I know stuff you didn't think I knew.

deep breath

I put on CC cream this morning.

deeper breath

I now know that CC cream is. CC stands for color correct. I mean, um, I thought my color was good. And it is. I have this nice light olive undertone that doesn't lean on red or yellow. It's just not UNIFORM.

And our skin isn't supposed to be uniform. UNLESS you want to play around with highlighting specific features. And in that case you need uniform so there will be no distraction from the feature. If I want to be all about the eyes one day I have to create a uniform canvas so the light and natural rosiness to my mid-cheek doesn't distract from the shadowing I have done with my eye creases. If one day I want to throw some illuminating, highlight on said cheeks then I need to throw the clean canvas on the scars on my right eyelid.

See? I know these things. I just... haven't participated in a long time.

Last night one of my best friends, Ariel, got me home, made me wash my face and quizzed me on what my routine is. Then corrected me in places that I needed to develop.

First, I habitually dry my face the same way I dry my hands. I rub moisture away. Sometimes harshly. Apparently I should be patting at the remaining moisture on my face. I guess it is so I don't lose all the hydrating awesomeness of the water.

Same with removing eye make up. Scrubbing will make no difference. I should be. No. Now I am using a moistened q-tip to peacefully remove the darkness that is hiding under my bottom eye.

I'm using the last of the CC sample I have and now I have to decide if I'm going to try something else or if I will be brand loyal to the first CC cream that I've tried. I'm pretty sure I will be following the path of Brand Loyalty.

I am not going to investigate what it will take to Prime my entire face. Forget that noise. I will use my eye shadow primer y ya. That's all she wrote.

Bronzer is deposited in the shape of a 3 from temple to under chin. Illuminator in the shape of a c around your eyes.

I have been using a neutral color pencil and a feathering tool for my eyebrows. I won't draw them on Que Cholita because that is just not my style. But I'm happy with what I got from It Cosmetics. I like that their Tightline Mascara is awesome enough that I can run out of the house without eyeliner and feel confident that I don't look half done. The sample of CC Cream that I tried is also legit.

I know all about Brand Loyalty. One of my mom's besties, Rodney, was a Redken stylist through and through. When I found out that we have a Redken salon at Ulta I had a total Gleegasm. Redken is essentially the aroma of my childhood. Being the first kid with an immaculate China Doll bob, the first girl to try a perm, the first teen to color my hair plum... the time line of my life.

I know that I have never regretted a bottle of OPI nail polish. I typically buy the seasonal mini packages so I can explore color and not feel like I've let half a bottle of polish go to waste.

I am excited to explore and develop my own Rave Review of Chi. Because honestly... there are days that I seriously not only need to Tame my Mane... but SUBDUE ENTIRELY my curly hair that has decided to FRO THE FUCK OUT. Because honestly ain't nobody got time.

I checked at work in the Redken bay of our store. No Cleanse Bar. I was HEARTBROKEN.

A day later a young man asked me about a gel for his hair. Not knowing much about much anything I said, “Let's go look at what Redken had to offer. Because everything they have smells the best. And that always helps, right?” Then gave a look at the young lady in tow. She nodded enthusasically.

Could not find what he wanted in Redken. Thankfully one of our stylists reminded me that we have a Men's bay where we keep male oriented product. Found a pommade for him and I discovered....

MEN'S ISLE IS WHERE WE KEEP THE REDKEN CLEANSE BAR.

ALL OF THE LOVE EXPLODES FROM EVERY SKIN CELL.

I have it in my purse right now. I keep huffing the package. I cannot wait to get home and have a bath.

And maybe it seems like the silliest thing to be excited about--my reintroduction into the “Beauty Industry.” When I say it like that it's pretty CRINGE inducing.

It has every capability of being perceived and received as an Industry. And some of the Industry can slight the confidence of those who embrace their Natural Beauty entirely. Hello, Girlfriend over here won't shave her pits unless wearing something sleeveless because honestly the pores and follicles on the thin and sensitive skin of my under arms do not need to be daily accosted by three razors. I'm all about Natural Beauty. I would fit and fuss greatly if anyone tried to change my mind about some of that.

Yet, the Industry, has every capability of helping people find the simple little aspects of their own beauty that they have perhaps... overlooked, forgotten or have neglected. Or finding a way to highlight a feature in a new way, creating a new look and building a new confidence or magnifying a confidence that already surely exists.

And that sort of “Industry” is something some of us could use. As a woman with a scarred eye, a wibbly eye orbit and an occasionally hyper-extended knee or turned over ankle... I could use the boost.

I could use the boost, y'all. And if that means back tracking on the type of person I've been for a good long while... sorry not sorry?

I am not going to worry about your disappointment so much. Because honestly, I have more important things to do.

Like, ask my boss what a girl has to do to get more Redken Cleanse bars in the store. It is going to be my GO TO GIFT this season.

Getting "pretty"

 I started a new job at Ulta Beauty.

A bit of a switch for me. People who know me know that I'm don't wear make up very often.

*ahem* or at all.

Yet here I am, really excited about my new job at a beauty store.

First, I want to talk about why I am don't typically wear make up.

I'm awesome as hell without it.

For some... there is some questionable junk in make up, hair product, etc.

It's a lot of work! Ain't nobody got time to “get pretty.” Especially if you're already pretty.

I am awesome as hell without it. I don't get any more awesome with it. BUT I do get to look different. Smokier. Sexier. Sweeter. Sparkly-er.

With a simple black line on my eye lids I can let you know, by a look alone, if I'm in NO mood for your shit (melted/smoky line) on your mark, get set, go- ready for anything (simple line) ready for anything as long as it leads to the bedroom (cat eye-- peek variation relying on your mood, tease-fest to eat you alive)

I can say it all with just a look. But I've gone ahead and played the English Major card for... a good long while. I'd rather just use The Words. If you can't get it into your earhole that I want, I need, I'd like, Let's GO... then darlin'... that's YOUR fucking problem. Not mine. Because I've used The Words to demonstrate as such. And if you need a girl to passive-aggrisive spell shit out for you... then you're not for me.

This dynamic is easier with my female (and a few male) friends. Again, not my problem. Me and my Vs? We already know how to translate our shit. A smoky eye won't tell anyone close to me that I'm in no mood... because they know me well enough to tip toe around my fit and fussing. That is why we're friends.

Feminist card. That's why I roll hard and ugly when random idiots tell/yell me to, “SMILE!”

Or whistle at me. God, help them, if they actually SAY anything. Because I will KNOCK THEM DOWN ALL OF THE PEGS.

So. Awesome as hell without it. To a point of annoyballs. Why do men think they can come up on me and talk their game when I WANT NONE OF IT? Smoky eye or no, son, get UP OFF MY SPACE.


2. For some... there is some questionable junk in make up, hair product, etc

Carmine. That's been my thing over the years. I mean. Do I really want bug butt on my face? In my food? Um... for a long time the answer was NO. And it was a difficult decision because it means giving up my Burts Bees tinted balms.

Recently I've started thumb through reading “The Perfect Red” by Amy Buttler Greenfield. And... yeah, part of me is a little horrified. Bug Butt. Ick. And another part of me is horrified... Spain taking yet another thing from the Aztec. Seriously. The Aztec were BRILLIANT creators. They discovered and supplied the world with the truest red that we'd ever seen. And you know... like... they did it NATRUALLY.

And then we come into my other arena of nervousness with beauty products. What side of the fence am I when it comes to Natural, Organic, Vegan, etc. Is there such a thing as Fair Trade Argan Oil? If local beauty options aren't available to me how much do I want to spend in Commercial Industry?

That's even more work! So it looks like I'm on Team Make it up as I go along.

I can go back to buying Redken, on a semi-strict rule of rationing. I need to figure out if my store has the Redken Cleanse Bar available. Because that bar is LEGIT. I'm not even going to worry about it. It's that good. No questions asked.

And that's how it's going to be.

3. It IS a lot of work.

It's a lot of work to wake up early and set my curls or knock them out. A lot of work to shellac my face, contouring features that I'm pretty sure no one near me even cares about. I mean, do y'all seriously care where my cheek bones are?

Honestly. I want to forget my cheeks. As the ONLY woman in my family to NOT have been issued Aztec Peak High cheek bones... I am so fucking OVER my cheeks.

I'm over my nose too. Which is cute and all... but when I'm standing next to the row of Sanchez noses in my family... it hurts my heart that I was not given a Power Nose.

What was I given? Curls that didn't set until my 30s. Ageless, black-head resisting T-zone. Under eyes that yellow/green at noon. “Break Outs” that consist of maybe two or three zits. But God Bless them... My family did dote upon me DNA that gave me... bangin' ass and tits. Awesome tits if I weigh 100 or expand 200 lbs. My tits always look RIGHT.

Honestly it's already a lot of work to figure out which bra will keep my Blouse Bunnies for hopping up, out and all over. And you want me to do my hair and face too?

Nah. I'm good.

Last July, after the accident, once the rehabilitation started I told my mother, “I can either re-learn to walk OR fuss with the mountain of hair on my head.”

She cut it quick. #PRIORITIES.

That's not saying I'm not up for a little work. I'm just... down on my luck in the self esteem apartment.  My current boyfriend is one of those guys. He actually likes me for my PERSONALITY. Seems like a joke, right? I mean, seriously, he's not all up on the bangin' T and A? NOPE. He's not. He, for some odd reason, likes my personality-- as shit talky as that is. That's what he's into.

So my only option in strategically “keeping him interested” is to... what? Keep talking shit?

I mean, that's, like, totally easy. It's just... it's sad, sometimes, most times, to be only “pretty.” He only ever calls me “pretty” and only ever with that word. I am not beautiful or breathtaking. There is nothing exceptional about me. Nothing divine about what he sees that is different from the divinity of anyone else.

I couldn't draw anything out on my face that would entice him any further. I am “pretty.” And without telling the long story of how men have treated me in the past decade... I'm at that point in which... I'll just take pretty. I'm pretty sure I can't get anything MORE than that. Would you want to work at being “pretty” enough to hold that station? Because that's where I live. It's a delightful bummer.

I don't have to work. But.. I'm not getting paid. So. Yeah.

That's where I... urgh... I guess just have to get beautiful for myself. And that's hard for me, because honestly I've never HAD to. I already felt beautiful without any work and I had the positive reinforcement that I was not wrong about that confidence. So getting all beautified is a complicated process for me. I'm learning as fast as I can.


I've learned how awesome lip crayons are. So my years long battle with lipstick... is over. I concede! Crayons are just better. Truth.

I'm going to try to Facebook less and Blog more

In the past few days I haven't been feeling very well. Mentally. No. Not mentally. Mentally I'm fine. I know how to ride the waves of my bi-polar. I know how to manage that without drugging myself.

I mean, some might say that dosing myself with a glass of wine to settle my nerves, sooth my anxieties or subdue my excited-ness is “technically” drugging myself.

But, like, I don't care.

For the most part I have lived my adult life much under that banner.

I don't care.

Not that I don't care about people, things, events or causes. If you know me well enough you know that I care deeply about those sort of things. Deeply and often to a fault.

Socially, I haven't been feeling very well. I'm hot under the collar, sweating bricks, paranoid about... what other people think.

Not only that. Worried about what other people have decided to perceive.

Sometimes people view me as a fathomfraction of who I truly am.

It never used to wound me. I flew my, “I don't care.” flag and moved on, moved away, recognized that there was nothing I had done to deserve this and nothing I could do to fix it.

With one exception. When I was in an abusive relationship the definition of not caring became... don't think about it, don't do what it is you did to deserve this, fix it. FIX IT NOW AT ANY COST FUCK FUCK FUCK FIX IT. Become whatever it is that he wants. Become something he doesn't want to punch or rape. Be that, for fucks sake. HOW FUCKING HARD CAN IT BE TO JUST BE THAT?!

Survival mechanisms. That above rant is only a fraction of what your brain processes on a daily when you're in that sort of relationship.

I am no longer in THAT abusive relationship but I am in a social position where I have been questioning my every move, every word.

I've been compromised. Normally who I am wouldn't give two flying fucks.

But this manipulation, recalculation source is coming from something I care very deeply about. I am in a position where I can speak to people, be a professional about something I love, have a desire to learn things that I didn't think I wanted to know but it turns out is useful as fuck. I want to create ownership of projects and design more useful ways of figuring things out.

I want to initiate resolve as quickly as possible so I can move on to bigger and better things.

But some situations. I can't resolve. I can't ask to have help towards resolve. Because my thoughts, my opinions are being perceived as... “negative” not passionate. “Curt” not precise. Some concerns are being labeled as only existing in my own head. And I'm being asked to not “take things so personally.”

If what you DO and SAY is being re-manufactured to mean something you would NEVER REPRESENT... you'd take it personally too.

So this is my attempt of releasing it. With luck letting it go.

So I can get back to my, “I don't care” attitude of what others think I should and shouldn't be, how I should speak and when I should quiet.

I don't care.

I'm a happy person. A hard working. I'm sometimes brain boggled. Sometimes.

I'm going to try to Facebook less and Blog more. 

*deep breath* 

Being Jewish is ALL SORTS OF FUCKING AWESOME ON FACEBOOK RIGHT NOW. 

No, it’s not. But, in fact, and I’ve been preparing myself for this, it is maybe/never/almost always/ sometimes/not certain-- awesome to be a Jew. 

EVER. ALWAYS. EVERWAYS. That’s my new word. Getting jacked EVERWAYS is totally a thing. 



And it is totally a thing happening in my Facebook feed. Right now. Right. Fucking. NOW. 

I’ve been quiet about this entire thing for weeks. After the great Hobbby Lobby Outburst of 2014 I became wise to the way of keeping friends on Facebook. No one ever deleted me but enough people decided to personal message me or share their ideas in feed (the same ones they shared with me) with the world about how what I’ve been through and what I’ve done and what I support makes me a baby killer. 

But, like, they didn’t TAG me or anything. It wasn’t, like, PERSONAL. Not at all. 

I bashed back with my share of thoughts and battles were had. Fucking FACEBOOK BATTLES. 

It’s not worth it. So I quieted myself. According to Facebook I’m totally over the Hobby Lobby thing (I’m not). According to Facebook I have NOTHING to say about “illegal” immigrant children here from Central America. Also according to FB I have nothing to say about GMO’s, fair wages, minimum wage in America… 

I quieted myself because I wasn't going to do this. Again. Not with Israel. Because I suspect it sounds like this.



It actually sounds like this WITHOUT having said ANYTHING at all. 



In the past few weeks… 

I have had “friends” contact me to tell me that if I do side with Israel I am only siding with Israel because I am a Jew by CHOICE and that I feel that I HAVE to side with them to “fit in.” They've also let me know, as if I wasn't aware, as if Judaism has some how brainwashed me (like it brainwashed me into not eating bacon?), that it’s totally all right for me to be angry at Israel. 

Yeah, because us Jews (even of the by Choice variety) are really BIG ON FITTING IN! 



Shut up. You JERK. 



And I don’t know if you assholes fucking knew this, but like I’m already a little miffed at Israel (or rather the Jewish system currently enabled) that solidifies the standard that makes it impossible for me to make Aliyah. 

You don’t actually know what that means to me, do you? 

Do you actually care? Do you have any idea how much my heart is ALREADY broken? That for YEARS now, I’ve been struggling with people who tell me I’m not a “real Jew.” 



And you think I’m siding with Israel to… FIT IN? 

NO FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU SO MUCH. 



And I get privately accused of supporting an American President that isn't supporting Israel ENOUGH. Oh, lovely. The attitude of, “Well, you’re a democrat, Naomi. You VOTED for the guy who isn't the least bit concerned or extending a hand to help. If he were a better (republican?) President he’d MAKE America go in there and HELP. HELP NOW.” 

Yes. Um. Because all presidents ever do is MAKE American’s/ our Nation do stuff. It doesn't, like, have anything to do with Congress or anything. I don’t know if YOU got the memo in… GRADE SCHOOL… but we have, like, THREE branches to our government. 

Look into that shit. 

And like all three branches working in tandem might pull it together and somehow figure out a way to “help.” But, like, what’s the WORLD gonna say once we go and step OUR toes over the line? Because, I’m not history buff or anything, but, if I recall… don’t countries and nations sometimes THROW A ROYAL HISSY at us? The types of hissies that screw up our access to things like OIL or other natural resources (though, ahem, maybe if like, our President that can MAKE us do things could MAKE us invest in resources that are more worldly and not as exclusive… like, I don’t know… fucking SOLAR ENERGY… JUST SAYING). 



And you’re mad at me because I voted for a President that is MAYBE thinking about that kinda shit? 

Because I’m already pissed at him about a WORLD of stuff. To be fair, he’s the President of the United States of America. He get’s PAID for me to be pissed at him. All presidents get paid for that. To be fair, he can get paid for pissing off more people than he’s already ticked off. But he’s “working” on that or whatever. I’m not giving him a pass. I’m just saying. 



And gem of gems. 

Supporting Israel means I’m totally ok with war, dead civilians and makes me anti-Islam. 



shut your hole, when that happens on a personal message, I don’t respond. I ponder what the fuck is wrong with you that you don’t know who I am at all. And sometimes it doesn’t happen on a personal message. It isn’t ME that you’re targeting. It’s ALL of Israel. It happens IRL, on the feed, for all to see. It’s your right to share what you’ve read, how you feel. 

But you’re my friend and you don’t think about me. I’ve thought about you. That’s why I haven’t posted anything. Because I don’t want you to think (more than some of you already have) that I’m ok with this. 



I AM NOT OK WITH THIS. 



People are dying and I am not ok with this. 

It’s just lovely when you post articles about how MORE people are dying on one side over the other. I’m upset about death on EITHER side. Here you are, posting this one sided argument, always the same side of the argument. Here I am, reading EVERY article. Sinking sometimes. Outraged others. And I never post anything in response or retaliation. 



Because. 

War is Hell. 

And I didn’t want to make it worse. 

But. 

War is Hell. 



And now you know what side I’m on. You knew.
Many of you have WOUNDED me. 

Some of you aren't sorry. 
Some of you didn't know you were hurting me. 
None of you thought I’d take it so personally. 



God forbid any of you meant it. 



I was mindful in my silence, on this issue… because when you throw punches-- at me or not-- I can still get hit.

Deathday Report

About a week late, but still on Shabbat.  



What is there to celebrate a year after laughing at Death's attempt to collect?  



I'm still living.  

With patience and wrestled will power-- I can still drink small amounts of wine. Small by Old Naomi's definition.  

I'm working.  

I'm thinking about the work I want to do with my life.  

I'm managing the full time job/chore of my TBI.  

I am becoming aware of the type of Advocacy is needed for TBI.  

I'm re-thinking the work I want to do with my life. But maybe that is nothing new.  

I am still a writer wrestling with subjects contained. 

I am maybe stupidly, maybe foolishly and frustratingly, maybe pre-maturely, maybe... maybe... falling in... catastrophic maybe incompatible love. That is new.  

I am still laughing. 



 And that is pretty big news because part of this list, most of this list is split down the middle with many un-laughable things.  



Of all the things to survive with the most mythological creature-back-from-the-dead strength... well that would be, no fucking joke, my sense of humor.  



What is there to mourn?   A life,  just starting to make sense.  

A job working with younglings, not quite what I'd wanted but what I would have been so good at.  

Great friends who are now far away, some of them moving even further.  

A wonderfully full spiritual life in a community that I was happy to trust, not with blind faith but with an earned with great confidence in spans of time in which trust was hard pressed to be earned.  



And it is not to say that I can not have these things again. It will not be in the same place. Not in the same shape.  



I mourn only what I'd worked so hard to earn.  



But, that is life, no? The constant cycle or earning and re-earning. Attempting to establish permanence in an element of life only do discover the foundation is faulty or  the rug  yanked from under foot or the finish line has been reassigned.  



So really, nothing has changed.  



My sense of humor is still strong. I am still cranky about not having enough of what I want and having too much of what I don't need. I am still lonely in loving.  



Nothing has changed.

So much to grok...

Passover is never supposed to be easy.

My third year in “being” Jewish, participating in my Judaism… was, by no means, supposed to be a day in which I knew exactly what was supposed to happen, when it was going to happen, how I was going to make it all happen… there are moments where I still have difficulty explaining WHY it happens…

So, no. Third year “IN” (while still not being certified, classified or signed off of being OFFICIALLY “in”)... was not going to be easy.

Not an ounce of me expected it to be. Again, that’s part of the entire dynamic. I am, and thankfully I know it, very much a “Stranger in a Strange Land.” Foreign and happy to adapt? But also familiar and confused by the basics? Entirely born Jewish but not raised as such. This makes Jewish “things” potentially… difficult.

My Passover with my “non-Jewish” family was lovely. A two hour extravaganza of sharing and celebration. Conversation and Acceptance. My baby brother, while disappointed by the lack of challah and latke, is happy to celebrate and learn. I have promised latke latter in the week! My  Mormon raised father (of step-ish shape) is happy to navigate conversation without political combativeness- a large feat for my opinion driven and well learn-ed father. My mother, potentially chaos driven by not one but TWO broken baby birds (Ace has juvenile diabetes and I have my TBI), sits at the table, matriarchal strength ever and always at hand… observing, injecting knowledge, mediating conflict… ruling with subtle strength.

Only some daughters are so lucky to learn from and live with such a well structured mother.

A time zone away another half of my heart, my Jewish family, celebrates.

And while I love my family I am also heart broken to not be with my family.

SO heartbroken to not be with Littlest on his first Passover because only a year ago (during Passover) his existence was announced to us. While I had my suspicion that he was present I rejoiced with surprised at the declaration. So heartbroken to not let him pass through my arms while family spoke or change his clothes to let parents organize the seder or opt to tempt him with an appropriate table nibble.

Heartbroken to not be with Little Marx. Last year I did take a turn with titters and giggles about some “nonsense” or another. A simple and delightful break from and otherwise obligatory day. Just sensitive, girlish driven moments of laughter and song and silliness. And to not be with Little and her friends today… heart wrenching.


It is sinkingly sad to not be with Anna to help with the meal. This year I was in charge of the only the meal alone! Two courses wore me out to the core and if not for an entire bottle of wine I would have lost hope. I did not navigate my interfaith family through a seder plate. We all sat down to dinner. I did not navigate or compose my own Haggadah. We sat down with and looked over select portions of OTHER Haggadah (because next year I will have one of my own composed). I did not worry and fret on where the furniture had to be to accommodate my familys guests. I certainly did not have to manage all of that with a brand new human Marx at my hip.

If I’d been there I’d have made myself as useful as possible doing dishes, cooking, moving furniture, changing diapers… any simple (or complicated!) chore.

I miss my secondary Sisters. My siblings in arms, one my fellow Gothy alto and the other my fellow English major. Both knowing bits of my heart that can not, without dark and twisty words, be explained.

And, after having watched what seems like a silly gift from my friend Jamie, heartbroken completely to not have learned new songs from him in this last almost year. Months without his choral advisement. Months without having access to bending his ear over a glass of beer. Months without a friend telling me to stop apologizing for things that are simply not my fault. Months without having a friend that can get me to listen to reason without making it sound like I’ve been stupid and silly for not having heard reason before.

Oh dear. I have been gone from them, my family, for almost a year.

Tonight I had to miss them but also learn to be singular… and then plural with “new” and “unfamiliar” others in a another language. It wasn’t as much agony as I thought it to be. Simply an eventual and potentially expected conundrum.

“Do You Want to Build a Snowman” is actually about a shared experience that ideally could be replicated through invitation… only both people present to the memorable event are remembering it differently.

 It is the silly apologetic moment of the movie “Frozen.” Elsa, a little terrified of hurting or messing up. Anna, her memory is a little erased that terrified or messing up is even a possibility. Anna is happy to rebuild a memory that Elsa is forced to remember the consequences of.

I may have over English/Literature geek majored the stuffing out of the story… but it’s kinda… PASSOVER as heck.

All sorta reminding me that love is a little about knocking on doors you don’t expect to open… but also opening doors before it is too late.

re-defining "barren" space

She wasn't mine. I knew that or thought that before but she's a charming thing. Sultry. Seductive. All the things you do not want her to be when she doesn't love you back. So you forget. You think only of how badly you love her, how she fills you up in places.

Meanwhile she's drumming the same swaying beat at everyone. Telling everyone to love her. But she's only capable of loving half of us back. If that. She's only able to love SOME of us back. The rest? We are cannon fodder. Devoured, disposable, disarmed. 

In revisiting I was reminded. 

She wasn't for me.

I was flying out. Up over the overcast, over the blanket of clouds. Catapulting through the grey bleak dark smother and towards red themed orange and pink speckled pocketed reflection of our solar center. Then candidly... cosmically cliché... our blue skies.

Beneath me that same blanket of clouds, now pristine and aglow- sunkissed. Dimpled by shifts of air, mounded in space, slither snake touched- all reminding me of sands after a windstorm.

I am, maybe forever, a desert creature.

No. The ocean locked, river wrapped, bayou burdened city... New Orleans, golden bustle-a-bouncing, is not my girl. I was for her, but she was delayed in being for me. So we did not belong together. Tragic?

Perhaps.

Perhaps not. In having left her, I've found other delightful things.

Things. People. Person. All forms and elements of evolution.

Components that are willing to shape towards me, around me, and so far, have shown a willingness to be for me.

It might have been environmental.

I just needed to be back under the sun.

With affection, N

Last year I wrote a V-Day entry from my previous blog. It was my understanding of how love works in my heart. All of what I said is still very true. Love can be an expanding element in my life.

I am a little less guarded about what my heart can handle this year. Shielding, shrinking and shrieking is something I am looking forward to leaving behind. Slowly and surely.

Which is to say- all things are mend-able if you can help your heart find the right intention. 

I am happy to be a friendlier version of myself. Friendly enough to have a coffee date today. Of all days! 

You call this day what you must but from me to you, 
on this internationally pagan day, 
Happy Valentine's Day. 

I'll let you know how things are going in March on White Day, ホワイトデー. 

Careless Depression has a New Antagonist

I am depressed.

Simple words. I keep telling myself it can be simplified. If I could just distract myself. Do something else. Usually I treated a session of depression at this level with some drinking and giggling at life. That is not an option. Dancing? A path that is broken. Writing.  For days I have wanted to writogg about thoughts in my cracked brain. Teaching. Activism. Careers. Dating. Judaism. 

How am I ever going to get into the Jewish dating scene if I have no career, nothing to offer, am still not "Jewish enough" for some folks and haven't done anything Tikkun Olam-ish in a long while?

Brains are not simple. Depression. Also not simple. 

Lost in Translation. I am lost in translation.    

   

I have to re-write a positive outlook in the time frame of a near death/ life changing event. In the space of a New Naomi who is a critter put under an evolutionary pressure that no one expected or can replicate. And everyone is struggling to understand. 

Old Naomi treated depression by burring it. New Naomi wants to think it into submission.

Old Naomi struggled with depression, battled it, perpetually lost, and began to allow herself to retreat when depression came a-calling for a game of emotional fisticuffs. And this was after years of permitting depression to sucker punch Old Naomi into a very sad, lonely, frightened, loveless life. Worked into the corner. I was never surprised at the decision. Retaliation was not an option. Retreat. Retreat. Fall back. Fall back. It was, frankly, the closest thing to safety that I had.

New creature Naomi. She is brave. Far from gutless. And making a mess of the old ways. I simply do not know what to do. When I try distract myself I am drawn back into a fight that I do not want to face. But my new self is angrier. Punchier.

When I do research on depression all the artistic impression and colloquial images are... ugly. And I get it. Depression is ugly. But the person who has depression. Suffers from it. That person is not ugly. That person is beautiful. That person is being manipulated by an ugly thing.

And that person isn't always curled up, defenseless, crying, in black and blue tone, with broken fists wedged into the cavities of terrified eye sockets, spine sagging and shoulder shattered.

We, the depressed, are fucking warriors. Our fights are internal, whatever, but we are still fighters.

And, my darlin', it is a braver thing to do. To deal with this. Fight the enemy that lives inside your skull.

Please don't feed me those handpicked lines, sociologically prepared by parents, friends, strangers and "doctors." The lines do not steady my battlements. Recycled re-enforcements do not apply to the all, do not apply to the every situation.  I'm sorry, darlin', they make it worse. So. Much. Worse. I know you didn't mean to make it as such. But at the time, it makes it feel as if you have joined forces with the enemy.

I need. We need. Something new.

If you want to see us through, cultivate a new line each time. And learn to roll with the punches because that is what we do here.

Or, at least, I think that is what I am learning to do here. Now.

New Naomi is punch drunk.

So it goes.

Inking while Jewish

The day I turned 18 I purchased a tattoo. I'd had the design for two years, drawn by a friend. The moment I saw the image I thought, "I could grow old with this tattoo." After two years I was determined. My tattoo artist, concerned by my selected location and the amount of shading and lining, tried very hard to sway me. He recommended a smaller image, in a different place but I was hell bent on a permanent brocade on my spine. Obviously he relented.

A few years later I came across a poem by Akiko Yosano. "I need to grow old with this poem." I waited for two more years of studying Nihongo. Asked my Sensei to approve the kanji script. In a surprise she informed me that the kanji was old, outdated, not the current way that things are transcribed. The poem was already old. It wanted to grow older with me. Occasionally I would show it to exchange students. "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh!" Occasionally I was told, "That is an old kanji." Oh, I know. It is supposed to be. 

Since the accident I have wanted to get another tattoo. Perhaps one without a two year wait time. I'm alive, damn it. I should be allowed one inkily brash decision. Time tested an true I'll find something lovely and without foolishness.

I thought of "Never tell me the odds!" placed by my surgery scar.

I then brain stormed, "Live long and prosper." Followed by the breathtaking and difficult idea... I wonder how one says/reads, "Live long and prosper." in Hebrew. Would Leonard Nimoy approve? I feel Spock would find it logical.

Another poem. Perhaps a chai on my heart. An om on my right wrist.

I don't have a tattoo artist in Las Cruces that I can trust with anything so crucial. There is an artist in New Orleans that I know I can trust.

I have never been, nor will I ever be ashamed or regretful about my ink.

People like to charge me with a damning judgment, "You can't get another tattoo. Aren't you Jewish now?" Well, thank you for asking. I have, in fact, always been Jewish. I just wasn't aware until recently. I have always felt that my body is my temple and I will decorate as I see fit. A personal decision that will never change. 

"You can't get buried in a Jewish cemetery if you have tattoos." Thank you for your concern but 1- that is untrue. A myth. I can get buried in a Jewish cemetery. 2- I don't plan on being buried. I plan on being cremated after as many of my parts as needed are donated to those in need. I am then quizzed on whether or not that is allowed. My interpretation of the mitzvah of saving a human life is between me and God. I do not feel he would be disappointed in my decision.

On those two talking points I am free to get more tattoos if I chose. I need to talk to Rex at Idle Hands in Nola when I visit next.

So HOW does one say, "Live long and prosper." in Hebrew?