Happy Saturday LilyOnTheLam.Com Readers:
If you're a longtime reader, you'll know that I have a deep love for the singer-songwriter Ani DiFranco. (And if you're not a longtime reader, read this somewhat crass blog post about blow jobs, pieces of hay in all the wrong places and my stalkeresque devotion ...)
(Side note: I originally wrote "stalks of hay" but this seriously sexy Farmer/Sailor told me I was using the wrong term; that there are no "hay stalks." He also said that those skilled in the art would recognize "stalks of hay" to be an incorrect term. As we all know, 97% of my readers are skilled in the art of hay. (Hey!) I certainly did not want to offend 97% of you. The last thing I ever want to be on this Earth is a "Hay Fraud." So I acquiesce to the superior hay knowledge of a certain undeniably intensely sexy Farmer/Sailor and changed it to "pieces of hay." Not to be confused with the album by Jewel "Pieces of You." Please do not feed horses or cows Jewel's CD.)
In Ani DiFranco's song "Half Assed," she has a lyric that goes: "down in the Texas of my heart" which I always thought was an interesting phrase.
I think she means down in the Texas that she loves, but I prefer to think that the bottom borders of Texas are like the tip end of a Valentine heart ... as if there is a part of our own pulsating heart that rides around in pick-up trucks and sounds a little too much like George W. Bush by way of Yosemite Sam.
I don't know if there is a Texas in my heart, but there certainly is a San Francisco of my heart. A section of my heart that smells a little too much of patchouli, eats ginger ice cream and wears tie-dye.
I briefly lived in San Francisco when I was too young (early 20's) and too dumb (really too dumb) to appreciate it fully. Now when I go to San Francisco, I get this wispy melancholy feel. It's like all the promise I had for myself is still in the air, like electrical residue of emotions long past dead. It's like visiting a museum of your younger self. You can experience and touch, but you cannot resurrect and you cannot go back.
When I listen to San Francisco musicians like Matt Nathanson or the band Train, I feel that wispy crackle in every note. Especially Matt Nathanson who paints such portraits of emotion with his words.
When I listen to certain Matt Nathanson songs I am transported back to earlier times where I wish I would have known then what I know now. But sometimes it's better to live in ignorance and step into the potholes, then to be bubble-wrapped safe and protective all your life.
Sometimes you have to experience the low points to better and truly appreciate the high points. And sometimes you have to get run over by an emotional truck, just to remember that you are strong enough to get back up again.
I recently ran into someone who is educated and very accomplished (Mr. Jackass). He thought very highly of himself and he filled every cubic meter of air in his space with talk of how great he was. Which is absolutely fine in my world. Toot your own horn. You've worked hard, toot away. (Toot, toot!) But he also felt the need to be very condescending, patronizing and downright rude. As if attempting to make other people feel small, insignificant and/or stupid somehow made him smarter. (Um, wrong and not so smart!)
Not to sound too terribly conceited, BUT ... I'm a pretty smart cookie. Pretty strong in book smarts, very strong in street smarts. I've spent my entire career being paid for my advice and counsel, so I think it's a little better than average. (Toot, toot!) But whether I am in a room of dullards or Nobel Prize winners, I am still equally as smart as when I walked into the room. I don't need to put down others to make myself feel intelligent and grand. I already know I am a smartie! My intelligence is not inversely connected to other people's intelligence or self-esteem.
Inbetween asking Farmer/Sailor (who has now earned the nickname "Mr. Land and Sea") about the correct terminology for HAY, I told him the story of a long ago former relationship with a man ("Mr. Springfield") who felt very threatened by my life experiences and opportunities.
Mr. Springfield was very jealous because he wanted to be well traveled and yet even though he and money and time, he never seized the courage to do it. Because he didn't have the cojones to do it, he didn't want to be reminded of my experiences and accomplishments. He told me he preferred if I didn't share all my stories. He told me that everything with me was "been there, done that" and that he would prefer if I would not talk about all the things I have done and places I have been in my life. (What a douche, right? I was young, stupid and thought I was in love ... or at least deep lust.)
(Side note: I am a natural born storyteller, for Baby Jesus' sake! To tell me not to tell my stories-- you might as well just gag me now, because I won't be able to do it any other way!)
When I look back at this terrible relationship, I am angry with myself for sticking with it for so long. (Obviously the "no travel stories" prohibition was the mere tip of the iceberg of dysfunction). When I listen to Matt Nathanson's song "Earthquake Weather," I feel the "San Francisco of my heart" crackle with disappointment. There's a line in the song that says "It comes natural to be so cruel/To be an asshole to someone as good as you ..." - and that line definitely makes me think of Mr. Springfield and his sicko low self-esteem.
Sometimes it's important to take in the sadness, experience it fully and deeply and then let it go. To hold it too long in your heart is only asking for the death of your heart. And hearts were meant to beat strong in one's lifetime, not to be lugged around like a box of broken glass and dreams.
As I talked with the educated, accomplished and yet very rude man (a.k.a. Mr. Jackass) recently, I said to him "I'd like to meet someone who is nice ... who treats me nicely." But he didn't hear me because he was too busy blathering on about himself and how he is better than most people in this world. He may have received a double order of brains, but he was short-changed in the nice department.
I cannot change the past, but I can make sure I don't repeat it! I was definitely not going to be signing up for a relationship with someone who needs to drag others down to feel good about himself. I've already been there and done that.
Happy Saturday LilyOnTheLam.Com readers! I hope this weekend you are putting yourself first and making strong, healthy decisions for yourself.
I hope I will be learning more farming vernacular ... because if I am going to work farmers' hours, I might as well talk like one too!
If you're a longtime reader, you'll know that I have a deep love for the singer-songwriter Ani DiFranco. (And if you're not a longtime reader, read this somewhat crass blog post about blow jobs, pieces of hay in all the wrong places and my stalkeresque devotion ...)
(Side note: I originally wrote "stalks of hay" but this seriously sexy Farmer/Sailor told me I was using the wrong term; that there are no "hay stalks." He also said that those skilled in the art would recognize "stalks of hay" to be an incorrect term. As we all know, 97% of my readers are skilled in the art of hay. (Hey!) I certainly did not want to offend 97% of you. The last thing I ever want to be on this Earth is a "Hay Fraud." So I acquiesce to the superior hay knowledge of a certain undeniably intensely sexy Farmer/Sailor and changed it to "pieces of hay." Not to be confused with the album by Jewel "Pieces of You." Please do not feed horses or cows Jewel's CD.)
In Ani DiFranco's song "Half Assed," she has a lyric that goes: "down in the Texas of my heart" which I always thought was an interesting phrase.
I think she means down in the Texas that she loves, but I prefer to think that the bottom borders of Texas are like the tip end of a Valentine heart ... as if there is a part of our own pulsating heart that rides around in pick-up trucks and sounds a little too much like George W. Bush by way of Yosemite Sam.
I don't know if there is a Texas in my heart, but there certainly is a San Francisco of my heart. A section of my heart that smells a little too much of patchouli, eats ginger ice cream and wears tie-dye.
I briefly lived in San Francisco when I was too young (early 20's) and too dumb (really too dumb) to appreciate it fully. Now when I go to San Francisco, I get this wispy melancholy feel. It's like all the promise I had for myself is still in the air, like electrical residue of emotions long past dead. It's like visiting a museum of your younger self. You can experience and touch, but you cannot resurrect and you cannot go back.
When I listen to San Francisco musicians like Matt Nathanson or the band Train, I feel that wispy crackle in every note. Especially Matt Nathanson who paints such portraits of emotion with his words.
When I listen to certain Matt Nathanson songs I am transported back to earlier times where I wish I would have known then what I know now. But sometimes it's better to live in ignorance and step into the potholes, then to be bubble-wrapped safe and protective all your life.
Sometimes you have to experience the low points to better and truly appreciate the high points. And sometimes you have to get run over by an emotional truck, just to remember that you are strong enough to get back up again.
I recently ran into someone who is educated and very accomplished (Mr. Jackass). He thought very highly of himself and he filled every cubic meter of air in his space with talk of how great he was. Which is absolutely fine in my world. Toot your own horn. You've worked hard, toot away. (Toot, toot!) But he also felt the need to be very condescending, patronizing and downright rude. As if attempting to make other people feel small, insignificant and/or stupid somehow made him smarter. (Um, wrong and not so smart!)
Not to sound too terribly conceited, BUT ... I'm a pretty smart cookie. Pretty strong in book smarts, very strong in street smarts. I've spent my entire career being paid for my advice and counsel, so I think it's a little better than average. (Toot, toot!) But whether I am in a room of dullards or Nobel Prize winners, I am still equally as smart as when I walked into the room. I don't need to put down others to make myself feel intelligent and grand. I already know I am a smartie! My intelligence is not inversely connected to other people's intelligence or self-esteem.
Inbetween asking Farmer/Sailor (who has now earned the nickname "Mr. Land and Sea") about the correct terminology for HAY, I told him the story of a long ago former relationship with a man ("Mr. Springfield") who felt very threatened by my life experiences and opportunities.
Mr. Springfield was very jealous because he wanted to be well traveled and yet even though he and money and time, he never seized the courage to do it. Because he didn't have the cojones to do it, he didn't want to be reminded of my experiences and accomplishments. He told me he preferred if I didn't share all my stories. He told me that everything with me was "been there, done that" and that he would prefer if I would not talk about all the things I have done and places I have been in my life. (What a douche, right? I was young, stupid and thought I was in love ... or at least deep lust.)
(Side note: I am a natural born storyteller, for Baby Jesus' sake! To tell me not to tell my stories-- you might as well just gag me now, because I won't be able to do it any other way!)
When I look back at this terrible relationship, I am angry with myself for sticking with it for so long. (Obviously the "no travel stories" prohibition was the mere tip of the iceberg of dysfunction). When I listen to Matt Nathanson's song "Earthquake Weather," I feel the "San Francisco of my heart" crackle with disappointment. There's a line in the song that says "It comes natural to be so cruel/To be an asshole to someone as good as you ..." - and that line definitely makes me think of Mr. Springfield and his sicko low self-esteem.
Sometimes it's important to take in the sadness, experience it fully and deeply and then let it go. To hold it too long in your heart is only asking for the death of your heart. And hearts were meant to beat strong in one's lifetime, not to be lugged around like a box of broken glass and dreams.
As I talked with the educated, accomplished and yet very rude man (a.k.a. Mr. Jackass) recently, I said to him "I'd like to meet someone who is nice ... who treats me nicely." But he didn't hear me because he was too busy blathering on about himself and how he is better than most people in this world. He may have received a double order of brains, but he was short-changed in the nice department.
I cannot change the past, but I can make sure I don't repeat it! I was definitely not going to be signing up for a relationship with someone who needs to drag others down to feel good about himself. I've already been there and done that.
Happy Saturday LilyOnTheLam.Com readers! I hope this weekend you are putting yourself first and making strong, healthy decisions for yourself.
I hope I will be learning more farming vernacular ... because if I am going to work farmers' hours, I might as well talk like one too!
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