blog tour.

one of my dearest blogger friends, jena strong, invited me to participate in this blog tour, so here are the answers to the questions posed:

What Am I Working On Now?

ha ha ha.  what, indeed?  right now i am working on getting through the last four days of school, watching my son graduate 6th grade, and keeping a close eye on my cat who seems to be in the last throes of her cranky, lovable existence.  in terms of my blog, i think i am working on the idea that my voice is necessary, and that i have a right to speak in this way.  i am working on solidifying a habit of attentive writing, as well as carving out time to do this.

i am also working on my long-lost idea that i should write a children's book.  

How Does My Work Differ From Others In My Genre?

i think i would be categorized as a "mommy-blogger", god help me.  i know that is how i started: being able to talk about parenting in a real and truthful way was so good for me, and saved me more than a few times.  i struggle with the need for my work.  i often take breaks from writing, feeling like i've said everything there is to say.  except that's just not true.  the trouble is, i know i could say so much more but i find myself censoring my creative output.  mostly because i write about my life, and i know there will be consequences for opening up even more than i already have.  

it's hard enough reading my mom's comments now.  can't imagine what would happen if i really let loose.

why is my voice important?  i really don't know.  my combative relationship with my self-worth sometimes is too loud, and i err on the side of silence.

i don't like this about myself.  working on this one.

Why Do I Write What I Do?

sorta just answered that above, but to elaborate: i need to speak it, and speak it loudly.  i'm not in favor of privacy, especially when it pertains to hiding emotions that are scary or challenging.  i like to be the voice in the room that opens the windows with my thoughts.  i will admit things that others hide, but it's not just the audacity of that move that i feel important writing about.  it's that i need to explore every nook and cranny within myself.  more than anything, i need to make connections with others in this life.  i need to feel validated by my humanness, so i say everything in hopes someone else will find herself connected to me, and vice versa.

i've been told that i'm an empath.  i think that's true.

How Does My Process Work?

yes, indeed.  process.  my process looks like this:

i go a few weeks without writing, but i find moments throughout each day that i want to elaborate on.  but then i forget them, in the midst of all of the chaos of my world.  so i walk around with a nagging sensation that i NEED to write, that there is SOMETHING i must say, but i can't seem to remember it so i continue my journey until it hits me over the head again and i try to squeeze in fifteen minutes at the kitchen table with my ipad in front of me and my family in the background.

just as i wrote this, there was a small earthquake which coincided with my son falling down; we couldn't tell for a moment if the force of his fall shook the house or if the tectonic plates were arguing.

after it stopped shaking he came to me asking where his drawing book was in a plaintive tone, telling me he couldn't find it anywhere.  it was, of course, on the table next to me.

that is my process.  

that is what happens when i write this blog.  and honestly, sometimes i'm not sure why i keep doing it, except that this is the place where i can be the clearest version of myself.  the most holly that i can possibly be exists here.  

i try my best.

in honor of maya angelou.

my heart is heavy today.  i know ms. maya lived a long, long, love-filled life, but just knowing she has moved on has made me very sad.

how can i explain what she meant to me?

 i know that thousands of people have spoke of her today, have offered words to honor her, to thank her.  i know that my words cannot do much but simply join in the chorus.  so forgive me if my addition is hackneyed or repetitive; just know that i must speak about her tonight.

i found maya angelou when i was a teenager, when i was enthralled by black women writers in general, but there was something so tangible to me about her work.  i felt immediately connected to her, even though, in truth, we had little in common.  at that time, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that the only things that linked us were our femaleness and our love of reading.  but i entered maya's story, the story of her life, and i've been filled with gratitude since.

how could she be so open and lyrical and honest and true?  how could she reveal so much about the humanness of us all, while remaining steadfast to her own tale?  how could she offer me validation through her writing?

she told me how to love myself.  she was my model, my guide.  her words comforted me and took me home many times.  

i looked at my bookshelf tonight, saw her section of dog-eared paperbacks, thumbed through them and found passages i remembered, other parts of her story that i had forgotten.  her life, her life!  it is all there, isn't it--the boldness of it--the brazen attention to self-preservation and forgiveness--the ability to persevere--to find joy--to be "singin' and swingin' and gettin' merry like christmas"--to dance despite everything--to live in happiness and wisdom--her words, her life.

given to all of us like the most exquisite gift imaginable.  all of us finding ourselves within her somehow, and all of us eternally bonded by how she helped us become more true to who we are.

she is one of the reasons i call myself a writer.

so tonight, i call upon my sisters like me: those of us who were graced with the good fortune to read maya's words, and to take them forever into our hearts and souls.  i am with you all tonight.

thank you, auntie maya.  thank you for your journey and your light.  thank you for your steadfastness and reckless devotion to bringing forward your truth.  we are so blessed to have been here for your time on this earth.

large type.

here was my view, hiking with my beloved dogs this afternoon.

how strange, i thought, that just having clouds in the sky makes me giddy.  makes me say hello to all of the people hiking around me, whether they look like they want me to or not.  makes me smile wryly at the filming of an interview with some unknown celebrity in the middle of my hike, as opposed to throwing venomous looks towards the filmmakers for messing with my peaceful mojo and reminding me that i live in a very, very, very strange place.

no, i tell you, people, the clouds in the sky just made me happy.  what a gift it is to realize exactly how it feels to be filled to the brim with something that can only be called happiness.  

this day is turning into something fucking brilliant.

compounded by the fact that i get to start reading "The Interestings" tonight, and that the book i borrowed from the library is the LARGE TYPE edition.  do you know about LARGE TYPE?  you, like me, probably think about it as a thing for old people, but friends, let me tell you, LARGE TYPE is the bomb.  why would anyone want to read regular old 12pt. helvetica type when you could set your weary on LARGE TYPE and read with ease and relaxation?

i tell you, my world looks different tonight.  it looks different and clearly it is bold and beautiful and i am in love with it.  

my eyes have seen the glory.

the last time.

the last time i wrote i was so full of self-hatred, i thought i'd set my skin on fire.

it has been awhile, my friends.  as sam would say, "a lotta water under the bridge."

except that the water is the same creek that i have been wading in forever.  my feet instinctively know the feel of the rocks and mud, which should keep me safe from falling but instincts sometimes lose themselves in the mire and then there is nothing there but crashing, splashing, spluttering; and a makeshift bandage placed over the booboo.

once i've dried off.

i'm curious as to why i haven't felt like writing much lately.  it could be that my brain is hotwired with action all day long, and my synapses simply need to shut down at a certain point in the night.  still, i can't help but have the simmering feeling inside of me that i have something to say again.  i think it is the fear of repeating myself or indulging myself or insinuating myself into the realm of blogging again that keeps me at bay.

until tonight, i guess.

lately, i've been alternately amazed and repulsed by the world.  it is my challenge not to sink too deep into despair at the state of things.  i jumped off facebook again, my love/hate relationship, feeling that my own need for attention had overtaken me once more.  i needed the silence.  so i spent the few weeks off thinking of all of the people i love and admire who have refused to ride the facebook pony and seem perfectly fine for it.  and then i thought of all of the people whom i love and admire who were on facebook, and who i was missing terribly.  because, people, the fact is, this is how we communicate now, isn't it?  this is one part of it, anyway.

i keep thinking that i'll drag grammie's old typewriter out of the garage and start writing letters again. but what is the good in nostalgia?  nostalgia has kicked my ass once or twice before, and it hasn't been pretty.  why can't i just give over, without the judgment or condemnation of myself?

why indeed.

anyway, here i am again.  i decided to try this again, just because i am in dire need of some kind of self-expression.  the kindergarteners are just not doing it for me these days.  hell, they don't even listen to me at all anymore.  so i jump back on blogger, thinking that someone else will listen, somehow.  maybe that person is just myself.  i don't know.

i've decided to try to give up my anti-depressants.  my doctor has assured me that i can be on them forever--why would i want to get off of them?-- but i find myself having the same thoughts i had when i was wanting to go off the pill.  what is my own mechanism like?  its been a few years in this medicated state, and i know that i needed them back then, but what about now?  i want to be the purer version of me.  wiped clean, no filters, in the clear light of day.

unless it turns out that i can't be pure without disaster striking my brain.  then, of course, i'll embrace zoloft like the good consumer that i am.

for now, i'm just taking it slowly, weaning myself bit by bit.  i've given myself at least three months to do this, because i'm in no hurry.  i'm damned curious, is all.  

back in the saddle again.

corner spot, rocking backwards.

that moment when i say something that's supposed to be jarring and clever, and instead ends up being mean-spirited.

when i get called out in front of everyone.

when my name is said, over and over; as in "no, Holly, that's not okay."

when my pride hurts enough that my eyes fill with ridiculous tears.

when i see how annoying i can be.

when i don't know why i have so much anger towards people with money.

when i embarrass myself.

that moment shames me, sends me backwards into the land of self-loathing, and makes me weary. this, being a person, is sometimes really difficult.

vanity personified, debunked.

here's the way it works:

if i get my hair cut really short, i'll look like a man.  i'll look like my brothers.  i'll look too butch.  

i'll look ugly.  unattractive.  old.  not young.  pre-menopausal.

no one will think i'm cute anymore.

if i don't get my hair cut really short, i am betraying my sex.  i'll hate myself for the vanity and the ignorance.  i'll feel guilty that my feminist self is cowering behind my Los Angeles-living body.

did i mention if i get my hair cut short it will make me look fatter?

did i mention that just writing that makes me gag?

if i get my hair cut really short, i'll want to grow it out immediately and then that will be hard.  if i don't get it cut, i'll continually want to shear it all off, just 'cause i can.

and should.  and shouldn't.

this is what it's like in my self-absorbed head these days.  ALL OVER A STUPID FUCKING HAIRCUT.

but today, something sealed my decision.

i think.

in kindergarten, we had a big talk about boys and girls: what it means to be a boy, what it means to be a girl.  almost every girl talked about how much they like being one because they have long hair.  the one boy in class who wants to be a girl right now talked about wanting long hair but knowing he couldn't because everyone would laugh at him.  some chimed in that their dads used to have long hair.  i chimed in that my head used to be shaved.  we talked about cancer patients.  

all those little girls and boys, looking at me, thinking i'm more feminine because my hair is longish.  my mirror self looking at me, thinking i'm more pretty because my hair is longish.  that sweetheart wanting to be a girl for the long locks and dresses.  all of us, all twisted up in what it means to look beautiful.

today, with my five and six-year olds surrounding me, i made my decision.  it's coming off.  there's a price to pay for this, but i'm not sure what it is yet.  it's a self-made tax, but i think it will be worth it.

shorn, clipped, reduced.  rediscovered.  there is bravery in me yet.

we'll see.

january.

how rare, she thinks, as she watches the man in the lawn chair read a newspaper.  she can barely remember the rustle of pages anymore, the crinkling of the middle when she tries to turn to the next section.

how quaint; a newspaper.  at a yard sale.  in winter.  the hollywood sign only a city block away from his front steps, the palm trees obvious and gaudy in the sky.

the january heat bares down upon her while the rest of her people back east dig out again from snow.  she imagines what it would be like to wake up fifteen minutes earlier to shovel, to defrost, to scrape windows.  layers of children's winter clothing, boots tracking snow turning to water on the floor.  dogs racing through the piles, only stopping to scoop up another gleeful mouthful.

she wears her t-shirts grudgingly, shaves her legs because it's too hot to wear jeans all the time.  no socks.  her cozy ones stay in their drawer, taunting her with their lack of use.

she goes to the beach with her friends and marvels at the day, the beauty, the ocean reflecting back at her.  the dolphins frolic, not believing their good luck.  the children roll in the warm sand, not knowing any differently.  she eats her sandwich and shares tortilla chips and strips down to her bathing suit; her white skin responding to the sun's rays as if drinking up nectar.

when she gets home she finds sand in her pockets.  how she loves the ocean.

its hard to reconcile the emotions she has: wishing for cold, rain (dear god, rain, please), clouds--anything but the heat and the blast of the santa anas which whip her hair and her mood into churning snarls and tangles.  variety is what she craves.

she knows that others bow down to it, to this Southern California life, but she can't seem to find the almightly attachment to the place she calls her home.  after almost twenty years of living here (more than any other place she ever lived) she still fights the glorious weather and subtle seasons.  she still can't help but wish that her soup season lasted longer, that the gray days that she grew up with were keeping her rooted in the rituals of the year.  somehow, the sun going down when it's still almost 80 degrees outside but five o'clock at night feels wrong, all wrong.

sweet california, she thinks.  you have taken such good care of me, and i am rotten to you.  i can only offer you my sincerest apologies, she says.  my promise to always try to do better.  but just know, just know, dear so cal, that no matter how long i breathe your air it will always feel beautifully and inevitably wrong.