I held a baby chick in my hands.
Her down was softer than anything I had ever touched before, she was beautiful. She trembled with fear. I know that feeling.
I know how you feel.
Fear can be inescapable, ineluctable.
It can stop you in your tracks.

This fear. I know how it is to tremble, to not know from whence the next blow will come. I know you are afraid, and I can see you trembling inside, even when you’ve put on your big boy face.   I can see you are curious, but something is holding you back– something is preventing you from stepping forward into the light.

The shadows hide your face so cleverly.  I can see you, though.  Waiting, watching, praying for the sign that will allow you to move forward, to not be afraid. The difference is that I see from outside in.  I can see the big picture, the whole picture, and I realize there is really nothing to fear at all.  You cannot see it, and the risk of not knowing is enough to keep you cowering in fear until the next great moment comes along. Sadly, you do not hear me calling to you.  You are too consumed by it, in too deep to hear me say your name. I call to you.  I motion for you to follow me. I cannot stand here forever, though, my friend.  I cannot wait, I am in motion, I am not afraid.  Movement, change… they prevent stagnation.  Perhaps that is MY fear.  But it is not terror.  Rather, it motivates me, it moves me.  Remove your concrete shoes, take the first step. You can do this.  I’m right beside you.

This is going to sound a little strange to you.  Maybe.

 I feel a little detached from humans sometimes. I see humankind as almost a different creature from me– or I a different creature from them.  Perhaps this is my egocentric character shining through.  Perhaps it is the emotion one has as a person watcher.  I watch people.  I can sit and watch human behaviors for hours.  Not on television, but in public.  I am fascinated by behaviors– by how people interact with each other based on their mood, their company, their circumstances, and their levels of inhibition.   I have been known to watch for hours and hours, and if I cannot figure out a person’s story by observing them, I will create a story that seems to fit what I’ve watched about them.  This adds a certain twist– maybe even a tad bit of drama so to speak, because it’s interesting to watch the story unfold… are these strange humans going to follow their own story line?  How accurate is my assessment?  What more will they do to add to the plot?  

People fascinate me.  I want to go into psychiatry.  I want to understand behavior, and I want to know how to predict it. Here’s the kicker:  I’m human. Honestly, I don’t always know what I’m going to do in all situations, and really, I feel like I’m dreaming a lot.  I think that a lack of sleep and an innate ability to deal with dramatic change has allowed me to shift my perspective into the people watch of myself.    I am curious about the wide variety of possible interactive behaviors I could exhibit, and I’m often amazed by whatever avenue I pick.   It’s not that I don’t have a perspective of why it is that I make the decisions I make– hell, I have front row tickets to the inner workings of my own brilliant mind; it’s honestly not all that different from watching other people– as I have created in my head a solid understanding of why people do the things they do.  So I know why I do the things I do, and I understand them, but I still find it amusing to watch myself.  I even have a somewhat strange propensity for putting myself into unusual situations just to see how I deal with them.  These are fascinating experiences.  Sometimes I wonder if maybe I have a higher threshold for stimulation– but then I’m reminded of the little things that I love and appreciate in my sensory experience.  I am not exempt from human behaviors. I fascinate myself.  I like watching myself interact with people. 

I fell in love today.    
In the same moment, my heart was broken.   
I want to tell you about J.  He’s got sandy brown hair, blue eyes, and a smile that will knock your socks off.   He’s ten months old and has spinal muscular atrophy, which means that he’s paralyzed from the neck down.  He isn’t expected to live much longer than a year old; he’s on a ventilator to breathe, has a tracheal tube, and a GI tube to feed.    One of my nurses called me today and asked me to talk on the phone with him.  He can’t move, but he loves sensory stimuli, much like I do.   So I cooed in his ear, telling him what a handsome, beautiful baby he was.  Jane put the phone back to her own ear and said, “Ash, you should have seen how his eyes lit up when he heard your voice.  You’ve got to come meet him.”  So I did.  I went on a trek across the hospital to find a stuffed animal, first.  I found him a green fuzzy wiener dog, and I took the steps two at a time to get to the fifth floor, where his room is.   When I sat down next to him, his eyes found my face, to connect with the voice he had just smiled at over the phone.   He may not be able to move the rest of his body, but his smile is beautiful.   I played with his hair, helped him run his fingers through mine, and helped him play peek-a-boo.  He can’t laugh… he can’t coo back… he will never be able to say my name or anyone’s for that matter… but his smile and his eyes said a million words in the short time of the hour that I was there next to him.  For a few minutes, the world around me completely disappeared.   I wondered what his family would think of me playing with him like he was my own.   I continued to talk with the nurse, asking about how his body works, how she plays with them… and then came upon the topic of his parents.  My heart was broken when I learned they had abandoned him, unable to care for a poor paralyzed baby who would never crawl, say “momma” or potty train.  Hell, he probably won’t even make it to his second birthday.    I can’t remember the last time I felt so sad for another human being.  This child was given a set of recessive genes that allowed him a normal first two months of his life but quickly progressed into complete paralysis within eight months… and this child has no one to call mommy, even if he could say it.    Fortunately, the nurses have essentially adopted him.  I am allowed to come visit him whenever I want to.  I can’t wait to hold him… to show him the beautiful things around him that his parents will never do for him.  I’m not his mother, nor are any of us who love this child; I am, however, someone who can help make sure that his last year here in this world is something worth while.   It was then that I knew that where I am, right this minute, is exactly where I need to be. 

It was a sensual person’s dream world.
Color seeped from every inch of my view: bright golds and reds and blues and reflective materials… feathers and jingles and beads… beautiful!  I was mesmerized by the chanting and *thump thump thumping* of the massive drums.  People hollered and cried and sang out to the world, as other danced in a competition that no one cared to win.    I’ve never seen a powwow as I saw it through my own eyes tonight.   Long, dark, silky hair, on both men and women… dark skin, beautiful chins and cheekbones… was as easy on my eyes as a magnificent flower garden.  I love this culture.  I love the scent of sage burning, of sweet grass and incense and war cries… such a beautiful contradiction, such a calm and spiritual place to be.       Honor was a priority… please stand to honor such and such.  Please stand.  Show of respect.    No alcohol.  Thought that was interesting.  I wasn’t surprised though.   Young children wandered, and often stood alone, bouncing along with the rhythm of the drum beats.  I was amazed at their different sense of self… they weren’t afraid.  They were comfortable where ever they were.  There was no shame in performance.  They were proud.  It was natural.   I used to go to these as a child.  It’s very interesting to see these things through the eyes of an adult… I can’t help but wonder if my mother didn’t drag me there to see all the beauty, just as I saw it this time.   

He’s dressed up today. 
He has something to say to us.  He gets in front of the group of us and fumbles with his papers. 
He’s young, impressionable.  Every time he stands before us, I richly imagine how handsome he will be as he grows into his adulthood. His shoes are the same color as the sexy boots I just bought.  Mmm. Sexy boots come in so many colors.  Eye contact.  Lets us know that he is confident.  Eye contact.  When he stands up there, the rest of the group disappears and suddenly its only me he’s speaking to.  I see into his brain, into his soul, and his eyes keep coming back to mine, to dance with mine. I notice this has happened before.  The speaker’s eyes meet mine.  Our eyes lock into each other’s, and the rest of the room disappears as our connection glows.  Apparently mine is a face he can feel comfortable with.  The anxiety melts away.  He smiles at me. I could have humbly accepted this role had he not insisted on the topic of arousal.  Granted, he was speaking of emotional arousal, but that’s not what I was thinking.  He says it again, slowly, “…arousal…” his eyes stop on my lips. He blushes, fumbles, and immediately averts his gaze to the middle of the back wall. Flustered.  Aroused.  Gain your composure, young man.  You have a presentation to do. 
Look at me. 
Look at my eyes. 
                          Calm. 
                                  Safe. 
                                        Comfortable.   I see you.

They spoke aloud as though I wasn’t there; as I was walking past them in my sexy shoes, I heard them feeding off of each other, seething, “that’s how white women are,” something about “insensible shoes,” and “that’s a robbery waiting to happen.”  They were incoherent, these three men, and they were intoxicated on some elixir or drug and their own foolish stupidity.  I felt violated; raped by their words and their intentions.  I told myself, “think only good about it, perhaps they were just too stupid to know how to flirt with you.”   (more…)

Classes began again today.I love being on campus; I love the people, I love the energy, I love the huzzah of people running around looking for classes and catching up with friends whom they haven’t spoken to since last semester.  I love how 90% of the freshmen and sophomores still get all dressed up.  I love the revealing clothing and the strange fashions.  I love the kids who hold hands and the pierced beauties.

I’m going to love my psychology of communication class.  There are beautiful people in my class.  I like to look at them.  There’s a girl who I would have pegged as much older– I think she was the magnificent goth girl from my strange goth orgy room.  Maybe not, but she looks just like her.  There’s a quiet boy whom I spoke with for fifteen minutes who resembles my serial killer ex boyfriend.  I didn’t notice how beautiful he was until I spoke with him for a few minutes.  There’s two beautiful young men in the back, and the rest are gorgeous women, each having something very different and unique about them.  I loved hearing them talk, what wonderful energy!

  (more…)

Welp.  Yesterday was an experience.  My goodness, it amazes me how the universe and this experience works for us.  Yesterday I was given a glimpse of the path I didn’t choose, and while it was neither right nor wrong, it was different, completely different from the path I took… and I refuse to think that any decision I have ever made has been a regrettable one.  Therefore, I only feel blessed to have been able to see the glimmer of another path, regardless of whether or not I chose it.  I don’t feel anything else… just gratitude.I’ve been told I have eyes that pierce other peoples’ souls.  I can feel what they’re feeling, understand what they’re thinking… I really feel other people’s hearts completely.  It’s been convenient that I haven’t had a whole lot of need to experience emotion before recently, because I have lived vicariously through the souls of the other people whose hearts I’ve held.  I am very thankful that I was able to discover the experience of emotion as I have… I’m thankful because now I realize that I’m capable of feeling these emotions… love and heartbreak…  I digress.  What I’m trying to say is that I really am able to empathize and truly feel what you’re feeling.I’m also apparently able to see the things inside of you that you might not necessarily want me to see.  I understand you so perfectly, so purely, and I have been told that this understanding can make a person uncomfortable.  I have x-ray eyes, but instead of seeing through your clothes, I can see through your soul.It was fascinating to me to hear these things, though I was compelled to let out my tears while he was talking.   Maybe the tears were just the tequila, but everyone cried last night, so maybe not.  I’m so intelligent, he says, so analytical, so capable of reading people, that it made him uncomfortable, and that’s why the path I chose ultimately was different.  I know I can’t control how others perceive me.  It still was hurtful to me that my heart, my pure soul shining through my eyes, could affect someone in that way.  I can’t help it, but I’m drawn to want to make you comfortable, even if there’s nothing I’m doing that’s wrong.  I’ll just avert my eyes.I want to analyze the fuck out of this.  I want to say, “well, I can see how you feel (how appropriate?): if you think I can see your soul, and you feel like you’re incomplete, and you don’t want me to know this, then of course it will make you uncomfortable.”  There were no words to say this, though.  I had to just sit there, tears streaming down my cheeks, hearing him ask me to look at him.   I can’t, if you don’t want me to see your soul, then I won’t.The problem is that I really DO see into your soul.  I really see it, and I feel it completely.  I can see your heart, and it’s how I’ve been able to purely feel it on my own.   I feel vicariously through you.I suppose maybe now that I’ve had the emotional experiences myself, I should quit trying to steal your emotion from you.  I’m like a thief, otherwise, taking it even though I’m not welcome to it.  Don’t look into my eyes.  Don’t seek understanding from me.Isn’t that what everyone ultimately wants, though?  Isn’t that exactly what we want– to have that connection, that heartfelt emotion with someone so purely that you can see into each other’s souls?  Good luck finding that with someone else.  I’m not too cocky to believe I’m the only one who can do this… but I’m experienced enough to know that it’s rare that you do find it.I’m patient.  And I am comfortable enough looking into my own heart and soul to know that I deserve to find it, and shall not settle for anything less than my equal.  So begins my quest for people with x-ray eyes.

I have a funny story for you. My dad got me the Diagnostics and Statistics Manual for Mental Disorders, fourth edition, revised for Christmas.  I’ve been wanting this book for many years now, so when I saw it, I couldn’t help but yell, “Yay! Yay! Yaaaay! Yay!!!!”I was jumping up and down like a school girl. My aunt says, “So now you can diagnose us all!”And I (of course) tell her that I already have, and didn’t need the manual.  This, my friends, is where the topic can become a little dangerous, I would encourage you not to try this at home.  Of course everyone wants to know their diagnonsense and then they get all defensive and what not. Anyway, so the conversation continued for some time.  I assured everyone that we have a normal level of mental illness in our family and that the best part was that we could talk about it (without getting defensive, right)!Now let me rewind a bit and introduce you to my uncle’s mom.  Or my aunt’s mother-in-law.  This woman is from New Orleans, a very… incorrigible woman who doesn’t bat her eyes before throwing in a prejudiced (racial or otherwise) slur.  I don’t think she means to be offensive.  I think she thinks that everyone just talks like that, even though I’m certain she wouldn’t hear someone in my family say something like that.  I don’t know if she misinterpreted the five million aghast looks I threw her as me just being silly, or what… that’s beside the point entirely.  Anyway, this is an older woman with fire engine red hair, and a mouth that doesn’t care what people think of her.  She says precisely what is on her mind, and everyone just… well, we just deal with her.  So later on this morning, my cousin was lounging on the couch, curled up between pillows, in her comfy hoodie and sweat pants, leaning on a pillow, talking on her cell phone with her boyfriend, with the phone between her head and the pillow.  You couldn’t see her cell phone, and it just looked like she was talking lazily and sweetly to herself.     The wild woman walks into the scene, looks at my cousin with a baffled expression and runs to me, “Ash!  Get yer booook!”I about peed my pants laughing, because I know very well she was quite certain her granddaughter had lost her marbles.  *sigh*Some people just don’t know any better, I guess!  

Sometimes the woman I’ve become scares me.  I was so calm and rational for so many years. Introduce emotion to me, and I embrace it, ride it, become passionate with it. Maybe I’m bipolar. Maybe I’m that hyper-emotional, extreme highs and lows woman I have never thought I was.  I am afraid of losing control. I can see the darkness of my mood and I fear it.  I can feel the loneliness and the despair that while flying high I never thought I could wrap my mind around. I am fearful, even. I am afraid of people and of their emotions.  I’m afraid of a man who screams at me.  I am a truly powerful creator, I must be cautious of the things I focus my awareness on.  While I am happy, I am invincible.  While I am sad, I am dead. I’m cold. I know there’s a silver lining, a lesson. The most important lessons are usually the least comfortable. Goddamnit I’m uncomfortable now. *breathe*This, too, shall pass, I’m sure.   I only blog like this because right this minute I’m fighting a powerful feeling.  One thing about emotions is that they make me a more intimate writer.  I keep hearing the same message.  “It’s okay to feel, ash, it’s okay to be human.”It’s not okay with me.  If I can’t feel good, I’d rather not feel at all.Wow.  That’s healthy. *sigh*What am I presenting?  What is this rawness?  I’m rolling over and exposing my belly to the wicked, to the evil, to the people who want to hurt me. I know that’s not truth, though. I know that no one is evil.  And that I am really invincible underneath it all.  I know there’s joy, buried deep below like the city blanketed in snow.  I know there’s good feelings inside of me.  I’ve felt them today, even.  Keep breathing, keep moving forward; keep beating, heart. A powerful creator… yes.  The silver lining, where is it?  Where’d it go?  What’s this white noise in my head?  It reminds me of the television when it goes off the air. It’s my body, shivering.  My heart and my soul, quivering in this negative emotion.  Cowering, hiding itself from it’s menacing attacker.  The preditor is my own gloom.  It is my mind, choosing misery.  It is my heart picking grief rather than hopefulness.  Do you feel the difference between being broken and hopeful versus being broken and dreadful?Can you feel it?What I’m creating right now is more negativity. This is the battle. And I look for strength from others, and know there is no such strength outside of myself.  No one can pick me up here.  Only I am the person who knows my heart so purely and can hold all the answers.  Only I.  Focus.  Where will I focus this energy? Where can I put all this emotion?  Where can I put all my thoughts? I was comforted earlier today by thinking I could just become more driven in my educational goals. An education is meaningless without joy, though.  Yes, a great deal of my joy will come from my pride in accomplishing such a daunting feat; however, there is no such joy without experiencing love at the same time. What is this dreadful romanticism?  It makes me sick.  I don’t know what to do with it.  Get it away from me. But I chose it.  I chose these joyful feelings, and I chose to be more than logic.  I cannot regret any bliss or amusement I experienced along the way… along the path of emotions. I cannot regret, even a single ounce of positive energy I have succumb to.  Succumb.  Using that word to describe it makes me chuckle.  It’s not so bad.  That joy… that hopefulness… It’s around here somewhere.  I’ve lost it like I lose my keys sometimes.  It’s frustrating, because I know I just had it… *rummaging*  Where the fuck could I have put it?  How easily did it slip away from me?  It was dropped at the snap of my fingers.  Lost, because something didn’t go my way.  I downplay the emotion.  I down play the heartbreak.  It’s the only way I can see forward, upward, to see the sky shining through a small hole, the size of a fist, surrounded by filthy ice, through the skylight of my hopes and dreams.Ah, these metaphors are bullshit. I feel bad for myself.  I’m wallowing. *glimmer* Yes, there’s the rational person I know so well.   There she is… “Hello!!!”  I shout.  “I’m over here.”I can’t even look at myself in the mirror right now.  She looks so sad. Pinch her, dance for her, do something to cheer her up.I am my own best therapist, you know. Or… Or, I’m crazy.   _____________________Did you feel it? 

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