cleaning all the things

I remember...

When P.O. broke up with me when i was a senior in high school, and mom took me to Turtle's record store in Center Point to buy me the new Five For Fighting album, America Town.

When I watched S.K.I.P. perform for the first time at the Crowbar, when he opened for Sol.illaquists of Sound, and me and my husband watched with mouths agape.

When I talked about the sublime Sublime CD with my girlfriends in middle school, and how we fawned over Bradley.

When I watched Matt Butcher perform at New World Brewery and cried over it and bought a t-shirt and an album, and wanted to buy something else but he didn't have anything else, so instead I gave him cash and asked him to keep making music.

When B drove from the Wilderness Preserve to buy brewing supplies in Tampa and I took him to Vinyl Fever and spent $100 on a bazillion albums.  Courtyard Hounds, MIA, Passion Pit...

When I skipped work to go to Treasure Island with A and we stopped at the record store on the way home and I bought Jenny Lewis and Rolling Stones albums.

When Microgroove hosted a free skool on vinyl.  When I bought CDs afterward.  When I felt amazing that I had begun something that I was watching take its own form and shape.

When I took English II at Florida College with Mrs. Atherton. She showed a lot of cleavage and made us read the Yellow Wallpaper.  I remember her accusing me of plagiarism.  And I remember going to the Dean of the school and telling him that it was bullshit.  And I remember him telling me that Mrs. Atherton had been a devoted professor at Florida College for years and would never falsely accuse someone.   And I remember that being an incredibly pivotal point in my career as a Christian... what a terribly, terribly narrow mindset everyone maintained at that institution. 

When I enrolled at HCC, and everything fell into line.  Everything was organized.  Neatly written.  Labeled.  I could find the answer if I tried hard enough.  Everything made sense, everything was clear.  I can't find the answers, now.

When I enrolled at University of Florida.  My first semester at UF was the semester that K and I split up.  I remember my concentration breaking.  My notes faltering.  My logical, neat, organized, sensible system began to falter.  When Natural Resource Policies and learning about legislation to create drainage districts seemed interesting but not interesting enough because suddenly, a whole new world was opening to me, and so my enrollment at UF also began my enrollment in a life that was messy, and scary, and demanded me to press on into previously uncharted territories.

Adjust(ing)

Just kidding!  It actually means "I love beer."
-M

I got a bunch of ink across my chest at the end of September this year. It has taken me a minute to adjust to it. In fact, for the past month or two, I've done a mental (and sometimes physical) facepalm each time I've walked past a mirror.

Last night, I put on a shirt I haven't worn since I got the tattoo.  The collar of the shirt framed the ink really well, and for the first time in a couple of months, I found that the scales tipped in favor of feeling uber proud as opposed to uber surprised/overwhelmed that I tattooed the shit out of my chest.  Coincidentally, this morning, my roommate asked me how I was feeling about the chest piece.  I told her that as of last night, I seemed to have finally reached a point where I've adjusted to having it.  She replied that I seemed less stressed to be wearing it.

My ancestors are Scottish; my last name is McKenzie. The McKenzie clan has historically been a bunch of scoundrels that usurped kings and caused a lot of trouble. They like to fight. (I've been told that the first McKenzies came to America during the Civil War simply because they heard there was an opportunity to battle). ;-)  The chest piece is the first half of the McKenzie clan's motto.  Our entire motto is "Virtute et valare, luceo non uro" which means "With virtue and valor, I shine, not burn."

I've always been interested in McKenzie clan history and I've specifically been intrigued with such an interesting motto. The motto makes sense to me for what I want in my life.  As much as I talk about being a peaceloving hippie, I like to fight. I like to fight for big ideas, for my beliefs, to the ideologies that I stand for.  I am done subscribing to things I don't believe in.  It is time to pave my own way, to choose the reality I want, to raise my middle finger to those who stand in my way. But I want to do it virtuously (for the good of those around me), and with bravery (not out of fear). Only with virtue and valor can you shine... otherwise you simply burn up. Your actions don't matter if they aren't done with virtue and valor, no matter how passionate you are.

The second half (luceo non uro) will go on my back sometime next year.

A Reality of Extremes

I still believe in the sticks of fire,
M

On days like today I am reminded of my path.

I read a tiny zine one time. 

It told me that I would follow my path because I believed in it.  Along the path I would be rich, and I would also be destitute.  Along the path, I would be stuck for what seems to be ages in one city, and I would also travel to places I'd never dreamed of. Along the path, I would cry harder than I'd ever cried, and I would also experience joy deeper than I thought possible.  Along the path I would be hungry and I would be full.  I would be well-rested and sleep-deprived.

Three weeks ago, I broke up with D, and have been violently bouncing between feelings of [elation at my re-found creativity] and [thoughts of inadequacy].  Two days ago, I had a meeting with the owner of a prominent local brewery, who said that my partner and I could have access to $15K worth of his equipment in order to start a community brewpub, contingent upon us getting our licensing and certifications in place.  Today, my truck overheated and needs a radiator repair, and I have $100 to my name.  Also today, I was offered a trip to Costa Rica in April, to travel with the family I babysit for, with expenses paid.

I am so rich and so poor at the same time.  I can't repair my car but I have access to $15K of brewing equipment. I am exhausted at working three jobs, but I feel more alive, more creative, and more productive than I have in years.  I am stuck in Tampa, I am travelling richly.

I am also having regular deja vu.  When I make tea, when I brew beer. 

I am doing this right.

Where Did I Put That Blog Post?

I wrote this blog post one time.  I wrote it really soon after I'd broken up with someone.  (Was it the lawyer or the Swede?)  And now I can't find it.

The gist of the post was that I found myself a more compassionate, creative, free-thinking, and spiritual person almost immediately after the breakup. 

I have never, never, never been in a relationship with someone where I thrived.  Ever.  Even when I think I'm thriving, I'm not.  I always forget! 

Nyssa told me that this time is mine.  And that I owe it to myself to cultivate the brewery.

running

my inability to
((pressure pressure))
creates stress nodules

i manifest your physical recognition
of discomfort
of uncertainty

in this desert of sweat and sand
of bass reverberating
my ears ring
i turn my back to the wind
and fall forward, tired, uninspired

hair flowing behind me
arms outstretched
i am christlike in my perceived glory
with my back to the world

the orange sand approaches my face quickly
and my discovery of god is gritty
and uncomfortable in my mouth

i change my settings
click

i see what i want to see
click

i am

a sublimely complex computer program

i am

covered in millions of tiny hairs

i am

fumbling

i am

imperfectly disastrous, inconsistent

i am

passive, active

i am

hidden, in plain sight

i am

picking at scar tissue