PSH

The thing about Philip Seymour Hoffman dying with a needle in his arm is that it's pathetic... but it's the weirdly perfect ending for a man who showed us the light side of the dark.

I'm devastated that he died. It has a lot to do with selfish reasons. Because I'll never see him in any more great roles (except for The Hunger Games, but that's not the same). I'll never get to see the way the character fills up his whole body, his lungs, mouth, hair, feet, hands. I'll never get lost in a new character he brings to life with such grace that even the most repugnant person is likable and relatable and a true reflection of what it is to human.

And I'll never get a chance to work with him. To be intimidated by his greatness, to learn. Not that if he continued to live for a hundred years, I'd ever get the chance to work him, anyway... or even meet him. Just the thought that now it will absolutely never happen is depressing.

And then I think about the needle in his arm. Of course he used drugs. Of course. Is it possible to be that good-- to be able to bring likability to terrible people-- without having your own demons? I'm worried that I will never be as good as he was-- at anything-- because I don't have enough demons. (Even if I did, could I use them to create?)

I guess I just hope that at the end he knew how much his performances meant, how he made it easier to love people because he reminded us that even the most demon-riddled of us are human.

Bravo, PSH.

July, July

It was about a year ago. The cicadas were buzzing and there was always a dripdripdrip in the background from leaky window air conditioners. I got out my cello a few times to practice, the back of my hand sore from the stretch from first to fourth position. And when I knew I wouldn't improve any more, I set up a microphone, turned off our air conditioner and ceiling fan, and recorded myself playing, the cicadas and drips keeping not-so-great time. Or maybe it was me who was off.

her

I see the woman I want to be

in glimpses caught through the trees of too little time and torpidity

like a ghost she floats

and I cannot touch her

prickles

I stopped shaving my legs. And I don't intend to ever start again. Why should I waste my time, energy, money, and water on doing something that does not benefit my life or well-being in any way?

I remember the first time I shaved my legs. I think I was in fourth or fifth grade. We had had a school assembly of some sort and I noticed that one of my classmates had no hair on her legs. I knew what shaving was-- I had two older sisters and a mom who all shaved. But for some reason, seeing those hairless legs on one of the "popular" girls made it suddenly click: shaving my legs was the only way to be cool, pretty, popular. Looking down on my hairy legs that day, I was ashamed. Because how dare I have cute little blonde hairs growing out of my legs when they should be smooth and shiny and hairless. When I went home that day, I asked my mom to show me how to shave. She lathered up one leg and demonstrated. Told me to do the other by myself.

It took me a while to get fed up with shaving. I was on the swim team in high school, after all, and I had to shave to be faster. (This is a funny statement because I was slow, no matter how much hair I had on my legs.) And after that, I didn't really think about it. It's just something that I had to do. But then I started thinking about it, and it's just so ridiculous.

My worth as a human being should not be determined by how hairy my legs are. My worth should not be determined by if I wear makeup, how much sex I have, what clothes I wear, how I do my hair, what my body looks like when it is naked. But because I'm a woman, I'm told that those things are exactly what determines my worth as a person because someone somewhere along the way decided that women should be judged on those types of things.

It was probably a man who made up how a woman's worth is determined. But today, it's mostly other women who make sure these judgments stay firmly in place. And I'm not innocent. I have judged other women for looking slutty, for being too skinny, for wearing too much makeup. It's ridiculous, isn't it? It's almost like a mastermind planned it: "Get them to turn against each other, and they will never rise up."

So I decided to stop shaving my legs. Because I'm a mammal and I grow hair all over my body and it is stupid to pretend like I don't grow hair on one part of it. This does not make me any less of a woman, or more importantly, any less of a human being. Just like a fat woman wearing skin-tight clothes does not make her a disgusting person, but rather someone who is comfortable in her own skin and doesn't give a fuck what you think of her.

And that type of woman is very dangerous. And that's exactly the type of woman I am.

Because this is not disgusting-- it's natural! Albeit not very long yet.

I'm not writing this to say that women should stop shaving or that I'm better than other women because I did stop shaving. I'm not better than anyone else. We all have worth. Regardless of what we look like or what we wear. And my hairy legs remind me that I'm awesome, even if by societal standards I'm a freak. And my hairy legs remind me that this skinny bitch next me is not a skinny bitch, but a person who has thoughts and feelings and worth.

this morning

laying in bed

man woman cat

family

listening to birds chirping 

and the last dregs of raindrops falling from the clouds

and tree branches

cool breeze through the open window

lulling us to sleep

The end

The Office aired its final show tonight, and I am devastated. For nine seasons, I cozied into the lives of the strange, beautiful people of Dunder Mifflin in Scranton, PA. I laughed with them, groaned, cried, and I grew up with them. They were my companions from high school through college and into my adult life. And I can't believe I have to say goodbye. It's like saying goodbye to a person you love and care deeply for, knowing that you will never see or hear from them again.

I know it's a little silly to care so much about a TV show. I know it's silly to say that the characters were there for me. But they were. They were a constant in an ever-changing world. Their problems reflected my problems and I could laugh for 30 minutes (or if I was really lucky, a whole hour!) about them.

I love The Office for so many reasons. The writing and acting was perfect. It was genuine and funny and sometimes deeply profound. The show made me care for all of the characters, whether they were despicable, awkward, stupid, or awesome. I loved them all. So I'm not just saying goodbye to one friend, or six, but to 20. I'm heartbroken.

This week, probably last week too, I've been crying whenever I see an old clip or think about it too much. I think every episode since January has made me cry. Maybe even before that. I guess because I knew the end was coming. And I was so worried about all of my friends, what would happen... if they'd be happy. But tonight's finale gave me peace. It was perfect. It was funny and sad. It wrapped up everything, but not too tightly, and not forcefully.

What I am

For months I had no desire to work on my current writing project. I blamed numerous things-- working too much, laziness, no inspiration. I suppose it was a mix of all.

Not wanting to write was a very different way for me to feel. I was alien, not myself. I didn't even feel like blogging.

Then, something changed. I had to open the next day (which means being at work before 5 a.m.), and I was trying desperately to sleep. But I couldn't because I couldn't stop thinking about this story about a zombie-like outbreak. It's so unlike me... I'm a realism girl.

But the best part? The next day I actually started writing it. And then the day after that I wrote more. And I've written more. Maybe I just needed a break from realism, real life.

It's funny how something so little can have such a big impact. Going to work still isn't great, but it's so much more bearable now, knowing that I can come home and actually get something productive done. To know that I'm not defined by my job, but by what I do on my off time. 

I'm a writer, goddammit.