the cycle of my life

I haven't blogged lately, and it's not because I haven't needed to, it's good old fashioned laziness--the same kind I got in trouble for when my room wasn't clean growing up; the same kind that keeps us all on couches and not out playing ball; the kind that makes our productivity ebb and flow inconsistently through the years--the exact kind I hate. And certainly, this entry includes some self-loathing.

I have a breadth of stories to share this week, from a lovely Thanksgiving, two successful birthday parties, a whirlwind of fun spent in Texas over the holidays, and a happy new year. But I can't share them all--come on, I am wasting payroll time as it is! See above for reasoning ;-)

What I want to share is the trend I have noticed in my penning. Perhaps too much info for some of my readers, but a fact of life, being a chick is tough on me. Once every 4 weeks, my life turns upside-down. I get aches, nausea, run a fever, wince in pain, and ultimately run a gamut of discomfort for a week before I start to feel like anything more than a skeleton with a chasm where my spirit belongs. In short, it stinks. And when I start feeling these depressed and self-conscious tendencies, I write. It is uncanny when I look at the trends in my blog entries and I can tell I wrote my way through some serious PMS. And I'm sorry to burden you with the tough feelings, but bottling them up has never been a cure for me. Trust that I have a real journal, with paper pages and secrets I would never share here, because they make even less sense.

Today is not unlike those days in my past where I needed to plow my way through the icky feelings and try to find comfort in the many parts of my life I have to be thankful for. And I am even good at rattling them off--great job(s), true friends, a loving boyfriend, a dog that loves me more than anything, and a family that cannot be beat. Even now, when I write them, sitting in my office chair, my eyes fill up with tears. These tears are inexplicable and UNFAIR, dammit. And now, as those tears are rolling down my face, I feel a moment of release only to be followed by a rush of frustration. Is this what all women go through? A I part of the gender that is sole benefactor of some grand biological prank?

Maybe some of my outstanding family members could lend a hand in helping me understand. Maybe it is that I am now over a quarter century old and have no house to toil over, no husband to fight with, no kids to post pictures of on facebook. You laugh, and you should, because I am sharing my honest opinion about the dualistic reality of these responsibilities. However, the metaphoric biological clock is real, not that it is controlled by nature so much as it ticks according to your environment. I'm sure if I were still in Bryan I would have considered these feelings years ago--there I am an ancient old maid. I've always wanted freedom and independence, and this is where that attitude has ended me up. I have no regrets. I have not squandered (too much of) my time when it comes to my career, but when it comes to my personal life, I have an overwhelming unease. I have definitely made mistakes, some out of selfishness, some out of loneliness, laziness or boredom. And at times, the baggage of that past is a hefty cross to bear.

The mention of pictures on facebook is something I have put a bit of thought into as well lately. For instance, I have a friend who *just* had an adorable, perfect little boy. She posted lovely pictures of him just hours old with his dad. I know good and well that the two of them were not trying to get pregnant, and the sickly sweet things she has to publicize about him are not the whole story. So now we have a digital medium, whereas before moms bragged about kids in person, but a mother's account is never the raw reality of the facts. Nor is that the case of the newlyweds, or new home owners. We share as much as we are willing to up to the point that it makes us look bad. This form of self-preservation is something that I guess I have to some extent, but in the end, feel is detrimental to my own growth. I have to admit when I have made a mistake, I often ask for help, and I tell stories at my own expense as much as I do in self-flattery...I think. See above.

Problem is that when I share the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, it is often taken more seriously than need be. Many times, like now, it is a fleeting self-judgement that will pass in a few days. 'I am possibly too depressed too often for my circumstances, I think I could use a therapist, I hope I can achieve a fraction of my purpose, I feel like I am going nowhere' are all thoughts that I might share today and feel the opposite about tomorrow. For instance, I love kids, but I don't want one yet, I love Patrick, but we are not rushing to the altar, I want a home, but I'm not sure what city or state that would be in. And while thinking about this doesn't get me very far, what progress comes from doing nothing?

I'm not sure if you will get anything out of reading this, and that's not really the point. I got what I needed--frustrations off my chest--and maybe a peek at the vulnerable, flawed JaNelle will help you better understand me as your cousin, daughter, or friend. Believe in the truths I have recognized and shared as my own, but take little stock in the uncertainties and frustrations that will undoubtedly pass. I give this to the e-pages of my life to add to the inventory of occurrences that help me grow, and with luck one day understand my role in the larger community.

I'm sorry my blog isn't sprinkled with fairy tales of how perfect my world is, but like the reality of smog in lovely Southern California, I know it just ain't all smiles and sunshine, even if you can take a picture of a rare clear sky and post it online.

Now I will proceed to have a major mood swing in 5, 4, 3, 2.....

TAP, TAP, TAP!

...the sound of the dear workers in the apt down the hall that are doing a fantastic job of installing wood floors! You see, I am actually at my wit's end with them, but I think that somewhere in Karma-land there is a kind soul hearing my praise who will reward me with speedy completion! I do hope all of my meditating before now counted for something, because I can tell you my first two of 5 consecutive weekdays off work has included none.

I have rethought my 'vacation' plans for next year....

Angels along the way

I have had some stories I've wanted to share for a while and before they go into the lock box that is my fleeting memory, I'll expound...

The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone. ~George Eliot

In the past few years I have had the incredible fortune to cross paths with an angel or two and their lasting images in my mind have shaped me. I learn of the incredible power of these people in the passing moments at a local deli, over the dying embers of a night fire, or in my longest, dearest family ties. They live inside me and watch over me.

Large Diet Coke and a side of epiphany (regular)

Most recently--and we'll start here, that's where the details are clearest--I had a emotional allocution over diet coke with local delivery man, Matt. He mostly knows me for fish tacos and cheese pizza, but he has watched me grow and change as much as anyone here. He has a kind perspective and a warm ear, not to mention great chow! Whether it be for an update on me juggling jobs, his first glimpse of my new car, or watching my puppy grow, he has always had a coke fountain and a friend in me. He has though, like a dying breed, been married for over 20 years. He had some simple things to remind me things I already knew, but this time struck a epic note. I love simple things. They are:

Listen. Always listen.
Don't expect things to be this good all the time, be ready.
At the end of the day, love is the only thing you need to get through it.
And last, but most importantly, Matt reminded me to be a good example.

Where does this guy come from? A prophetic pizza palace in the sky? No, I'm pretty sure it was Riverside, but he had me at listen.

'That's why they call it God's Country, baby.'

I made a bet a few years back that ended me up in Fayetteville, Arkansas in 2006. Needless to say, I never expected to lose that bet, but I believe it was a trip that fate would not let me pass up. I was there to return a favor to a friend of mine from Austin, Matt Munee. On one of his trips to LA to visit family, he came to watch me graduate from SC, and I went to do the same a year later at the University of Arkansas. He (props to Matt!) graduated at the top of his class, with honors, as the distinguished BS of the entire class, with a 4.0. The 4.0 was the term of our wager, and he kept up his end of the bargain. I had just missed Suma Cum, but I really didn't care. However, when I went to see what an ass-kicking great job he had done, I was a bit ashamed. Why had not I kept my standards so high of myself? Doh! However, Munee is no angel, she comes in here.

He introduces me to Kate for another punch in the reality gut. He had been raised with both parents, but mom moved away in his teens, and they did not reconnect until he moved to straighten up and finish college. Always with his thoughts of mom, were thoughts of Aunt Kate. Upon our first meeting, I could tell she was going to be one of those women who met me and saw nothing but a young version of herself. She might give me advice or try to guess at my problems without considering that I am not actually a reincarnated version of her. She was no exception. With firey red hair, scarves flowing around her, no shoes, and simple embellishing metal and stone jewelry, I had met my first, real hippie. Not that I had not seen weathered women in the art community of LA, or the cool gals who grew up in Austin and then settled in as parents in Bryan. I mean a real, live, still dressed or undressed appropriately, still smoking, still dancing to the tunes her head hippie. I was intrigued, as was she.

She first welcomed us in with open arms, hugs and kisses on Matt, his mom, her daughter, and me--all on the lips. Then she led us outside for a cold beer to calm the rays of summer peeking through the trees in her backyard paradise. She told us ghost stories of the crazy old woman who lived there before she had, she told us of the good-old-boys who hate her in the neighborhood. I was instantly transformed into a child, who could have sworn it was 1972. All five of us went into Kate's closet and found enough clothes to cover us and headed off a corner of her backyard to jump into the river that ran along the edge. These are the stories I read about with boxcar kids and Nancy Drew!! After a cool swim, I got out and hung with Kate by the fire she had built for the sunset. She grabbed both of my hands and kissed me on the head--just like the summer queen from fairytale theatre--sat me on a bench and asked me if I liked her house. Did I like her house?? I wanted her house, I wanted her life, I wanted her pure joy, I wanted her unencumbered soul. But how does she do it?

"Yes, Kate, I like it. I must say, I never would have thought Arkansas."
"That's why they call it God's Country"

We sat on that thought for a while before we headed inside to make dinner for the others who were still swimming. Then over a casual conversation about what we like to eat, cook, etc. she stopped chopping her onion, dropped the knife down, looked deep into my eyes and said, "JaNelle, I have to tell you something. Do not compromise yourself." She held the stare for a moment, said nothing else, then went back to chopping. I balled. Not a loud sobbing, huffing cry, but a simple, tears streaking down my face onto my cutting board sort of release. What a woman?! She had no idea who I was, where I came from, what my world was like, and she knew me. I had told her nothing but stories of my happiness after school, my pride in my friend, what a great time I was having...she had no tangible evidence of my life. But there was truth in her advice. I took it very seriously and it led to the biggest change in my life at that time. What made me determined to find a perfect, compatible partner in life turned out to be something she said while thinking about her life riding the Pacific Coast Highway on the back of Harley with her top off. That, to me, is a form of compromise that need not be warned against. Her words still rang with the same essential message; one that shaped me so much as a young woman, and has challenged me always.

I knew there was a catch, tho. It turned out that Kate was not an angel or a prophet. She was just a hippie with a mortgage, and low-paying job, and a kid and problems just like the rest of us. She did share with me a fresh view on Jesus and a perspective about her relationship with Christ that I had not seen in my Southern Baptist childhood. It was also a novel, welcomed appreciation that shook my Eastern theology. I did walk away from that crazy weekend in the woods with fresh blood, big ideals, a breath of the same humanity I find at home, and a plan on how to become more independent and less compromised. Needless to say, I still haven't flashed the public on PCH.

For posterity, I leave my everyday angels here on the internet.

Wrangling a Rooster inside of a Cat

Working in theatre keeps my life a little more interesting than it may have been if I had chosen a different desk jockeying profession. This story is as much interesting as it is flat out bizarre.

A few weeks ago, one of the technical directors I was working with asked me if I knew where to rent an underwater microphone for a visiting installation in our theatre. I told him I had a guess, but first I had to know what this was for! He laughed and explained that the lewd, non-linear 'art film' that was playing on loop in the gallery would have a one-night screening in the theatre that I help run. He asked if I'd be interested in helping organize the random objects and the players that would provide a live-soundtrack. More yet, the players needed a barrel of water, a used wheel, a power sander (not sure which type, but we'd have 3 available to audition) and a live rooster! Great, I thought, we are putting a bird inside of RED CAT. Sounds a lot like a song I sang as a child about a woman who ate every species under the sun...

I was interested.

So a couple of days before the show he asked me if I was still working, and if I could help him find out what type of light makes a rooster crow. He told me that if I could do it I would get credit as the rooster wrangler--my first of that type. I diligently went about my research. I mean, he continued banking my ability to solve this mystery on my Texan roots, and who am I to let him down, much less the reputation of my beloved TEXAS!?!? While none of the things we tried to do with lighting did much, I was able to provide a few tips and many double entendres along the way to keep the crew's spirits. You can imagine the kinds of things we were saying to each other while trying to keep a straight face in front of the artists, and somehow still silently defend our own beliefs about the legitimacy of art in society...this one was a stretch...even for me.

By the end of the night, the only wrangling I deserved a title for was actual wrangling. I was very ready to leave after a night of trying to fry a chicken with HPL lamps and ultraviolet light and watching a bunch of inner-city goofs try to harass the poor bird into performance. He was, after all, a rental rooster, they should have forgiven his shortcomings of acting like a rooster--what does he know anyway? So I shut down the lights, closed up and clocked out. On my way out, I realized that the people who had built the chicken run in the middle of the stage and hired me to make it squawk were no where in sight. The house had emptied...all but the bird. I asked our sound guy in charge, who threw his hands up: "I used to mix Tony award winners, now I give up my Sundays to MIX A ROOSTER!"

Okay, plan B, ask the kid that is transporting the rooster to a donation recipient the next day. I walk up to the quiet kid who is mingling with the audience over a cocktail. "I have already clocked out, but I wanted to be sure that you guys have a plan for getting the rooster back into the cage from the run?" I was worried that they might try something as stupid as they did to get it in (envision three grown men banging on the back side of a pet kennel and making noises as they try to pour (?!?!) it into the run). Oh dear. He asks "are you offering?!" "Yes, I am." He hands his drink immediately to a friend and says that he must take this offer while it is hot. They ask to watch. Sure. Why not? I have had to catch birds before.

So I put on a pair of thick dirty gloves to protect myself from avian disease and a good pecking. Then I bust open one side of the run and start after it. From the outside of this 3 foot tall by 3 foot wide, 12 foot long run, I LOOKED LIKE A BIRD MYSELF. I can bet. Then it starts trying to fly away from me up into the corners of the end of the run. Everyone in hysterics, my boyfriend coaching me to grab its neck, my thinking 'I don't want to catch and kill it! I want to be nice...I am on their side after all'...I grab it from behind the wings, it cries, I want to throw it, I try to calm it down as I quickly waddle myself and the upset rooster out of the poop and feed covered run and into its carrier. It was jarred, but much happier after a moment.

When we had dusted our hands off after helping load it into the kid's car, I looked at my clock and thought 'Gee, this is what I volunteered an extra 20 mins for?' But I think the story was worth it!

too long

It has been too long since I have shared a good story with you...other than a cryptic poem and national news, I haven't given you much to nibble on. So, I would like to share some updates.

I work like I always have--whenever it is offered--rain, shine, Trojan football hours or not. Side note: boo, last Saturday. Patrick has been able to join one of my crews (at REDCAT) and is otherwise on the job hunt. My heart goes out to him on his quest for happiness and validation in this regard. However, it is certainly worth sharing that everything else is peachy keen with us. We are both happy, healthy, loved and together. There is nothing more that I could ask for.

Lexi is taking very well to our new roommate...maybe too well. They are misfits, scheming during the hours that I am not around--I have seen the drawings they have made of a spaceship that collects dog bones.

I think of home and family all of the time, and I am sure that my blog shows it. I have also added a sharing link from here to my grandparents blog, and I do hope you will read it. As the days pass and my hair goes *more* gray, it becomes all the more clear to me what life is all about.

Thank you patience. Thank you strength.
Thank you family, for fostering both.

Today, I feel

A perfect day in a perfect hell,
I sense being a woman.

Brave and wanting.
Scattered and small.

My life in episodes,
dances its moment on the stage.
You were there and saw my twirl.
The roses were as sweet.

Thank you, peace.

Proud and eager.
I am simple.
I am calm.

staring down the smoking barrel

After some victorious runnings-in with a with a classic Dirty Harry 44, I wish I could say this post was about that...it is not. The barrel is pointed the wrong way.


The hills to the North and West of Pasadena have been on fire for over a week now. I spend my days running from the toxic fumes, and my nights in a sickly splendor with the deep red flames. Where I live, I am not nearly as threatened as where I work, but nowhere in the surrounding 50 miles is unaffected. I know people who have lived here longer than I have been alive who can attest that this is the wildest wildfire they have seen, and it is already topping historic charts--IT IS NOW THE LONGEST AND LARGEST IN CALIFORNIA HISTORY!! I have been waiting for long overdue "big one" to shake the Texan flat lander out of me--a quake for those of you who live on Mars. I have not met this devastation yet, but I am becoming all too familiar and all too concerned about the state of my lungs in this depressing air quality. And, yes, that's right, I said it this air quality. Congrats, Pittsburgh.

I can feel the smog levels of Los Angeles on a bad day, but this is constant, aching and concerning. I can't find consistent coverage of it on the tube, I find few updates online, and hear a little more on the radio. I don't know if those of you that are outside of my area, or back home are hearing about it, but if you have not, welcome to a notch in the belt of my history, and the global history of our atmosphere. Hold you breath, clutch your air purifiers and pray for the people who live nearest the flames. No man, woman, child or pet is safe. But short of the two firefighters who have lost their lives, we are all still here to talk about it.

On a highly selfish and wholly personal note, I wish this fire could have come a year ago so it would just be an icky memory of my experience here, rather than a welcoming tragedy to Patrick. He has safely made the trek cross-country to hold my hand for infinity. I am pleased to have it to hold back, but my other hand is firmly pressed across my nose and lips.

Dear God: please don't hit us with the big one before the firefighters are able to beat this big one.