I just realized I believe in past lives

Sometimes when I'm reading in bed, I'll extend my right hand out, reaching for another hand I'm always subconsciously sure will be there. When it's not, I have a reality check. "Oh right, there's no hand there." There never has been. There's never been anyone in my life with whom I would lie beside, holding hands as we, Mystery Hand and I, read our separate ...separate what? Separate novels? That's what I read but maybe Mystery Hand's Owner's other hand held the day's paper? I'm unsure whose hand it is exactly that I reach for, so a reading preference is somewhat difficult to determine. What I can determine is that when it happened tonight, I finally decided it's not just a tiny neurotic quirk I partake in often. I decided that it must be a habit left over from a past life where I'd fallen into a habit of holding hands with someone while lying down and quietly reading. I must have loved this small gesture so much that my soul clung to the habit, always hopeful Mystery Hand's Owner will be there even after living such a different life as is mine. I must have loved this person very deeply and was, in return, loved incredibly much as well.
It's so much more beautiful of a thought than merely accepting that perhaps I am crazy. Crazy, sad, and lonely, but at least creative.

Seen and Heard: Shuttle Stories

I inadvertently overhear a lot of crazy stories in the shuttle. It's not my intent, I dislike eavesdropping, but there's nowhere to go; it's a closed space, and people share their craziest lowdown in a normal volume of voice, as if they were in a car alone together.
Some are just not ashamed of their lives, and kudos to them for that; it takes a strong person to laugh at themselves openly in public. However, some of these things are so TMI - poop stories, stories involving squishy sounds that don't end well (they never end well), he cheated on me now I have nowhere to live but with his mother, etc - that I never thought to post them. But, hell, every now and again, something comes along that you can't keep to yourself - a story so great it can only be shared with the whole World Wide Web.
I sat in the second row of the shuttle while the two girls behind me in the third row spoke loud enough that I'm sure even the driver couldn't have tuned them out.
They spoke in the diglossia of immature female voices that are not so far from the Valley Girl inspired accent they were in the process of outgrowing. They haven't become adult enough to drop it altogether, voices an octave higher than really needs be. It sounds forced, like someone clinging to a youth that everyone within hearing distance is probably desperate for them to drop.
Although, we are a competitive bunch in this field. Perhaps these ladies are struggling to be the most feminine, and they believe a higher pitched voice equates chic femininity. I don't know and I don't care; I'm just grateful no one in my team feels that way. I'm crass enough to drop a snarky comment here and there if I was exposed to it on a daily basis.
But, I digress, these two people were speaking loudly and in falsetto post Valley Girl era voices.
"Ommigod, so, like, I was at a Birthday party last night? ...in a trampling park."
"What's that?"
"It's a big room with giant trampolines? -like, everywhere."
"Fuhhn..."
"Yah, it was. Everyone had such a fun time..."
"Yah, I behht."
"Yah, only," and she paused to giggle in an awkwardly intimate way, "There was this one thing that happened? ...that was kind of bahhhd."
"Oh no, wha-happened?"
"Ommigod, so, Dave? ...came bouncing up to me and was like, 'I'm gonna jump over you.' And I was like, 'No, you're not.' And Dave was like, 'Yes I am, I'm really good at this, I've jumped over someone as tall as you before.' And I was like? 'Idon'care, stay away from me.' And he was like, 'I'm gonna warm up, but when I'm done, I'm gonna come over, and I'm gonna jump over you.' ...yah... So, I tried jumping by myself, away from everyone because, like? I didn't want him jumping over me."
"Yah, that's nuts."
'Yah, he's so stupid," She gasped with disgust, "Dave." Then they sighed simultaneously, so I guess Dave has a reputation for this type of antic.
"So, I tried staying away? ...but people kept following me, all like, 'Why are you bouncing by yourself?' ...and then Dave would bounce over again and be like 'I'm gonna jump over you.' It was so scary."
"Yah, I behht."
"Yah... and so, eventually, he came up to me and he was like, 'I'm ready, I'm gonna do this. Hold still, don't move, or I could land on you.' I was so scared. I even bent my knees a little, in case that helped."
"He is a buff guy..."
"Yah, he's super in shape, and if anyone could do it, I'm sure it would be him, but still..."
"It's a dude jumping over you."
"Exactly!" I once sounded that excited when I finally found someone who agreed at the atrocity of corporations running news organizations, promoting not even politics anymore, but their own [evil] corporate agendas, which absurdly value their future pro-baller rapists. Well, someone else besides me who isn't a blogger on Jezebel, that is; a fellow sober Centrist lurking awkwardly at a party full of drunk Republicans who only blinked bleary eyed and rushed off bored when they'd tried to join our conversation, which, by the way, I've summed up way too generally. However, this girl was excited because someone finally agreed that having a dude attempt jumping over her didn't feel like a safe or sound idea.
"Well, you don't seem hurt, what happened?"
"So, he jumped? ...and he landed crotch first. Right. Here."
I didn't turn around to see what part of her body she gestured to because that would be crossing the line between overhearing and eavesdropping, but I really struggled to hold back laughing openly at this girl.
"Om-m-m-igod," her friend said, trying to sound comforting through laughter, which came off incredibly condescending, "Aw, that's so embarrassing. But, at least you fell back on your butt, right? I mean, at least you were on a trampoline."
"No, he stopped himself literally on my face, like he used my face as his brakes, and we both went down together."
Her friend gasped politely and she must have made the appropriately satisfying 'are-you-kidding' facial expression, as well, because Trampoline Girl said, "Yah, I know."
"Wow."
"Yah, my ears were ringing, I had to sit down, like I couldn't move for a few minutes. The guys who worked there came over and yelled at us for not jumping safely. And I was like, 'It wasn't me, it was him.' But they didn't care and I thought they were going to ask us all to leave. Like, I'm injured, my face hurts, and I was so embarrassed that the room was spinning, like? ...I was dizzy ...but then they just walked away. We weren't kicked out and I was like, 'phew!' That would have been so bahhd if it's someone's Birthday and we had to leave because of that. I mean, I'm so clumsy, anyway? I can't believe he did that."
"Awww."
"Yah."
"I'm sorry that happened."
"Thanks, yah, those parks are super dangerous."
'Yah, that's what I heard. Sounds like it was a lot of fun, though."
"Oh yah, other than that? ...it was so. Much. Fun."

And then, on my way out of the shuttle, my wrap dress unwrapped itself in the wind (wrap dresses: will I ever learn???) and I gave the warehouse employees a great show they won't soon forget, I'm sure.

So there you have it, one shuttle ride, two embarrassing stories, 
HotChaCha.

Today's Meditation: Cope in Your Own Way

My morning's headache is passing, I must exercise. After Tim returns with an iced hazelnut liquid perfection, I'll be headed to the gym for an hour of laps.
One of my favorite parts about swimming is the meditation that naturally occurs when the body has been pushed to the physical point where endorphins are released but also while the exercise is far from over. The brain starts looking for something else to concentrate on to make it all bearable. These are the moments I use for prayer, mediation, self reflection, or to clear my mind of anything blocking the formation of creativity. It's like shuffling a deck of tarot cards - I go in asking a question or concentrating on a problem and I push myself until I have an answer.
Today, I'm going in with a thought from Piers Morgan, spoken while complaining about the brutality he has experienced from people who didn't understand him or the way his brain worked.
"One thing you, who had happy or secure childhoods should understand about those of us who didn't - we who control our feelings, who avoid conflict at all costs or seem to seek them, who you call compulsive, a workaholic are, above all, survivors. We are not that way from perversity. We cannot just relax and let it go. We have learned to cope in ways you never had to."
When I reach the point of endorphins-based creativity, I will think of his quote and use it to harness the way I feel about others from my past who didn't get me, who didn't understand why I wasn't or couldn't be like them. I will forgive them, which will be difficult because there's a heavy load of misdeeds, infringement, disobedience, trespassing, and offenses. I will not forget what happened (because you can't use what hurt you for empathetic moments unless you remember what it is that hurt you) but I will dissociate the experience with the person involved. Hardest of all, I will forgive myself for any role I played, whether I was aware of it or not, in the devastating times I faced.

I need to realize that I find comfort in ways the people who hurt me are unfamiliar with, that they hurt me because they didn't understand me. Maybe they thought they had to try to understand me but came up with the wrong conclusions. When I was working out my own issues and didn't have the answers yet, they saw dishonesty. When I tried to be creative in reaching out, they saw bravado. Or maybe they didn't. Maybe they just hate me. One can only guess.

When most people say, "forgive but don't forget," they're claiming they have the magical ability to forgive someone but still resent them. What the saying should mean is to forgive, but remember how it was to feel so low, to be grateful for those who stood by you and, in turn, be there for someone else who needs it.

You have to be able to look someone in the eye, smile at them from your heart, and sincerely wish them well before you can say you've forgiven them. You don't need them to be in your life, but if you can't bring yourself to do the former, you have not forgiven.

As for my laps, no matter how far I'll actually get with all that forgiveness (because that's quite a load for one hour... I think I'll be meditating on this, swim-wise, for a while) I think I'll spend the last few concentrating on what or, more importantly, whom I am most grateful for. Isn't that what life is all about, anyway? We can't create peace out of turmoil without the love of one place within us spilling over into another.

Brain Garden aka My brain is a cofeehouse of internal dialogue.

I had a paranoid thought regarding a friend. It’s easy when you feel isolated from people, whether the isolation is caused by physical or emotional distance, to replay small things they said casually in conversations, take them out of context, and dissect them. This cannot be healthy, though it does appear to be a common condition I find myself in.

Before I explain about the conversation with B, I should explain as to why I have a hard time remembering conversations verbatim, settling mostly for the gist of what went down. The thing is, I constantly have a few conversations going on in an ever-going internal dialogue on top of whatever it is I’m talking about with those around me. One conversation processes everything I’m seeing. But then, I ask myself questions like, “Do I like the green hat because it brings out the butterscotch highlights in that girl’s hair or is this a color that is on the rise in popularity that I should probably incorporate into a top or some sort of accent, like binding?” 

While I’m studying the girl in the green hat, I’ll simultaneously be writing. I have had a list of characters filed away in my head to reference when I get to actually writing. Nevermind that I haven’t “actually written” anything in years. The list remains and continues to grow. At that moment, I was adding a character with chronic Asian hair envy to the list. This girl would notice something beautiful about asian girls everywhere she went; inspired by an earlier thought that only asian girls can bleach their hair and have butterscotch highlights and not have hair accents the color and texture of hay. Mediterranean gene FAIL.Although, that would be a challenge to translate into sci-fi.

While all that is going on, I’m also maneuvering how I can turn a conversation a certain way so I can casually bring up something I’m absolutely dying to talk about. It’s important to me to hear all about other people first before I dive into what feels like my MEmeMEme spiel. I don’t like to lose what’s important in life in the mix. There should be balance.

Oh, and on top of all that, I can sit on a bench with B, enjoying a hot, fruity tea beverage in the middle of a bustling Queens neighborhood, talking about politics. I do not think I can be the only person on Earth who consistently has multiple conversations articulating in my head. Also, those are not the subjects my mind is limited to while conversing; there are many, many issues on my mind at any given time. There is no back burner. There’s a massive garden and every person, place, or issue, big or seemingly small, has a flower pot containing it and that my brain feels compelled to feed. Nothing ever dies in my brain garden. As cluttered as that may seem, I’ve always preferred a baroque-esque garden with layers upon overgrown layers. 

However, those were just merely a few issues on my mind, the eternal coffeehouse in my head, me chattering away with myself and other versions of me, and sometimes actual physical people in the real world, like B when she called me a Republican even though I voted for Obama.

Why would I dissect that? I’ve admitted to being Republican in the past. Just lately, it feels like an insult; it no longer feels like part of me, or even relative. It’s another version of me, tucked away in the garden behind the thorny raspberry bush called Ex-Boyfriends. I forget about those plants sometimes. Why should it bother me if others don’t?

Why is this bothering me four months later?

Today's Meditation: The War of Internal Progress

Looking back seems to lead to results of which no good ever comes. Usually, nostalgia makes me insecure, opens old wounds, makes me feel [thiscloseto] where I began when I was looking to change. Sometimes, though, the stars align, a blue moon shines down on us, and the rare occurrence happens where you look back at where you once were and can witness the obvious progress you've made.

Today, I had such a delight.

I decided to tally all the work I've done for my employer which happened to make it into their runway show. It is by no means the sum of all the projects I've done for work, but it does show the strengths I've developed over the past year and a half.It shows the responsibilities they trust me with.

I added a sampling to the bottom right of the screen, if you scroll down you can see it.

When every day has felt like a fight within myself to become a better patternmaker, seeing the progress I've made is not only inspiring to continue this internal battle, but it shows me that I am valuable, that the struggle is worth it. I am worthy of working here, of being among these talented people. Of course, I borrow their talent every so often (as they borrow mine). It shows me, though, that I can do this.

Gosh darn it, I might make it, after all. 

Oh, The Things We Do When We're In Love (With Ourselves).

I was running incredibly late this morning; I didn't even make it onto the freeway until ten minutes before I was supposed to be at work. Half an hour later, I sat at my desk with nothing to do but eat breakfast and drink tea and I started thinking about how I should do my make-up. To be fair, there were no emails to attend to yet.

I hate the lighting in the bathrooms here, but there's really bright sunlight dancing through the windows in the pattern room, right by my desk - perfect for draping as well as for reasons of vanity. I decided I would finish getting ready in the comfort of my pattern space. I had my makeup kit from my purse, and I decided to use the camera on my tablet as a mirror. I stood the tablet against the left side of my computer and adjusted the lighting settings to accommodate the ultra-brightness. I applied a light powder and a little mascara - not a dramatic project. Afterwards, I adjusted the lighting again so that the camera would be ready to use the next time my dog is does something so adorable that I just have to take a video and therefore the camera must be ready. Yes, that happens a lot, so the settings must be perfect beforehand or, heaven forbid, I can't add an adorable moment to my Brody Bear digital collection. I realize I'm neurotic, I just don't care.

So, after that, I went back to eating oatmeal and trying  to go through email, but I kept finding myself distracted by the image of myself. My hair was too flat, and unable to guide my attention to anything else but the lack of oomph in my hair, I put work aside and began fluffing away at it. After I'd played with my hair for way, way too long, I went back to my oatmeal again. Only then, did I notice I'd accidentally been filming myself since I adjusted the light settings the second time. I started cracking up and had  to watch it right away. I am vain to a point of sheer goofiness. I've been laughing at my geekery all morning and wasn't to spread the self love.

Here's the link to the video, because of course I posted that ish to ze youtubes:

Watch "Adventures of Patternmaking Vanity Table"