Wednesday, December 27, 2006

and i don't feel any similarity


I'm feeling pretty good about this whole new-year thing.

There are regrets. Losses. Some trepidation - worries that may or may not be warranted. But holy crapazoid, has this been a year for the books.

I had a dream not long ago - a trippy, fractal sort of dream. I was watching the tree of my life's decisions grow. The roots of the tree, stretching into an infinity of underworldly blackness, were the decisions that conspired to create me; the point where the actual tree emerged, my birth; the first branch, my first independent decision. From there, the tree careened into the stratosphere - the strong lines of made decisions, big and small, dwarfed by the smoky phantoms of those that were possible, yet left unchosen.

This has been one of those years that really puts some growth on that tree, and I'm going to put some heavy fertilizer down for 2007.

I'm not much of a 'resolutions' girl - not, at least, on January 1. I like to make resolutions as they come up, and keep them on a closer deadline than the gaping expanse of an entire year. This year, however, I really feel like I'm looking at newness - the death of hiding, and an up-front facing of where I'm headed...literally.

Thursday, December 21, 2006

the little whispers of a good morning


Your sleeping head on the pillow, lips pouched ever-so-slightly around your long, slow breaths.

Your company to my car - a kindness that's never taken for granted.

Leaning against a whitewashed brick wall with a waxpaper cup of Kenyan co-op coffee, using my long red bangs to curtain off some of the strong Venice sun as I'm flirting with a pony-sized husky with big brown eyes. His owners are talking about the Iditarod, and suddenly I want to go sled-dog-racing with you.

The ginger bundt cake somebody brought in to this light-filled new office, redolent of maple and orange and slightly sticky to the fingers, that I nibble thoughtfully as I sit back to watch seagulls in the skylight.

Monday, December 11, 2006

At 4:15 AM, Los Angeles is a sleeping giant under my window, snoring traffic noise. Helicopters occasinally tiptoe overhead, sending her fleas skittering.

I'm awake and headed for the shower, last-minute worries distracting me from really applying myself to the job of shampooing and scrubbing and rinsing. There's so much to keep track of; so many details, and each one is integral to the overall function of the machine.

I always find it wickedly hard to leave this bed, with your smell in the sheets and your long legs a toe's reach away. It's even harder when I know what kind of day it's going to be. So when I emerge from my half-assed primping and find you dressed and waiting to help me to my car, it's another moment to think about how lucky I am that you're here in the world - a chance built of unthinkable statistical insignificance - and that you found me, which is even more unlikely.

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

zen


I.

This is something of an interesting moment in my professional life - working on a project directed by the fellow who mentored the very first video I ever put together, at the company I courted fairly heavily when I really hadn't the minutest of clues as to what I was doing.

So now I'm here, drinking their coffee and using their internet. It's an arrival, of sorts.

II.

There's a graceful simplicity in having only one certainty in your life - and graceful simplicity is the name of the game, for now.

Sunday, December 03, 2006

Sometimes I feel like I'm swimming in an underground cave in the vast geology of subtext beneath the life I'm living.

I wish there was a map of some kind - even a wonky, my-continent-doesn't-look-anything-like-that map.