipation of when the light would change once again – our eyes still on the price of the finish line and the bragging rights.

In life, when we grow up, the game is not so fun. The green light is thrilling but the red lights , where find ourselves in a state of complete imbalance is nothing short of frustrating and at times, painful.

The stakes, of course, are higher. We are racing to get to the stable part of a relationship, or the inside track of the fast track or that place as indefinable as any – where one feels fulfilled and challenged and productive all at the same time. All grown up, the red lights are armed. They are ominous. Their arms come in a form of financial distress, divorce, break-ups, cheating, layoffs, lies and sometimes it's just the end of something and the uncertainty of the beginning of something else.

Either way. It's not as fun as when we were kids.

And in the case of being all grown up, we'd like to punch whoever is giving us the red light, square in the nose.

Of course the light changes...not quite as quickly as when it's called out by children. But it changes. We're not always stopped. And once in a while the red light is actually helpful. It changes its ominous nature and it allows us to open up and take in everything that is around us.

But when it isn't helpful. When it is the one thing that is constantly stopping us from gaining any momentum. We have to find a way to work around it. And it can be tough. And it can be tiring. When it throws us a cliff's edge of uncertainty and doubt and another challenge to overcome...we're not thinking of the finish line. We're just clambering at any way to not fall down.

And when we get to that line – we're punching the red light guy square in the nose.

film about spirituality and action echoes in Tehran

It was on a warm spring night and the eve of what would become a history making event resulting in the ultimate reveal of the true beliefs one of the world’s most controversial countries, that I found myself seated in a padded folding chair in the wide open warehouse of a yacht club.

I sat there, awaiting the Waterfront Film Festival’s debut showing of “Fierce Light” a documentary by filmmaker and activist Velcrow Ripper who took a seat one row behind and a few seats down from me with guest Daryl Hannah. As the film began, Ripper introduced audiences to his friend, journalist and activist Bradley Will. Will’s breath can be heard as his hands hold the camera that is displaying the images in the beginning of the film…the volatile streets of Mexico where enraged citizens and police clash with stones, bullet proof shields and gunfire.

And then a moment erupts on screen that rips through any narration or visual imagery. As conditions became increasingly hostile, and Will’s camera became something unwanted - almost before the viewer realizes it – the sound of a bullet cracks in the air with Will’s last breath, a gasp. His camera clattering to the ground, is picked up by unknown hands and left sitting sideways on a bench.

Will’s death resonated with the activists that had gathered on the same street where he moved about with his camera and his mission to record and act on their plight. An uprising occurred in his memory an uprising against what they must have seen as a murderous and unjust society around them.

The narration continuing, Ripper explains how the death of his friend sent him on a journey to discover what happens with spirituality meets action and activism. When we act on what we believe.

My initial reaction to what Ripper is searching for, was a combination of intrigue based on a journalist’s life lost in the attempt to tell a story filled with raw emotion and skepticism for my view of the new age theology of oneness.

But Ripper began his story with the Civil Rights Movement, a movement during which the belief in equality was so fierce so thick and heavy with necessity that many lost their lives, shed their blood and continued to fight against a deep rooted hatred. And then Congressman John Lewis’s face and voice fill the screen.

“I saw hate,” he said. “And hate – was too heavy a burden to bear.”

The film explores many injustices…from the beating of Rodney King, which ignited the Los Angeles riots of the 1990s to the story a plot of desolate space in the center of where such an uprising had taken place. There, members of the community pulled up dead surface and worked in new land, new soil and created a community garden. That garden produced fresh produce, fresh flowers and fed a community with not just its product but its service, as children spent their afternoons working with the soil instead of on dangerous streets.

And then, along came a company – more interested in space that substance and so began a tumultuous fight to save the garden from blank development. A fight that lasted over 30 days and ended in the arrest of two who refused to leave the property – including Hannah and a sea of salty tears as that corporation turned down the $16 million the community was miraculously able to raise to purchase and keep the garden. The question Ripper seemed to ask is at what cost do we abandon all our conscious and all our convictions? When exactly does the soul get sold?

At least…that’s what I took from it.

The film affected me more than I had expected it to. The idea of taking what it is we believe in and combining it with activism planted a seed in my restless little mind. Think…if we love and we act on that love – in every breath and every minute of every day – it would be hard to turn to hate. It would be hard to march into a museum filled reminders of what can come from such hate and take a human life. Environmentalist and activist Van Jones calls it 'soulfulness'. And if you ask me, there's always room for soul.

If we believe in independence – in freedom – if we live and breathe that freedom in every day and wake only to act upon it, it would be hard for us to allow ourselves to become prisoners of others.

Now, I am not what one might consider a pacifist in any such sense of the word. Will was an anarchist. I am not. But I do believe in the necessity of balance. There must be the dark so we know what it means to fight our way through and choose the light. It is that choice that I believe is the divine of life. And this is coming from a girl who enjoys her dark and twisty little places and her overwhelming ponderous thoughts. But without the suffocating and paralyzing reign of a man so filled with madness – we would not be witnessing an uprising by a people who have so eloquently shown the world there is a silent majority in Iran that chooses to be silent no more.

And now – how unbelievably profound. As we question the purpose of social networking such as Twitter – we now see that it is so rapid and so resonate that members of the resistance in Iran are turning to it to keep the world abreast of the violence and the tyranny that abounds on Tehran’s streets. In 140 characters or less.

As we question whether journalism is even relevant anymore – the ban of all foreign reporting reminds us how it so undeniably is. As we lose our eyes the brilliance of the written and spoken word can still spread a message – a message of what happens in the world around us – and how it affects each and every one of us, a half a world away.

And we can remember how purpose needs action. How even in the battles that are lost – there are wars to be won. As Jones says, toward the end of the film, after the garden had been bulldozed and years after Will’s death still leaves a hole in the heart of the filmmaker – “being a rebel is important, because a rebel opposes injustice. But a revolutionary...a revolutionary proposes justice of a new order.”

That revolution is evident today in Tehran. It can be as vast as a country’s uprising against dictatorship – or as intimate as the parenting of our children or the loving of one another. It's all about soul. And you've got to have soul. Learn more about “Fierce Light” at http://www.fiercelight.org.

one year later - still living the dream

There's a thing about writers. Novelists, screenwriters, poets, essayists, journalists. We have a thing. And I can't quote this as my own - I read it long ago, in Nora Ephron's novel "Heartburn." The thing is: everything is copy.

We writers pass you on the street as you're window shopping, picking up groceries, picking your kids up from school. We take notes. We watch your eyes. We look for the joy and the sadness. We jot it down in our mental notepads and when you close your eyes to sleep, we hang on to those little details. We put them all together in fictitious tales where you are the hero - or we remember the reality of them when we try to tell the stories of our world.

We try not to eavesdrop when we're sitting next to you in a café, but we can't help it. And we hear you divulge your greatest secrets, your vulnerabilities, your annoyances to the people you trust - or those you like just enough to tell them so. They make up the characters in our plays, the heroes in our comic books. That's what we writers do.

There's a thing about journalists. We don't just write up stories to fill pages. When this whole gig started, the founding fathers of our craft built a platform of truth and poignancy. Our job is not just to inform and to tell the truth - but to present the world as it is - as it matters.

And it all matters.

We tell the stories that can't be made up. From the long lines for corn dogs and the way a child's eyes light up the first time they see the county fair to the way to shelling of war torn villages in lands far, far away.

We sit back and we watch - and more often than not - we try to give a voice to those who may feel they have none. We try to keep them informed. We put it down on the page and we hope against hope that at the end of the day, we have done a good job at whatever story we have tried to tell.

This week marked my first year here at the Niles Daily Star. And one year later ... I try to think of everything that has changed my world since then.

The dream, originally, was as romantic as Cary Grant following after Rosalind Russell in "His Girl Friday." Wake up to the sound of the bustling city, the grumblings and the heavy trucks and the sirens and the heartbeat of the streets. Step out into a crisp morning and wonder, where are the sirens headed, what's the grumbling about, how's the heartbeat today as you pick up a cup of coffee and tuck the competitor's rag under your arm and head into the newsroom. And the sound of the rustling of the pages is like the best soundtrack.

Well, dreams change.

In a year, several presses have gone quiet. It's a wonder how many will ultimately survive a world that used to churn out so much newsprint that children's hands were stained with ink after an afternoon of "Extra! Extra! Read all about it!" It's not that the world doesn't read anymore. It's just that they want to read everything in 140 characters or less.

And that matters.

When the gig started, there was no question of its relevance. And there was no need to be punchy. Martha Gellhorn wrote more than just reports on the shelling of Madrid in 1937. Without falling into bias like just about every other journalist that comes out of college with the dream of being the next coiffed morning talk show host, she wrote searing descriptions of the men and women and children who remained amidst the rubble. Who continued their walk to the market under a charcoal grey sky.

She wrote the world as it was. And it was enough. And it inspired the dream.

Some dreams change. Today, for instance, Cary Grant would likely be uploading a tweet on his Blackberry while chasing after Rosalind Russell through a newsroom with several empty desks and ergonomic office furniture and a bunch of writers who aren't sure what the dream is anymore.

When I lose the dream, I look back to Gellhorn and remember that original dream. And all of the others that I have stored up in a special file. The streets of Havana. The back alleys of Gaza. The cliffs of Santorini. The streets of New York City. Madrid. And everywhere in between.

More and more industry heavyweights are grasping at finding the new in the dream. They're busy, "reinventing" the magazine, trying to make their websites profitable, putting their presses to bed, trying to figure out how to make advertising lucrative again. And more and more journalists are getting worried that there may be no platform in the future for their words.

We writers have a thing. We watch you, we build on you, we tell your stories. The best we can. In one way or another. The relevance of that can only end in all of you. If you choose not to find any relevance in each other.

One year ago, I came in with a little dream. When I started, all I wanted to do was write for a newspaper. Check.

Thankfully - I'm reminded today of how much that dream has grown. I want Cary Grant. Rosalind Russell. Martha Gellhorn. Madrid.

I don't want to reinvent the art of journalism. I want to recreate it. Just as it was meant to be. Because even when the presses go quiet and shrink to the size of a microchip - the stories we tell are bigger and better than ever. They're you.

Everything is copy. It all matters.

Extra, extra, tweet it up - get thee to a blog - but most of all ... read all about it.

Jessica Sieff is a reporter for the Niles Daily Star. Reach her at jessica.sieff@leaderpub.com.

the curse of the blank page

Once upon a time ... okay it was a few weeks ago ... my managing editor told me that he once wrote an entire column about the blank page. Well...I supposed if nothing else, rather than a lack of creativity, we could consider this simply a tip of the hat. Indeed. That sounds better than a lack of creativity.

I can't say if all writers fear the blank page. But I always have. Blank canvas always sounds better than blank page. The phase "blank canvas" is filled with possibility. Will you be a Monet or a Seurat or will burst through boundaries like Pollock? "Blank page" is ominous. It says, millions and millions of writers have come here before you. They have filled this space with brilliance. Now ... what have you got to say?

Where painters may see a canvas just waiting for color, or those writers who are immune to the idea of a blank page see simply some white background on which to put their words, I see a vast, empty space.

And I have to fill it. And it better sound good. Or I'm going to be in trouble.

My adolescent years are probably at the very least, responsible for 30 percent of the all the vanishing trees. Back then, my friends, there were stacks of wide ruled paper and pencils. No flashy laptop computer screens. So when it came time for book reports, poetry, letters, short stories - even drawings, I would write (or draw), crumple the page, throw it out and repeat the process at least 17 times before finally committing something to paper.

To this day ... the lack of a good lead, even just a relatively stable column idea will leave me staring at my screen, my fingers mute. My thoughts clogged in my neuro-gutter.

Blank pages are scary.

They're empty and they're stark white, unless of course you use that fancy patterned paper, but either way - they're empty and they are begging for you to put something down on them. And what is put down is going to matter because it will leave the transparent world of thought - and enter the tangible world of reality. But as I ruminated on the blank page - and as I've probably bored you with it - I realized ... we walk around, every day, living, breathing blank pages. Every day. And these days, we're seeing that more than ever. Even after 100 days of a president in office. Even after the celebration of a country's independence. Entrepreneurs are being forced to scrap business plans and get back on the horse, seek out a new idea, develop that idea amidst what is bound to be significant risks and hope for the best. One after another, we're being forced to face the blank page in an increasing world of unemployment. Ultimately in some way, shape or form, our jobs identify us. And losing one during a time in which any job and every job is a rarity and a prize to be won - some of us are being forced to work where we never thought we would, just to make ends meet. Or worse, figure out how to live a life that was once stable -in the unstable and uncertain.

And blank pages come even more frequently in small, everyday ways. When we lose a relationship, the vastness is painful and scary and unwelcome. And taking the chance to get into another one, in this case, is the same. We run through a seemingly endless checklist of what-ifs and what-abouts and afraid-ofs that, should they work out for the better, only lead to a big blank page sitting in the shadow of to-do items like the pre-rehearsal dinners and pre-weddings where what we're really doing is setting ourselves up for taking the first step on a big blank page.

The things we've never done before. The things we've been avoiding. The things we have to face each and every day. Every fear. Every trepidation. Every dare to hope. They're all blank pages that fill us with that feeling that forces us to keep a small bottle of Pepto-Bismol or in some cases, hard liquor, in the house.

But here's the thing about blank pages.

They're filled with the things we've always wanted to do. The hopes and the dreams and the double dog dares. The overcoming the trouble. The trumping the pain. They're scary. You can douse the nerves with Pepto. Or you can choose to feel the fear as a swarm of butterflies. You can write it down and erase it and write it down again. But you'll probably just get an ugly looking page with lots of smears and smudges. Or you can just start putting things down. You'll find you move on to the next page a lot quicker than you thought - and you can write down the learned lessons from the pages that came before.

How about that? I found something to write about after all.

Jessica Sieff is a reporter for the Niles Daily Star. Reach her at jessica.sieff@leaderpub.com.

With a voice as soft as thunder

Most mornings begin the same way. Rush around over a cup of coffee. Pass the same houses on the same streets wishing and hoping that one day the street scape will change from small town-ness to skyscrapers. Step through the same doors and sit down to a big blank screen.

Then starts the uphill climb. Most days, sitting down to write is like a swim against the current. The current hitting with wave after wave of self doubt and insecurity and 'will this sound good enough,' 'is this written well enough,' those thoughts mixed with 'will I end up anywhere other than here.'

Those are the thoughts that wrap themselves around our weaker places like vicious vines that grow alongside a beautiful old house until they practically cover it all up. And then...Wednesday I caught a teaser on the 'Today' show about a woman who auditioned on Britain's Got Talent.

Later, I jumped on You Tube to see for myself the emergence of Susan Boyle. The “nearly 48” year old woman who had “never been married” and “never been kissed”, was displayed at first against dippy music, presenting her as a joke. As she stepped out onto the stage, the audience laughed. The judges rolled their eyes at responses that have been described as “inarticulate.” Someone in the audience gave a sarcastic whistle at her and the camera caught audience member after audience member laughing and rolling their eyes as she told judges Piers Morgan, Amanda Holden and Simon Cowell that she wanted to be a professional singer along the lines of British legend, Elaine Paige.

Then, the music started. And Boyle began to sing “I Dreamed a Dream” of the musical Les Miserables.

“I dreamed a dream of time gone by,” Boyle sang with a voice that simply can not be described in one word. It was beautiful, it was delightful, it was amazing. In just that first line, the audience that had been so merciless to Boyle just moments before, were on their feet, in tears and screaming for this woman from a small village in Scotland who has been described as shy and kind – who lives in a government subsidized home with her cat, 'Pebbles,' the youngest of nine children who had been caring for her ailing mother until she died two years ago.

Until her appearance on Britain's Got Talent, Boyle, who had been singing since she was 12, had only sung in and around her village, mostly in church. Which seemed fitting. Sometimes I think God likes to keep the most talented in the unlikeliest and hard to find places, almost as his own rare treasure – so valuable that they have to be sought out.

We live in a society in which we literally build stages on which to mock people. Sometimes I think the best talents, the most beautiful voices, the best painters, sculptors and artists are kept under wraps – until God knows that the world will give them their due.

Boyle's performance on the talent show continues to bring me to tears, even after having watched the clip countless times since.

Over 600 articles had been written about her as of yesterday afternoon. And the number of viewers of her performance on You Tube jumped from nearly six million yesterday afternoon to 11 million this morning.

Several of them take a look at Boyle's looks. They refer to her as “dowdy” or “frumpy.” And they echo judge Holden's remarks that the entire audience was against her when she walked out onto the stage, entirely cynical – and that it was a privilege to hear her.

“Everyone was laughing at you,” Morgan said, when Boyle had finished singing. “Nobody is laughing at you now.” What is most endearing about Boyle is not only her voice. Or the song she chose to sing.

“I dreamed a dream of time gone by/When hope was high/And life worth living/I dreamed that love would never die/I dreamed that God would be forgiving/Then I was young and unafraid/And dreams were made and used and wasted/There was no ransom to be paid/No song unsung/No wine untasted...”

No, the most endearing thing about Boyle was that following her performance, she began to march off stage without so much as a critique – as if she figured the judges would have tossed her off anyway. She was generally surprised when each judge praised her more than any previous contestant and passed her through to the next round. Her eyes went wide, her face flushed and she pumped her fist in the air and stomped her feet. And one got the sense that it is not just talent but purity that runs through the “nearly 48” year old woman from Scotland.

And when Cowell said, “Susan, you are a little tiger aren't you?” Boyle paused. Blushed and said hesitantly, “I don't know about that...no I don't know about that.”

Ms. Boyle, while the world will look at the bigger picture, the way an entire crowd misjudged you based solely on your appearance and while others will look at your talent, I would like to commend you on your bravery and say that you sang to millions of people who still sit at home with their dreams tucked away and tied down by their own self doubt, their own insecurities and their fear that the world might judge them.

You sang to a little girl who grew up loving to read, with unruly hair and a still compromised fashion sense who was teased from childhood to adolescence and sometimes even adulthood for being a little awkward at times and who often fears stepping out of her own village. And probably to countless dreamy children who continue to live in all of us.

And when you sang the lines, “But there are dreams that cannot be/And there are storms we can not weather/I had a dream my life would be/so different from this hell I'm living...” I lost my breath.

And I think everyone else did too.

In an interview, Boyle said she auditioned for the talent show for her late mother, who wanted her to do something with her life. I think there is no question on how proud her mother would be now.

And in that interview Ms. Boyle commented on the subject of the angle that so many are taking about the “frumpy” woman with the angelic voice.

“Modern society is too quick to judge people on their appearances,” she said. “There is not much you can do about it; it is the way they think; it is the way they are. But maybe this could teach them a lesson or set an example.” On the contrary, Ms. Boyle. I think it would be an honor just to be able to shake your hand and compliment your voice. And I think you just might be one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

And this morning, I hummed your song on the way to work and dreamed a dream of time gone by. And I think I speak for millions when I say that, when times are really tough, you will lift us all as high as your voice carries.

The truth is – I would never be able to describe it well enough. So I encourage everyone to go to You Tube and search for Susan Boyle. It'll make your day. And it will remind you about what it means to dream. And that dreaming is just the beginning. Living is in the dreaming and the doing.

let you take me home

I would let you take me home tonight.

And that's really saying something, because usually I insist on driving.

But I would let you take me home tonight. Pull me from the car and deposit me somewhere safe and warm, like the couch. I would put up no fight and let you feed me something comfort foodish, like soup and tell me that you know what's best for me. Close my eyes, secure myself in your iron gate arms.

Because I need you to shelter me. And that is unusual for me. But I need your shelter now. Need you to rock away the nightmares and force my heartbeat to slow and match yours.

I would let you take me home tonight and keep me there. Though I never thought I'd want to be kept ever. I'd let you shelter me from the storm. Weather the worry.

Because I need a place to stay. Where there are no strings. I need a place to recoup. My body is stiff and sore from the recoil that I've mired myself in. I would take your hand.

I would let you take me home tonight.

in the abundance of memory

I'm beginning to wonder if I've ever had a truly original moment as a full grown adult.

When I was in high school, I cared about my social status, but I didn't care enough. I didn't care enough to take the time to figure out what it meant to have good hair, a good wardrobe or good make-up. I didn't really care that I didn't quite fit into one particular clique, but rather certain percentages of various cliques. I remember being awfully frizzy as a highschooler.

Will used to call me "Jugs". But I can't remember exactly if that had anything to do with my boobs. I don't remember them being very big in high school, but I'm surprised at how big they are now and I'm almost thirty. I don't pay attention to a lot a lot of the time. I think the nickname had more to do with the fact that I was the only Jew in school and Will and I hugged each other a lot. Gimme a hug. Jew. Hug. Jew. Jug. Nah. It probably did have to do with the boobs.

I had a moment the other day when I could feel high school all over me like a heavy wool coat in the middle of summer. Oddly enough, it was memories of summer that did it.

I worked in a generic Dairy Queen in my small town for most of my high school years. It was my first real job and it was a beautiful tapestry of colorful characters with the added bonus of a measly paycheck that felt like millions when you don't have bills to pay each month. I often wish I could put my small town experience into words. But I haven't found the words yet. In that little ice box of a building I didn't just swirl together soft serve and broken pieces of candy bar but fell into a family that I only now realize I've lost a lot of.

I can still feel the stickiness that came with working there. The sweat from the hot, humid days when the air conditioning couldn't stand up to the steady flow of small towners who wanted slushies and hot dogs and ice cream cones. I can still smell the bleach Kim would pour into the mop water and feel the steam from the hot dog cooker. My job there was so intoxicating. So high school. So small town. So delicious.

I used to scribble soap opera style diatribes on the dry erase calender where our schedule was written in each month. A whole world existed for me when I went to work there in the afternoons. I picked up every hour that I could. It felt so exhilarating to be in that building rather than in my room where I was bored and scribbling into my sketch pads. At work, I was the nerdy intellectual one compared to everyone else who lived real lives with boyfriends and sex and drugs and alcohol. But I never seemed to mind much.

I can still feel those days. You know the times of your life that you can feel - even in memory. I can feel them there. I think I stopped feeling them for the most part when Lynne died. She was the boss of us all, the mother of one of us and a friend. And I wish I could have known her as an adult. And when she died I think a piece of me tucked that part of my life away and stopped being that nerdy girl with the big aspirations.

And when I saw Punky's mug shot in the paper - it all came flooding back to me. A stark, stinging slap to the face. Over ten years later and this is where we all are. I'm still watching old black and white movies wishing I were living somewhere else, Kim is a mother with a house and a husband and a life that is still heavy with tragedy and happiness and Punky is busy finding herself amidst recklessness...of which I wonder often her mother's opinion - had she lived til today. The memory of it all weighs a lot. The reality of it. I can feel high school and adolescence the way you can feel the cool water in a pool on a hot and humid day. Immediate.

I used to write and draw insanely. I can't even remember what I wrote about, but I do remember not thinking so much about it. Stories and poems and paragraphs of thought just went on the paper until my hands were cramping and it was past midnight. I miss that. The lack of self-consciousness of it all.

And I don't feel as original or individual as I did back then. I'm just realizing that now. I am loved by many for who I am. I know that. But I don't feel that quirkiness that I had once been so proud of. And I'm just wondering, as I wonder if I really do have something worth saying as a writer - if I've ever had that originality that is so blessed in adolescence. If I am an individual.

In New York, as I sat across from my Aunt Darya on a seemingly calm Saturday afternoon, she asked me if I had passion about anything. My answer was no. I've lost all passion. Passion is what fueled me to fill sketchbooks with drawings, what led me to fill notebooks with stories just for the story's sake. I miss passion. Passion is what led me to apply to Columbia and make the drive to orientation with Kim, buy a coffee mug and books from the bookstore even though I knew I wouldn't attend classes there and what led me to request information from Johns Hopkins. It's what led me to apply to Sarah Lawrence.

I always knew that even if I didn't always feel as though I was able to breathe on the streets of my small town, my passion for writing would keep me afloat.

Yet when Darya asked me if I had passion for anything going on in my life at the moment. All I could say was no.

I wish I had the words.

the visitor

I am on a current, constant search for inspiration.

I am worried that as a writer...I may have nothing important to say.

I worry that the stories I may tell may be better told by someone else.

But sometimes, in searching for inspiration...through movies or music or books - I find a quick moment of it. And the song, the film, the paragraphs or the pages...they make me tear up. Like this one did.

restore my soul

I lean over the counter at the doctor's office and take in the "prime time drama" aura. Rachel and I trade gossip in a hushed whisper. We make birthday plans. We berate Brangelina.

I tell her how nervous I am to be going to New York tomorrow. Where normally I would be thrilled, I am quite simply not. For a multitude of reasons that are too exhausting to explain here.

The Rabbi Harold Kushner says, in an examination of the 23rd Psalm - that we, humans can become overwhelmingly busy. So much so in fact that we neglect our very souls and sometimes it becomes necessary for us to take a moment to stop - so our souls can catch up to us. "He restores my soul..."

I don't tell Rachel this. That I feel like I need my soul to catch up to me. That I've been thinking at such a massive rate that moments are becoming unnecessarily heavy. She knows all of this anyway. Still, I am nervous. And I dare say, I'd pass the trip up all together.

Still, she talks me down. Calms me down. We go back to trading gossip and making birthday plans. I feel relief.

Of course now...after sitting in a quiet, and painfully boring office for the better part of night - I am nervous again. It is nerve wracking to want something so much. Because you can't want without knowing there is a possibility you won't get it. That is the ache that wanting is. I want something to seep into my pores and inspire me. To wake me up. To restore my soul. I'm afraid I might not get it.

But I'll settle for a glimpse of the place I've always considered my real home.

call me cranky

I am convinced that the Midwest is the only place in America that innocent people are forced to suffer the sound of windshield wipers running against windshields that are not quite watery enough... Causing a "WWUUUUURRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTT" sound every time they wipe against the glass. Causing ears to bleed.

I say this because I bet the Western part of the country - with the exception of Seattle - deals with rain and sleet and snow as an exception. Not a normalcy. And the Eastern part of the country? I'm sure they get even more rain.

Because the Midwest is the ass crack of the nation.

I hate the commercials. Because I know that they are geared towards specific demographics and personality assessments that are developed by newly graduated marketing interns. So what we get is the round woman with a soft voice who feeds her five kids and the entire marching band warm biscuits with butter from Walmart. And people seem to swell here. You won't see them for weeks or months but when you do...you'd swear they didn't look quite as swollen the last time you did. It's not that they're technically overweight. They just look bloated. Like life is what bloats them. Not the carbonation from the beer they are most likely guzzling after five.

I hate that many see me as self-righteous for this. I swear, I am not...

It's not that I don't see the charm in this neck of the woods. Or that I realize I don't connect and shouldn't be here in the first place. A part of me does connect. And it's that part of me that I wish I could express, but alas, tonight I can't.

Processed foods make me sad. I'm not saying I'm not forced to put them in my cart from time to time, or that they're not an obvious fact of life - they just make me sad.

I can't wait for a break from life in the crack.

ghosts and phantoms

I believe in ghosts. Not the ones of the paranormal kind. The ones that people swear are responsible for their broken dishes or reappearing stains on the carpets or haunting sounds in the dead of night... Rather the ghosts that linger in the space between presence and absence. They live in the moments where time stands still.

What do I mean exactly? I don't know.

Today, I stepped outside into the air that was desperately trying to make it over the hump to Spring - and felt as though I couldn't breath. My mind has a way of travelling at light speeds and all at once I was overwhelmed with the idea that if you stay in one place long enough - you'll eventually see all of its ghosts. Ghosts of romances that never made it. Romances that went terribly wrong, sinking into tears and desperation and settlement. Ghosts of dreams abandoned for the house on the corner and the steady paying job. Ghosts of those who were supposed to live out life with us but now don't live at all...leaving time to stand still for those who were left.

Even paranormal experts will tell you that not all ghosts intend to harm. They're not all bad. So I don't say that I see these ghosts with a measure of cynicism or negativity. Those ghosts are a people and a place's history. It's story. And at the moment that I thought it I could barely breath in the crowd of ghosts around me. I could barely hear my ipod of the sounds of their memory.

They are much like the idea of the phantom limb. The fact that patients who are forced to have a limb amputated can still feel it, feel its pain after it is gone.

You can try to detach people or ideas or dreams from yourself. But it seems that, just like the phantom limb, even once you remove yourself from the subject - you can still feel it. Feel it's pain, it's joy, it's essence. You can tell someone that it's over - but you can still feel the way their arms wrapped around your waist. Their hand through your hair. You can stop dreaming. But you can feel the desire that inspired the dream.

Distraction, I think, helps the pain of that which is phantom. Keep yourself busy and you may not notice it. You may even go a whole day not feeling it. But take a second to stop and you can become overwhelmed with the weight of absence.

But I supposed it's the same wherever you go. And I suppose there's comfort in that.

today i ached for morning

Today I couldn't stop thinking about how sweet mornings can be.

The weather is only starting to change. And it's little by little. The high 40's and low 50's were nice last week - but they were only to be followed up by mid 30's with cold, sleety rain.

Still. It's amazing the memory that senses can hold. Like when a song or a movie or even just a portion of a song from a movie can transport you right back to where you were in the space and time when it was *the* movie or *the* song.

Know what I mean?

So today I ached for morning. No matter how cool it might be, six or seven o'clock is the sweetest time of day. When the sun is just rising, stepping outside, you can feel the earth turning over. Still warm with sleep - in its own perfect position. You know, the one you're in just before you fully wake up when all your covers are perfectly wrapped around you and you are so completely comfortable. Morning feels like that.

Everything tastes better. Coffee tastes better, eggs taste better, bagels taste better and newspapers smell better. The light is brighter.

Today I ached for morning.

The brain is sharper in the morning, I think. More gets done when the tasks are started in the early morning. The air is inherently crisp - even in 90 degree heat and humidity. It gets into the blood, into the veins. Morning creates the illusion that the day goes on forever. Like every day lasts a lifetime. Which subsequently makes sunset a delightful, calming and serene surprise.

Today I ached for morning. And for a sultry sunset - met with beers on the back deck with my closest friends. I think on the next, I might even slip in a couple of shots. To drink in and get as drunk as - a day that starts with the magic of morning...A day that seems like it will last forever.

Today I ached for morning.

truth and consequences

"Trouble...oh trouble, trouble...Seems like every time I get back on my feet she come around and knock me down again. Worry, oh worry, worry... Sometimes, I swear it seems like this worry is my only friend..."

- Ray LaMontagne, 'Trouble'

The truth is... I was busy with work. Busy with things to do. And now that the dust has settled, I'm a little busy with depression.

Not the kind where you have those meandering thoughts of... 'oh this sucks' or 'oh that sucks', but the kind where your chest cavity feels likes someone has filled it with cement and the only way you can get your brain to stop racing is to keep the television and your ipod on at the same time.

When things start to hurt for no reason at all.

But I guess the after effects...is really just the consequences. Since the truth is...I'm a little in love w/ my depression.

I know it sounds odd, but I'm a writer. If we're not in love with inappropriate people, alcohol or drugs - we have to find something else just as self-destructive to be in love with and that, as it would seem, sometimes turns out to be ourselves. Because the truth is that even though the days are harder to get through when I get like this - within it all I find broader sentences...bolder words. Scenes and situations and conversation and ideas and sometimes even, a little confidence.

Depression is the married man. I am the other woman who so desperately believes he'll change his noncommittal cheating ways and leave the wife just to be with me. The mood will melt away into something way more constructive and healthier and better than what it is.

But it doesn't. Instead...I continue to go on with it...I'm in love with it, I think. That's just my truth. So I spend time with friends, eat out, have a few drinks... I keep at my job, write what I can when I can - and when it's too tough I just avoid. Avoid visits or phone calls or responsibilities. Avoid it all because I'm just too busy focusing on myself alone.

The brain is a very small space.

And the funny thing is that through all the fog - there is this incredibly conscious version of me. Who sees this all as a mess that has been left alone long enough - and needs to be cleaned up. A version of me that knows how much work this is going to be. A change in routine. A change in attitude. A change in everything.

That version is the one that never would have gotten involved in such self destructive behavior in the first place. She got straight A's in school. She was compartmentalized when it came to emotions. She was responsible and careful and at times - even a little fun. She didn't drop things because they were too heavy.

And she's a little sick and tired of the me that I've become.

And I'm counting on her to kick my ass.

in which our heroine is overworked and overwhelmed

There are times that are almost too much for real life. They belong on television with prolific voice overs and a killer soundtracks and soft lighting. Everything looks better with soft lighting.

Last Sunday, over 1/2 a Barnes & Noble cookie and a latte, I realized something painfully simple. If you take a step closer to something - you get closer to it.

But I too often speak in tangled metaphor.

The frustration of not writing, of feeling creatively and intellectually stifled in the small town I live in - eventually became too much for me. And I began getting annoyed at my own voice as it complained to friends and family about my own unhappiness.

So I put the call in to my editor - telling him I was in need of advice as well as ready and willing to do whatever it would take to move my career in some sort of progressive direction. I was neither ready nor willing. But I took the step anyway. And I took on the title of "Southwest Regional Editor". Nothing is certain right now. Not the direction in which I am going or the real depth of that title. Not my future in terms of any of my jobs - or school - or anything else. Things may not change much - but even the littlest amount of change is enough for me.

And having the personal and emotional hell going on that I've been dealing with for the past week - being told that I had one week to put out my first paper with only one writer - me - was almost like a blessing in disguise. A masochistic blessing - but a blessing nonetheless. Anger fuels me in ways. I'm able to scratch off items on a to-do list much faster. I think less and act more just to keep my anger from bottling to the point of combustion.

I worked out until my muscles ached and my breathing was heavy and the anger and stress subsided a little bit. When work became too much and my mind began to spin and my anger started to swell, I'd grab the weights, crunch until I couldn't crunch anymore, push up and get on the gazelle. I've been working constantly. Asleep at six in the morning and up by 10:30, making phone calls, arranging interviews and typing up notes - just to make dinner and go to work until 5 in the morning and asleep by 6 again.

I won't say it hasn't taken it's toll. The lack of sleep and utter exhaustion took an emotional and physical toll on me yesterday when I collapsed into a crumple of tears and fears on my sofa just an hour before work. The only joyful moments were to hear Madison's two-year old voice say she loved me when I kissed her goodbye and when Kim said she understood my sudden desire to return to the age of 20.

I wonder often and over again how I have become the person that I am now - even though I know the person I am now will not be the person I am tomorrow. I wonder where the girl who was on the verge of turning 21 went. She was kinda fun. She drank too much and didn't think about the injustices of the world and she was confidant and comforting.

So I took on a new challenge. And at times - the thought that this could all lead to a more creative and positive life makes my insides surge. I have another meeting with another editor next week for more advice and I've even been in touch with yet another editor of a regional magazine for more work. I've begun thinking of myself as an actual writer. I've made contacts in New York in order to put up an actual website and it would seem this is all a big mass of positive change.

But remember what I've said about me and change...

And still...the personal and the emotional are shaky and uncertain. What were once solid relationships are now taking on new forms that don't necessarily fit me yet.

And I am just a lady in waiting of the future. Waiting for the next wave of change to come.

toxicology

If I had to point out my toxic best friend...you know, the one that is there with you all the time that you have some sort of perverse love for but all in all is toxic to you. Poison. Makes you inevitably a poorer version of yourself...I'd have to point out my anger.

Anger and I have been best friends since childhood. The only one I have. My anger knows no grey areas - only the black and the white. Black being the dormant anger. It sleeps beneath the surface...and because I never shed any light on it - things that should make me angry, don't. There is no self defense, no standing up for what I believe in, no "I will not take that from you". It's simply sleeping. Dormant. An ironic word that rolls of the tongue much like "doormat".

And there is the white. That's the kind of anger that is blinding. I can't quite pinpoint what brought that anger to me in the first place...but I can remember it as a child. My fits were never quite what normal childhood fits were. Things were broken when I threw a fit. Doors, closets, curtains...chairs.

So I have worked hard to...repress. To turn myself into a forgiving person. A less judgemental person. A person who puts such things in another's hands and thereby, takes a bit of the pressure off. But what is repressed...must return every so often.

So recently...when a certain situation put me in the position, the proverbial fork in the road - where I was forced to decide to either shut the hell up and forgive or get angry and demand forgiveness...I hesitated. I wish my brain had that middle fork... You know, the one that says "do both. Get angry, declare your boundaries and then forgive..." But I don't have that fork. So I didn't want to get angry. Let the vices in and you will surely indulge.

But I gave in. And that is what I'm doing now. Indulging in anger. Snapping at every bit, on a constant defense.

My anger used to fuel my writing. Being mad at the injustices of the world was my motivation, my fuel and my fire. But now it's something altogether. It's not quite what it used to be. Though nothing ever really is. Like an animal in a cage I no longer snarl at the cage. I snarl at the people in it.

I'm sure none of this makes quite that much sense to the rest of the world. Little bits and pieces of a brain is all this really is. A couple of ramblings for the time being.

The white anger really is blinding. For the past couple of weeks I haven't been able to focus. To put any sense to anything. I'm simply angry. My best friend is back and I want to do is sit on the couch with it and fade out of focus.

Friends like that aren't good for anybody.

So I know I have to kick that old friend out again. Put a limit to its visits.

Find that middle road.

my so called...

When I was 17, I secretly wanted to be Angela Chase. I wanted to dye my hair a crimson red, adopt pale, flawless skin, wear plaid, grungy shirts tied around my waist (which would be at least 80 lbs. lighter) and ponder the meaning of life. So listening to Buffalo Tom's "Late At Night" is like finding a piece of old-school, sugary sweet candy. The kind that hold memories underneath the wrapper. Like candy cigarrettes, licorice flavored gum or or Brach's neopolitan squares.

It's one of the best scenes in the entire short lived series. After humiliating a love struck Angela, the object of her obsession, Jordan Catalano makes his way down a flourescent high school hallway, his clothes baggy enough to let people know he cares about his appearance but not too much...and Angela is poised against a row of lockers, slumped just enough to make her even more beautiful. Her friends close to her side. And just as she's deciding to banish her feelings for the bad boy Catalano, he approaches her to soft sound of Buffalo Tom's "Late At Night". And as they make their way down the hall, Angela's wish of acknowledgement from her crush is met with a simple grasp of her hand.

"I, I held her hand too tight/too hard to make it right/so I could sleep at night... If I could hold them in my hand/I'd make them understand/I'm not a haunted mind/I'm not a thoughtless kind...I'd do it if I could/I hope you know I would..."

And while it is very rare that I feel a sense of nostalgia for my high school era - the song did it today. And I wanted to be 17 again, an age when I drank way too much soda and didn't fully realize how consequences can span over time. How time can wear on the skin, the bones and the body. An age when I really didn't know much at all - not realizing that ignorance can sometimes certainly be a stage of bliss.

So it was appropriate that the pod next served up The Bravery's "Time Won't Let Me Go".

"If I could go back once again/ I'd change everything/ If I could go back once again I'd do it all so much better...Time won't let me go."

I have an obsession with time. Particularly time wasted.

I think sometimes people are afraid to admit they have regrets. Maybe it's rightly so. But I know if I were 17 again, there's plenty I'd do different. And plenty I wouldn't. I'd still get lost in those depressing songs like Counting Crows' "Goodnight Elisabeth" and "A Long December". I'd still let Tammy and Stacy get me drunk on my 17th birthday. I'd still take every art class and defy every assignment - declaring my hatred for watercolor and silkscreening. I'd still refuse to let my AP English teacher edit my graduation speech.

But I wouldn't be so self-conscious. So self-defeating. So self-aware. I'd read more. I'd let my friends turn into bad influences and feel the rush of adrenaline that comes from skipping a day of school or staying out too late or getting drunk on a school night.

We can never go back. We can never undo what has already been done. To quote the best movie of the year, "that is one doodle that can't be undid, homeskillet". But it is a constant struggle. A constant wish - deep down - even in those who swear in email and myspace forwards that they have no regrets - that we would do things differently if we could go back.

And if I could go back - I'd dye my hair crimson red.

t-minus 30 minutes

Finals will commence in thirty minutes and be over shortly thereafter.

I should be cramming, trying to beef up my Spanish vocabulary just a little bit more. But my brain can't hold any more information...and my eyes can barely hold themselves open.

All I can really think about is the short stack of New York Magazines that have gone unread that I plan to tackle with reckless abandon this weekend. The house that has gone only straightened up that needs to be massively cleaned. The horribly neglected free weights and gazelle in the living room. The horribly neglected person who stares at me in the mirror in the morning.

And the decisions to be made. A break from school...while scary...might be a necessity. A frightening commitment to career might have to be made. The decision to affect what happens to me rather than let what happens affect me might also have to be made...

People usually see winter break as a time to enjoy Christmas or Hanukkah or presents or snow.

I want to enjoy my bed again. My music. My books and my brain and my friends and my family.

Drink warm, milky tea and rich, strong coffee. And feel my muscles ache again. And give my brain a rest. Before it burns out with the rest of me.

T-minus 20 minutes...

the mustard is winning

I'll confess that I had a nice little blog post all ready in my little head just a few minutes ago. But then, the stench of mustard is wafting my way...from a little plastic cup of it that is sitting on a dirty Styrofoam plate at the computer next to me. There's splatter that I'm noticing on the left hand side of the monitor. So whoever felt comfortable carting a plate of food around campus and eventually wandering into the computer lab - was also a messy eater.

And then there's the gal next to me. Who first ran into my chair on her way back from the printer and whose binder she keeps pushing up against my arm - completely oblivious to the fact that it's even there. She keeps speaking to herself in a hushed tone...as if she's so into her work she must discuss it with itself. Nobody is ever that into any of their work. Those people just want attention. And she keeps sighing these surprised sighs. Like she's just so bowled over all of a sudden by her latest intellectual discovery via Google.

This is just a tiny, measure of an example on how everything feels as though it's encroaching on my personal space. The plate. The food. The stench. The moron. Her exasperation.

Last night at work a truck driver called up and yelled, cussed and bitched at me for twenty minutes. It was the same driver who'd called me last week and yelled, cussed and bitched at me for thirty minutes about the same exact problem, to which I had - surprise - the same exact solution. At this rate, by Christmas maybe he'll stop calling. Most likely not.

This morning, I woke up late, thoroughly exhausted, burned my toast and was too late to school to work on a rough draft of a final paper. In which case, our professor said we might as well not even come to class if we are without it.

It has not been a pleasant day thus far. My personal space is at war with the world...and the mustard is winning.

luck & love

You know those scenes on television or in a movie...where the camera shows the city. Just the city. The skyline and it's dark and the lights are all twinkly and there are cars on the street. It's called something like an exterior transition shot. It's meant to show a change in location and provide a transition between scenes.

I love those scenes. I want to be in those scenes.

This morning the sky was thick with gray and dripping with cold drizzle that seemed to turn to sleet just moments before it hit the ground. The air was colder. And I would have given anything for a Starbucks with a view of Manhattan. Anywhere in Manhattan. A Starbucks with a view of Manhattan, a latte - and a world far, far away from this one.

Most people have trouble with transitions. That's why you have the transition scenes. They can't handle the quick cuts. From one scene to another. They need something in between. Something to guide them on. Sometimes I think...I'd be happy, just being in transition.

And I know some would say...that's exactly where I already am.

.....and in on an unrelated note...okay so not quite unrelated...today my brother leaves for basic training. So I wish him luck. Luck & Love.

what i need is you

What i need, right now...is you.

I imagine you're laid back on a couch somewhere...brown distressed leather...thinking the same thing.

Lately, you're all that I've been needing.

I need you to pull me into the crook of your arm and tell me everything is going to be okay. Push my hair back behind my ear and tell me that vitamins and a better attitude will fix the fact that I think my hair isn't as thick as it used to be and kiss my forehead when that simple thought makes me cry. I need you to let me fall asleep on the couch, my head rested on your chest, moving with each breath.

Nothing is how I want it. My little brother is leaving soon and I am still in one place. I'm living in a horrible dump of an apartment and I still haven't gotten my brain to where it once was...where it used to be. That confident, ambitious and determined place I'd always known. I'm out of my element and a comfortable place it is not. Friendships have changed so much, I barely recognize some of them and I don't know how to put them all back to their rightful places. It's as if an earthquake has shaken everything in me and around me to its core - and the mess is overwhelming and old and due to be cleaned up.

I need you to believe that I can make everything turn out right. Sometimes I hear you, in the back of my head. When I should be riddled with anxiety...when it would be typical of my brain to race - something in the back of my mind calms me. Tells me to just keep breathing. Tells me one way or another, I will be okay. But I need you closer now. I need you here.

Nothing is as I want it to be. And looking every which way - I can't see ahead. I need you to show me. Show me my reflection.

It's the holidays...and I'm craving you like red wine and bouquets of orange roses. And I need you to get me through this semester...get me through the next few exams and papers and tell me I will do better next semester. Tell me I am not defined by my GPA. I need you to wake up that part of me that's been sleeping. I need you to pull me out of that hell hole of a residence, pull me out of this job. Pull me out of this state of mind and throw me into holiday movies and smells of cinnamon and vanilla and pumpkin. Remind me what its like to sleep in a real bed instead of curled up on the love seat. Take the neurosis out of the family gatherings. Save my soul.

I'm haunted now...today. I ran across a quote by Norman Mailer. "Every moment of one's existence, one is either growing into more or retreating into less." I feel myself retreating into less - when all I want is more. And so now, they swirl in my head, those words. They will for a while. Until I start growing again.

And still...all I need...is you.