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?

Call it an Epiphany.

King Cake and Doom frosting recipe

I miss New Orleans.

Sometimes. Not always. Not much. Sometimes.

I do not miss a lack of regard for personal space. New Orleanians can get a little close quarters. Especially in the Quarter. Figures.

I do not miss humidity. Although, I tip my hat to moist heat that helped me drop the weight I'd gained from being on an anti-depressant.

I do not miss the food. But I never liked sea bugs, river bugs or mystery pots of culinary risk taking.

I do miss a proper cafe au lait. Las Cruces cannot make a good half and half cafe au lait. At first I thought it was because I was asking for half and half, instead of milk. But the baristas here hear "L" and think "LATTE." I say half and half and they think breve. 

I miss that I didn't get to start the job I was given. I was going to help look after a pack of Littles. I mean, the title might not have said it- but I was going to be, at least a form of, a teacher.

I miss walking everywhere. Hoping on a street car. Busses that run on the hour, and every 15 minutes after that. 

I miss my deli. I miss Deli Chaos. I miss the Deli Creatures. I miss the phrase, "What do you want?" being casually slung in my direction. And in weeks/months, "Naomi, what do you want?" being casually slung in my direction. 

I miss the beer selection. At the deli, in the bars, at the store, in my fridge. I miss the beer selection.

I miss Touro Synagogue. I miss feeling at home. Feeling welcome. Belonging. I miss singing. Poetry. Understanding a few Hebrew words. Prayer. Crying quietly and not being embarrassed. I miss walking to temple. 

I miss my New Orleans family. 

Cher and Pablo- who are a bundle of jokes, giggles, silliness and never taking anything too seriously. But with that, they both would still hold my hand when I was punched in the gut blue about something. Cher is quietly supportive. Pablo is kinda a dandy about it, "You can hold my hand if you need to... but don't let this get out." Sorry Pabs. I just ruined your reputation. Softy.

Crista for being right about a dangerous situation but not rubbing it in my face when it all went horribly wrong. 

Sammy Sam Sam-a-Lot- who is kinda the bees knees. Even when her knees are knocking and nervous. BEES KNEES. Chock full of good stuff.

Monika is a comadre in arms. Without knowing it, a great helper. For understanding what I want to do, and why I want it. And for making me loud mouth laugh at almost everything.

Jen who, Lit majors unite, gifted me a book of poetry when, truly, the walls about me we trying to buckle. 

The Saltzmans who were just totally awesome and let me baby sit their awesome Little and their awesome animals. 

And the Marxes. Knowing them pretty much makes me all wibbly and teary eyed on a weekly. The Little Bear and the Bear Cub. And the challah gobbling. And... all of it really. It was all really good.

Flapjack, I'm crying. I'm full of tears and King Cake. 

Sometimes I miss New Orleans. 

Call it an Epiphany.

on this New Year

Why do we celebrate new years? New Years.

We are blessed with existing on a planet that revolves around a star in a definable time frame. 

That is all.

I took a class on it. Scientifically, we could be on a planet that ends up crashing into our star before we EVER evolutionarily make our mark on this universe. 

But out genetic sprawl ended up HERE. 

On earth. With a capital E. 

We are here.  

And on this Eve of our Revolution we are meant to REDEFINE ourselves. 

How can we make this UNIVERSAL mistake (or blessing) better with our own existence?

So many of us can make things better. It's not up to the Divinity of God. Or the blessings of genetics. We are meant to make this Earth, our given home, OUR space. Without mistake. Better.

THIS IS OUR SPACE TO DEFINE. 

 

Heart-breakingly, my beloved loves, this is our space to define. 

In this, "2014"th year I ask that you, my beloved loves, define this space with artistic endeavor. I plead with you, my Loves, to sprawl this Space with all that you have to Offer.

Music. Art. Image. Word. Dance. Your own poetry.  It is all SO needed in OUR Space.

My loves, I only ask that you bring more love into our Unloved Space. 

Because, in this "2014"th year... my dear, we ALL know this universe (this space) is worth SO MUCH MORE that what has been received.

Give back with all your heart, my poets, my friends, my family, MY ARTISTS...

With the strength in which you helped define one broken individual...

please, my loves, define this Beloved Space with all that you have to Offer.

Back to School, my darling.

I am hugely frustrated by my break from school. I have no way in which to feed, modify, or expand my brain. 

People, tiredly, told me I should enjoy my "vacation" after the accident. I made the mistake of confessing to doctors, nurses, family and friends that I was unhappy about having to stay at home, not being able to work. "Don't worry about that. Enjoy your vacation." 

No one, of course, offered me a week in Tuscany, a month in Tibet, or a winter in the tropics. 

My darlings, this is no vacation. This, my recovery, is an entrapment. A cage. A hearty death throttle of substandard expectation. It swells heavily in my heart. Sinks into abandoned and yet to be reworked neuron space. You do not want me to send any holiday treasures of where I have been and what I have seen from this place. This is no vacation. 

Spring semester starts January 16th, 2014. I have never been so excited to go back to school.

That must be the brain injury talking. 

With nervous luck, I'll be taking graduate level courses this coming semester. In a great effort to recover from a humiliatingly low undergraduate GPA, I will be taking masters course work- hoping to create an academic profile for my MFA applications in the fall of 2014.

In three years time I hope to have a Masters in Poetry. A MFA is a dream I stopped chasing after my graduation. My reasoning- I cannot financially afford yet another degree that cannot help me achieve some semblance of American financial security. I had already passionately followed my love of literature to a Bachelor of Arts in English. With a broken heart and a broken bank account, I worried that I'd followed the wrong love. 

I flirted with the idea of falling in love with a mastery of Public Administration. But there was no guarantee that the "right" non-profit or NGO was going to want me once a degree was awarded.

My mother and many friends harped the usefulness of a Masters in Curriculum/Education. But upon research, I predicted that I would find myself in a sea of instructors looking for work- damaged, neck snapped by the ferocious dogma of school districts criminal "education" expectations. Already, in Nola, I'd been served a heaping, steaming pile of "you're not the right fit/we can't shape you as we need" disappointment. 

And then I almost died. 

Cheating death. Cheating irreversible damage is immensely liberating. A person has to relearn so much. Of the many things one has to relearn- Value of Self. Because, honestly, if you die tomorrow are you going to die happy that you didn't try for what you loved but had at least grasped monetary security? Or would you rather happily die poor and full heart sure passion? 

What is my happiness worth? I have decided it will not be bought. My happiness cannot be housed and husbanded. It will find no satisfaction with mate or genetic multitude. Childlike tantrum intact, my happiness was meant to fuss and fit no standard. My happiness does not leisure. It does not linger in a dictated space of earned achievement. My happiness isn't waiting for a big pay check. It's not waiting for paid time off or a tropic sphere issued tan. 

Happiness, jokingly, was waiting for me to grow up, get brave and get over the idea of being "successful" as defined by a society that still (after three decades!) hasn't grasped my individual worth. 

In my life before the accident, I feel that there were many things I missed because I hadn't calculated my self-worth. My Value. Jobs I never cared for. Classes failed because I'd pre-deemed myself a failure. Men who dismissed me because they felt they could find better. 

Loves. Love lost. 

Since the accident there is no excuse for allowing others to treat me with disregard. 

With that said and done, I regard myself as one with exceptional quality. 

Quality. 

The type of creative quality that was eventually destined to grow up, get brave and discover happiness and success doing something that I love. 

Artists. We're fucking STRANGE that way