Uncle Wayne

My Uncle Wayne died in September. It was not unexpected; he had had cancer and many complications from it for quite some time.

But it was still tragic. He suffered a lot in his last few months, and I think that's what is making it so hard for me to deal with the fact that he's not here anymore. I want to reimagine a more comfortable end.

His funeral was simple, informal. Perfect for him. It was in the same place that his wedding reception had been-- one of his and his wife's favorite restaurants. And the last place that I had seen him before he died, where he looked both better and worse than I thought he would and for once I thought he might actually pull through.

We all did a shot of Jameson at the service because it was one of his last requests. He wanted to have one last drink with his loved ones. That moment, lifting the tiny plastic cup to my lips, was so tremendously heartbreaking and humbling. My last (and first) shot of whiskey with my uncle.

I was crying so much after that shot that I couldn't get up and talk about him, memorialize my version of him. Talk about how as a child I was afraid of him, as little things are of big things. About how I got over my fear because he was gentle with me, even as he gruffly talked about the shape of his last turds, giggling about it like a teenager. About how he was such a full person, because could laugh about poop while being incredibly intelligent and enjoying classical music. About his generosity. About his encouragement, and how I'll never stop playing the cello thanks to him.

We had a strange and beautiful bond over music. When I started playing cello in high school, he converted his entire classical library to mp3 discs for me for Christmas. Hours upon hours of cellos, and less importantly violins. Whenever we saw each other he would ask how it was going, my music. He asked with his eyes on me, unglazed, and he spoke quietly because he wasn't asking for the room-- he wanted to know for himself. When he was sick, I sent him CDs of me playing. Just twice. The first one was a concert recording of my string quartet in college. The second was six or seven songs I recorded in early August, with the cicadas keeping time in the background. I don't know if he ever got around to listening to it before he died.

And perfectly, like a well-written book, my Aunt Deb, his wife/love of his life, gave me his iPod. It's an old one, one of the first maybe, 60 gigs. Full of his music. Full of him, because what music you choose to play in your ears is an intimate part of you. When I scroll through all the artists, I am getting a privileged look at my dear Uncle Wayne. I am understanding, posthumously, how complicated and brilliant he was, as he has probably every genre on it, from Billie Holiday to Billy Idol to, of course, those beautiful cellos (and more).

The most perfect part is that there are still enough gigs available that I could put my music on. . .
Uncle Wayne and I will keep having our music conversations.

My Year

Okay. I've redesigned my blog. And I'm hoping to redesign my life, bit by bit. Adjust the colors, change the fonts, etc.

In January, I went to a Naming Your Year Retreat, wherein you unearth your intentions and desires for the coming year. The retreat allowed for inner reflection and creative space. It was really great.

In the days leading up to the retreat, I was nervous and antsy about my somewhat-near future. It felt like I had a strict deadline to decide exactly what I was going to do, and I had a lot of options to choose from-- most of which were pretty dramatic changes.

If you've read some of my past entries, or know me a little, you know that I've been struggling with a lot of things... my job, my self-worth, my identity.

All of that was weighing on me when I headed to the retreat.

After taking some quiet reflection time, here's what I wrote in my journal:

I want to lie naked on a rock
spread eagle, nipples to the sky.
I want all of me 
to connect with the earth
feel its vibrations in my gut and hair and fingernails.
I want it to tell me where
why 
most importantly how.
I want to dive into the pool
inside me
hundreds of feet deep
but I can see the bottom through water like a magnifying glass
clear and clean.
And I want to emerge from the cold water
naked still
and float on the surface
with the water in my ears so
all I hear is it and me
my breathing and my heartbeat
the same as the water's.

This year I'll be 25. A quarter of a century old. It's fine. I'm not upset about getting older. I'm upset that I don't know what I want to do with my life. I do know-- I want to create and help. But how do I get there? This will be the year of figuring that out.

The paths are laid out in front of me. A spiderweb of choices, challenges, changes. It's overwhelming because what if I choose the wrong string to pull?

The Year of Stuck Bugs on Every Strand. Because I'll be fed no matter where I choose to go. It's the year of realizing that there isn't a wrong choice. Or a permanent one. I can always go back to the center of my web and sprawl out naked on my rock, with four limbs or eight.

And that's what I named my year: The Year of Stuck Bugs on Every Strand. Alternatively, The Year of Endless Possibilities.

While I feel more comfort about my life and future now, it is still a little overwhelming. I keep reminding myself that this is The Year of Stuck Bugs on Every Strand. That I have options everywhere. I'll be fed everywhere.

But... change needs to start small, I guess. So I want to start blogging regularly again. And I don't want it to be negative. I want to get back to that crazy positive person that I used to be. I want to enjoy writing again. And I want to be able to share it. Because what fun is it to write to myself?

Here's my art from the retreat, featuring a spider with boobs and a lot of jewel-bugs.

2013

Assuming that the world won't actually end this month, I want to look forward to the next year.

My goals for 2013:
-- Take a "sabbatical" to figure out what I want to do with my life and to figure out how to become the person I used to be.
-- Actually complete (at least) one of my creative projects.
-- Audition for a play.
-- Learn new recipes.
-- Find a job that I love and will fulfill me.
-- Paint.
-- Write everyday.
-- Start knitting again.
-- Reconnect with my old friends.
-- Make some new ones. Ones who are artists or something.
-- Free my mind from the box that it's stuck in right now.
-- Get involved in my community.
-- Go back to school, if I so choose.
-- Figure out if I actually want to go back to school, and for what.
-- Have a dinner party.
-- Start speaking up more.
-- Enjoy every moment I have with my Benjers.
-- Become better friends with my sis.
-- Travel.
-- Try to enjoy being a quarter of a century old.
-- Make more films!
-- Read more books.

me

On Facebook I said that I missed the me I used to be.

I used to be fun, easygoing, positive, happy.

Now, I am negative. Cynical. Stressed out most of the time. Judgmental. Bitter.

But most of all, I used to be passionate about so many things. Writing, acting, music, reading, creating, cooking, doing new things, being with people, sex!

Now... I don't really feel passionate about anything. I've forgotten who I am, what makes me me. And I need to get back to that, to who I am, to what makes me the fireball of positivity and energy that I can be.

But how do I do it?

I keep blaming my job for doing it, for crushing me. And it does play a huge part. But if I quit, will that solve anything, or will I just be a poor cynical Libby? I'll have to find a new job. But where do I look? I've forgotten what I used to be so passionate about, what I used to be good at. And how do I market that to employers?

I hate this. Feeling like this. And needing to complain about it. I'm blessed to have a good-paying, steady job. To have health. To have a loving husband and kitty. But I'm so bitter. I can't appreciate it. I just want to be me again. And I'm so scared that this is me now. No going back.

hide

there isn't much space to hide here
where every room looks into the other
and the most important things are on display
on a shelf of dust

if I could hide away I could
germinate
grow
produce

but what grows in isolation
no bee to pollinate me
no wind to carry my seed
only dust to gnaw on
and spiders

Stories

I want to be a teller of stories. That's what I want from life. I don't care if it is through writing, acting, filmmaking... I just want to tell stories.

I've been developing a crazy dream where I go to nursing school and when I graduate I work with the elderly and record their stories somehow, probably through writing. They have such important things to say, to teach all of kids who know nothing about living hard lives.

Who knows if it will happen.

work/life\work

On paper, I have a pretty good life. I'm getting promoted at a company that generally treats its employees and customers very well. I'm happily married. I'm more financially secure than some people. I'm healthy. Yadda yadda yadda.

But it's not the life I want.

I guess what I have to face is the fact that the life I want might not ever happen.

And don't get me wrong, this life isn't bad. It's just... not what I was hoping for.

I'm tired everyday, all the time, from working 9 or more hours on my feet, dealing with the constant stress of making everybody within a mile radius fucking happy, while serving them quickly and efficiently with not very many people to help me.

I'm too tired to do what I love to do. Instead, I come home and sit my fat ass on the couch and watch Netflix or Hulu or Youtube or surf the web, check Facebook where there is no real communication. Because that is easier than using energy to read, write, make films, cook.

I don't even want to get out of bed in the morning because I'm too tired.

And now, I'm going to be working even more, driving farther, having more responsibilities.

When will I have the time and energy for myself?

It's not that I'm ungrateful for my career or the opportunities I've been given. I'm learning a lot and growing some. It'll look good on a resume... for jobs I don't care to work.

I guess I just miss dreaming, and actually believing that those dreams have the possibility of coming true.