The Pain of Hell

Pain is a funny thing. It can cloud your mind or clear it.
Laying on my back, I was tied to the table underneath me. It was cold and I was shaking. My body was going through shock and I could see faces above me – different people hovered over me, some I recognized some I didn’t. They weren’t ugly, they weren’t beautiful, they were average. People I couldn’t understand, people I could understand. They were all there, leaning over me. A scalpel here, a knife there. They all used different instruments, but all were used on me. Some were exact cuts, easy to recover from. Others were more vicious as though they whacked at me in anger. I cringed at first, but after so many cuts and so many wounds I became numb. There was only pressure left – the pressure left by pain. The blood eased out of me, but I couldn’t feel it. I just felt weak.
At first I had been anxious, aware, active. I had looked for Him, but He was in the background, watching, but doing nothing. It’s amazing how far away someone seems when they do nothing but watch. Do they care? Are they shocked? Are they happy? What are they feeling? I could still see Him, but it didn’t matter, He wasn’t doing anything, so why was He even there? Why didn't He leave? He had no business here. It didn’t matter. I couldn’t see Him anymore, the pain had flooded my mind like the blood had flooded over my body. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered.
After they were gone, I knew I wasn’t alone. He was still there, watching me, but in silence. I didn’t need to say anything and neither did He. Did I deserve this? Maybe. Probably. Maybe not. That wasn’t the point, we both knew that. Some wounds seemed to be closing up, but others were bleeding profusely. Even though they were gone, their actions remained. The blood still lingered. The pain still hurt. My mind still thought. Everything was the same, and nothing was the same. It all hurt, but I couldn’t feel anything. It throbbed, it was numb, it was there, it was gone. Nothing mattered, everything mattered and He was still there.
His arms were folded and He leaned against the door post. Was He going to leave me? Was He going to stand there all day? I couldn’t see the details of Him, just an aura of what he looked like – lean and tall, dark hair, dark suit, his stance was stiff. Was it in pain? Was it in justice? Was he happy with what had happened to me? Was He pleased or did He hurt? I didn’t know, it didn’t matter. It did matter, it mattered to me, but I couldn’t see. It was fate, it was destiny. It was a ruined life, it was out of control. Everything was destroyed, everything was renewed. There was nothing left, there was everything left. I was ruined, I was whole.
I hurt, the blood was on my hands, the wounds were all over me but the tears were too deep to come. To survive I ignored them, I hated me, I hated them. I fought through it all to live through it all. Did it matter? Did it not matter?
He walked around the room and I knew He was there. I knew He wouldn’t leave until I did. Where could I go? I couldn’t walk, I couldn’t feel. Where would I go? Was He crazy to think I could go somewhere else? Is that what He expected? What the hell? I hated Him, but I knew he didn’t hate me, his aloofness was almost worst. Why couldn’t He hate me for what I had done? Why couldn’t He choose sides? Why couldn’t I?
What the hell.
I was in hell.
My own hell.
But He was still there. Waiting to follow me out.

A Ribeye's Fate

Creeping quietly through the back door of the restaurant I work at last Saturday afternoon, I did not anticipate the excitement I would have over cooking a ribeye - I thought it was just another ordinary day. That was until the waitresses with hushed voices gathered, whispering intently over something. That was the first hint that things were different. I could only guess at the meaning, catching a few words here and there such as "Lopez" and "here".  As an individual that attempts to retain the guise that I do not eavesdrop, I ignored the distant chatter and maintained an outward aloofness that seemed to be somewhat convincing. 

Outward aloofness maintained, I found myself face to face with my boss, Chris, who generally updates me on particular details for my shift.  I could tell that he too, was acting aloof. 

"The Lopez's are staying here tonight." He said distinctly.  I'm sure there were any number of Lopezs in the world, so I gave him a questioning glace as if to say "And? what of?" 

"The George Lopezs" he clarified. 

Jaw drop. 

"Yes, that one." He said almost triumphantly, all aloofness gone. He continued with various details, leaving me somewhat awestruck.  He warned that they probably wouldn't order, but if they did they were to have a room that they wouldn't be gawked at.  Images of shocked red-necks and cowboys gulping and saying "Howdy" flooded my mind.  Yes, we certainly didn't want them gawked at, and Sanpete was one of the few places that wouldn't be able to avoid doing so. 

Following through with our daily preparation was an unusual thrill of excitement, especially after the ten seconds it took for the entire staff to inform each other when they returned. That was when my preparations took me to the back room (I believe due to frozen chicken retrieval) and upon my return to my generally steaming, cooking, and bubbling kitchen, I walked into a hush of silence. The only one moving was my boss, who was cutting a lime with precision, observed by non other than the celebrity in question! 

  

Yes, there was George Lopez, who seemed to be taller than I expected (but then who isn't?) and in good shape, patiently awaiting his lime slice. Could I help it that I found myself secretly smiling as I absently stirred my pot of creamy potato soup? Definitely not. There was George Lopez in my kitchen, not five feet away. He was standing in my kitchen, surrounded by things I see nearly every day, taking part in a very normal activity; yet somehow the snapshot seemed inconceivable (I do not think that means what you think it means!).  I mean, how is it that George Lopez, the George Lopez of comic and TV fame could be standing in my kitchen surrounded by sinks and dirty dishes and steaming food? I have no answer to you, but I do know that as soon as Chris was done, the George Lopez walked out, taking his lime slice with him.  

That was when Chris and I stared at each other, (and mind you, we don't exactly see eye to eye all the time) both of us grinning like children who have just been promised a holiday from school.  Thinking back to it now, it almost ridiculous the way that our smiles appeared simultaneously in an almost grinch-like movement. I keep wondering if I fabricated such a particular moment, but it did indeed happen.  Chris and I starred at each other, grinning from ear to ear, not even having to comment on the moment of George and the Lime, for we both understood the depth of unbelievability and giddiness that moment brought involuntarily. 

The Lopez family did decide to have dinner a few hours later, and I was required to actually cook the meal, which despite Chris' warning that I better do good, he showed enough confidence by allowing me to take grill and tongs in hand and properly cook that tender piece of meat. 

For those who have ever wondered if someone likes your cooking, something the restaurant has taught me is that you can never judge by someone's first bite, instead you judge by how their plate looks like after the meal is over.  This was why I was almost shaking with emotion (alas, I'm not an active enough emotional person to be fun to write about, because I wasn't really shaking) when the plates were returning - most of which the prime rib* was left uneaten. Oh burn.  Such an insult, because our prime rib really is pretty tasty (especially with horseradish and anjou sauce). Two plates, then three, then four (their party had six people) and finally...an empty rib eye plate. Deep breath.  The plate was returned and George had properly devoured the much thought over piece of cow. 

That was my brush with fame. Truly, parts of it are nearly unbelievable, but the excitement still lingers. Days pass and as I use my cooking utensils once again and I find myself thinking back to that day and the fate of that small, yet juicy, ribeye.

*To those of you confused about prime ribe verses rib eye, these are separate things, two members of the party ordered prime rib, and because their plates came in first I was worried that no one had liked their food, but George ordered rib eye, so I had to wait until his plate came in to see if he ate it all, which of course he did! :P

Lost and Found

Lost.  The end. The beginning. The experience.

Yes, we did have a Lost party.  Yes, we did watch the two hour review just prior to Lost that helped build up the Lost excitement. We also watched the hour after Lost where they interview the Cast, but most importantly we watched the two and a half hours of the episode where all was not revealed - or was it?

After being enthralled with direct Lost quotations for over five hours straight, it's no surprised that after I went home and attempted to sleep my dreams were vividly controlled by Lostmania. As I lay in bed, after consuming way too much junk food and a Monster Java, my brain refused to turn off and I found pieces of the Lost puzzle floating around in my mind. The answers all seemed there if only I was conscious enough to put them together. 

Something was telling me how important Lost was.  How important was it?  No idea, but in my dream Lost was the asnwer to everything, the ending was the key to all the questions of humanity. In a Matrix-esque ending I was left to ponder on the meaning of life, death and the world in between.

What has Lost left us with? (*spoiler alert* I think) The idea that all of us could die and continue living and experiencing things such as vivid as pain, love and heartbreak can be both intimidating and relieving.  I like to think that all emotion doesn't end when we die.  Death for me has been a mixture of a friend and foe, something I've longed and dreaded when things have become extremely difficult.  Lost seemed to open the possibilities that there is something there and it might be something we have never realized but might actually have to work for and come to love.  All of the couples at the end were happy with the person they found, (after?) they died. It was as though in life they couldn't discover them in the way they were meant to and so in death they were led to them, someone they could be happy with and learn to truly love.  I guess it gives me hope in some strange silly way that the fear of death isn't necessary  if it's just another kind of life.

I wasn't happy with the ending at first, it left so many questions - Michael and Walt? What was up with them?  Why were the others after the children all the time?  What was up with the golden showers (he he)?  Why the Jacob vs. Smoke Monster story?  Was it all just a spiritual manipulation created to force people like Jack and Locke to believe in something greater than themselves?  Was it all just a tool to test the existence of faith in each person? To see at what point they would believe or give up?

And then, the question is, did they leave all the questions unanswered so that we could interpret everything in our own way?  Are we meant to apply the island to ourselves personally...to examine what impossible feats seem required for us to accomplish? To believe in? Are we are very own smoke monsters? Our own Jacobs?  And do we fight amongst ourselves, trying to release or contain the bad?  I'd like to think we are.  The idea of placing ourselves in a situation that will test us in ways we never see coming is the very essence of Lost, and it makes us think outside the box in a new way for every new episode.

I hate to claim such a blasphemy, but in many ways it seems that God has done the same to us.  We all are on our little island, fighting the "others" that we see, trying to determine who we can trust and who is looking to betray us. What we determine is ultimate evil (smoke monster) we discover may have a story of their own, and our reactions to it could be good or bad.  Yes, we all believe that Jack was good throughout, but he seemed to make stupid decisions sometimes.  He was too faithful at points (the bomb - "none of us can die") and not faithful enough at times ("the island has chosen you"). Aren't we all that way?  Do we learn to over-apply faith sometimes and under-apply it other times? I know sometimes I do.  Sometimes there is that constant reassurance "everything will be okay, that doesn't matter" that makes me placated, and I have to force myself to fight for something instead of become dormant. Other times I'm so full of doubt that I just want to roll up into a ball and forget that I'm even alive.

In the background there is always the belief that I'm special, but someone seems to be arguing with me in my head.  My smoke monster says "no, no one is special, that's just a cheat to make you believe in something" and my Jacob "No, you were meant to be here, you are a candidate, you are special"...

They are Always fighting.

I am Always Lost,

Just waiting to be Found.

Maybe it's just about finding myself...

A Day in the Life of a Crazy Woman...

It really isn't too far away, I thought to myself as I grabbed my purse, daughter and iPod and got in the car.  The nearest Grocery Store was only a few blocks away and I just wanted something quick - milk, carrots and cookies, yummy! I put on my sunglasses and turned on the car, contemplating which direction to take.  I was terrified of being seen at the local grocery store, but driving seven miles to not been seen seemed a little crazy. I could pop into the local gas station, but they were so overpriced.  Maybe I could wear a hoody and no one would realize it was me.

I made my way the entire six blocks and parked between two other cars so no one would realize I was there.  Damn that I had a stupid snow rack on my car, I was so easily identifiable. I parked and quickly jumped out in one of those wanna-be-ninja moves, nearly running into my own car in an attempt to get around it and followed closely by my trotting six-year-old.

We wandered through the aisles as quickly as possible, an arm popping out now and then to grab the necessary items. Maybe my sunglasses would hide me from someone - just a delusional hope that gave a mild amount of security.

And then..

There she was - someone I knew. I barely caught her out of the corner of my eye and kept walking, attempting to make a strategic movement around the tiny store without being seen by her. I reorganized the items in the basket on my arm, hiding the cookies and ice cream so no one would see them. I checked both sides of the open aisle before walking in, dragging my distracted child along with me.

So far so good, she had been in the hygiene section checking out shampoos - I should be safe.  I skittled into the nearest checkout counter, positioning myself so that she wouldn't be able to see me over the gum kiosk. Luckily, I was short so she probably wouldn't be able to see me behind it. I loaded all my food on the moving counter, junk food first so it would be the first to be bagged. I held my breath.

My daughter was chatting something to me about kittens or gum, but I wasn't paying attention, Starring forward, I focused on my peripherials. Please let me get out of here before she stops looking at her shampoo bottle! An older man steps in line behind me, at least my rear is protected now.

No!

I could see her over the top of the aisle. It had to be her, she had been the only customer on that side of the store, and her wavy gray and white hair was unmistakable. Shit! What now? I could feel myself cowering as she made her way to the counter.  When surrounded one only has so many options. All of a sudden I was totally engrossed in my debit card - look at the pretty colors on the label, see how it shines when the light hits it? So pretty!

Only a minute more and my groceries would be safely tucked away in my bag and I could run...er...walk ever-so-calmly back into my car.  I was starring forward now, what a lovely cashier, how perfect of a smile, these bags were so white, how nice everything was. I could only put it off for so long though...

That dirty whore. Can you believe this is where she is? After what she did to my husband, I can barely endure the sight of her! And look, she's bought cookies and ice cream. Ha, fat cow.  I thought she was trying to lose weight.  Some good that will do her, she's just like her mother, fat and useless. I can't believe my husband was ever involved with her. 

I could tell that's what she was thinking.  Her words were coming at me as though bricks were being thrown at my head. All the words seemed to be brimming out now, but I had to ignore them, long enough to escape.

Skank

Breathe. It will go away. I grabbed my bags, almost making good my escape when my six-year-old smiles and points.  I can't ignore it, that would be too rude.  I breathe in deeply, cringe and turn around.  There she is.  I fake a small smile and nearly unidentifiable wave, and see her return one of the same degree. Doomed.  I failed utterly in the attempt to pretend she wasn't there and that the voices in my head didn't remind me how much she must hate me.  Or worse.  Maybe I wasn't even good enough to hate.

I scurry out of the grocery store, breathing hard and trying to shove down the feelings that are emerging. One of the top fifty people I didn't want to see on a daily basis.  Can't wait for Sunday where I get to see twenty more of them.

People wonder why I hate church, why I hate people, why I shop online. I don't hate church or people, I just hate the voices in my head that remind me of how much I deserve to be hated.

Cappuccino Is My Best Friend

This is an image that keeps me sane and holy in this world - the cappuccino I had this morning.  Sadly, it wasn't a Starbucks *tear*, but it was quite tasty. Despite the gas valve on my car not clicking off while I was getting it, therefore flooding the ground with $15 of unused gas - a small part of me still believes it was worth it.

Now, after being up since 4:30, devouring a cappuccino and a Mt. Dew, I can feel the caffeine high dripping slowly out of my system, leaving my arms limp and sleepy.  Yes, my arms get sleepy, they didn't get enough rest last night and are very sensitive to moonlight. (similar to werewolves, but not as hairy)

This Writing Conference is long...really really long.  I have precisely 8 minutes before the 3rd Workshop and all I really want to do is find my hotel room and curl up in my bed.  Do I want to fix all 98 problems from the two pages of my story, that we critiqued around 7 am this morning?  Not in the least.  Do I ever want to look at my story again? I'm having my doubts.  Did the five minute inspirational Powerpoint they showed at 11 am help inspire me to become Legendary - yes, but I'll think about that tomorrow :P Damn, I may need another soda to keep me alive for the next two hours...two hours...TWO HOURS...how will I ever survive? :P

J/K - I'm lovin' it! *wink* :P

There's Something About Maud...

When I was nine years old my mother bought me the Anne of Green Gables bookset. She was excited over the idea that I read it, although she had never read it herself.  I suspect she thought it would be nice to get me involved with the classics.  I picked up the first book and read a few pages...dull...boring.  I put it down.
Over the next few months I remember picking up the book and starring at the girl with freckles and long red braids and thinking how utterly happy she looked - cheesy even. Not my kind of book.  Too many words.  When I was five I had furiously fought against reading and although it was four years later, a book of an entire 307 pages seemed like an eternity. I shook my head, I would likely never come to understand why the red-headed girl was so happy.

Sometime later I picked up the book and started reading.  Before I knew it I was half-way through the book, laughing over the most common of bonds - school, friendships, crushes.  This was my world, but in a most softer calmer tone.  It was wholesome and told of days when women wore aprons and girls had braids in their hair and had to wear hats to "keep their complexion", something I surmised must have been their skin-color.  The world of Anne opened up wide for me, embracing me in the arms of a childhood that no longer existed.  I was homeschooled in fear of government propaganda and potential kidnapping.  My family was paranoid the end of the world was coming, but somehow in this lovely world the people had no fears like that.  They worried over things like their hens not laying or their harvest not being gathered.  They were afraid the heathen would die unchristian and had things like collection boxes and foreign missions to Africa.

I came to love Anne in the way she wanted to be loved, for her childhood naivety and her simple love of beauty.  Some have told me Anne of Green Gables was a romance, I laugh at that.  Anne is a true painting of an entire world that doesn't exist.  The books were never solely about Anne...no...no...no, they were about Marilla and her lack of forgiveness, they were about Matthew and his love of solitude, they were about Rachel Lynde and her never-forgotten gossip-lust.  They were about a million other characters, men and women, and their simple natures, their loves and losts, their hates and quarrels, and about a world without TV and Ipods, but also without murder, rape, mutilations and all the other fears that plague us daily.

Over the years, I did become obsessed with Maud.  To this day, those who aren't kindred spirits have still laughed when I tell them my favorite author is Maud, but they are not part of "the race that knows Joseph".  They don't know what Miss Cornelia did after Marshall Elliott cut his hair, or have dreamed of what the long hair of haunting Leslie Moore looked like.  They have never laughed over the funny thought of Gog and Magog flanking the dearest of fireplaces, nor have they thought of Little Nan Blythe crying over the thought that her mother isn't her mother.

Then, they never cried when Matthew died or refused to give up hope when Little Jem went missing.  They never heard the Piper's call or imagine Walter following it.  They never dreamed of the small frog the Japanese Prince gave to Emily or what would have happened if Emily and Teddy had never picked stars together.

Maud's books are romantic, poetic, tragic, dramatic, sweet, sarcastic, but most of all I think of them as real. Her characters lived and breathed somewhere and she understood the human spirit more than any other writer.  I don't believe in love at first sight, but Peter Penhallow and Donna Dark certainly did.   I haven't lived in a lighthouse but I feel as though I've looked out across the sea waiting for Lost Margaret like Captain Jim. I remember Marigold, terrified of great-grandmother, but obediently using her name - Edith.

  Her stories aren't all love stories.  Nothing brings me the aching yearning to just wander the shores and forests of nature like reading a Maud book. Maud isn't a romance - she's a love story - love of life and happiness and LIVING.  What more would Valancy, who understood better than any of us, tell us about life?  "Live every day to the fullest and wait for that bend in the road." That was what Maud wrote about. If I could design heaven it would be the inside of a Maud book.

Chocolate

Aw...yes...the joys of chocolate.

Chocolate and I first became friends when I was a teenager.  As a small child we were mildly acquainted, but the relationship didn't really take off until Aunt Flo came to visit on her regular schedule.  Up until that time Chocolate was just an ordinary treat - I actually had a preference for pink colored ice cream with yellow and blue dots.  The lust for chocolate grew as my taste became more developed.

Lindor balls were my first love affair.  Their hard but creamy outside could easily be smoothed into a delicious liquid of ultimate perfection, cherished for a solid five minutes. After sucking on one the world seemed a better, sweeter, brighter place filled with endless possibilities and hopeful awakenings.  Lindor Balls are one of the greatest chocolate creations - simply perfection.

From there the ripe impression of chocolate became an addiction that was nearly impossible to deny.  On normal days it was just a background voice, calling to me subtly, but as Aunt Flo arrived, a ravenous hunger seemed to come with her, and both of us would frantically search the halls of the local supermarket, unearthing quarters within the confines of the couch just to feed the craving beast.

Since then chocolate refreshments seem almost a requirement, but more forms are now permitted.  Ranging from the cheap and icky (snickers bar) to the more refined and elegant (ferrer rochers) chocolate in most of its forms can be consumed for the survival of all womankind out there. This relationship has been considered sacred since the dawn of time (or at least the 20th Century).  Guilt is a necessary part of this relationship, we all know that without it Chocolate wouldn't taste so good.