Dirty, Flirty, Sturdy, Thirty

Oh, boy. Here we are-- another decade in the making of Joy. I have now entered my third... decade. If you think about it, three decades isn't that much... so, I guess I'm still a baby, learning about this "life."

But, what does thirty really mean to me? To be honest, all I can think of is a Dirty Martini-- super grown-up drink. And red lipstick. And red stilettos. Being real "sexy grown" grown. But more importantly, thirty means not doing things for other people at the expense of my own values and happiness. No more. This is the new Joy. She does what she wants, and what is in the best interest of.... HERSELF!

This is a good, new beginning. A beginning of mental health, spiritual growth, a new declaration of independence in the healing and recovery from all the damaging stuff that has happened in her past. It's now time to look at it (the damage) face to face, accepting it, and telling it that it no longer controls her or defines her. Yes, it has shaped her in many ways, but she doesn't have to keep carrying it along with her.

So, Baggage, I now leave you far, far behind me. You are released.

Ahhhhh.... the freedom of letting go.

So, again, other than my Dirty Martinis (for a dirty thirty, get it?), red lipstick and red stilettos (for a fearless, confident and fun flirty thirty ;-)), and a healing, recovering, road-to-wellness self (sturdy thirty), I will still take my time, march to the beat of my own drum, and sleep in my sweats for days and read books and watch movies and eat ice cream as much as I want... self.

I love you Jessica Joy, Happy Thirtieth Birthday :-) <3

Ghosts

Lately, I've been having dreams about ghosts: trying to come after me, choke me, kiss me to suck the life out of me.

I've been telling them to fuck off, in dreaming and waking life. I think it's working. 

Freewrite

In this blog I have usually had some sort of theme in mind each time I write. Inspiration is like a fruit tree to me. You have to wait for that moment when the fruit is ripe enough to pluck. I usually don't write unless the inspiration is there, and the creative fruit is ready to be picked and released from the tree.

But then there are times that I choose to free write.

I have done a lot of free writing in the past. Through journaling, when I'm bored, or when I need to release some sort of emotion or thought. I have written many songs through free writing. No themes in mind. Just putting pen to the page and flowing. In this case it's fingers to keyboard. Although I am giving some space and hitting delete every now and then to correct any typos. Perhaps I will do that next time, not correct anything, delete key not allowed. I suppose it would look quite like another language of some sort.

But free write, free write, free write I go. No ideas in mind. Just off the cuff. And trying not to let any spaces occur and just continue writing without thought first. Although I think that might be impossible, no? Can we act before we think? I suppose we can. People do it all the time-- act before they think. Is it such a bad thing? Well, I do know of many destructive and beautiful things that have happened when acting before thinking, and vice versa.

But free write, free write, free write I go. I almost, feel a cadence coming on. Some sort of rhythmic poetry. Like Dr. Seuss. You know, Freewriting is a creative writing method for a reason!

And that is all I can think of. No more thoughts. Just moving the fingers. Type, type, type.

I think I will end here.

Nana

Last night was the first time I dreamt of my Nana since she passed away nine years ago. It was really nice to see her again. I never made it to her funeral, which I still feel bad about to this day, but I know she wouldn't have wanted me to feel that way... but I still do. I was away in Italy studying abroad for a year when she died, she made it to the big 80. My family members still tell me that she would have wanted me to stay in Italy, parts of me wonder if me leaving for Italy had something to do with her leaving us. Her husband, my grandfather, whom I never met because he died before I was born, was first generation Italian-American. His parents came to America from northern Italy, and we knew of some distant relatives who still lived there. So, me being in Italy when Nana passed had some sort of spiritual significance and connection... but I still can't help to feel bad about not flying back to be at her funeral.

But finally, I have reconnected with Nana once again in my dream last night. I have been waiting for this moment, and it felt like such a relief.

I was standing outside her house on Monroe St. with my dad. It was a warm, sunny day. I saw her waving through the porch window, and then she came to the front door. I walked up the stairs to the front porch and gave her a great big hug. She was wearing her usual warm-weather attire: loose-fitted, knee-length, navy blue short "slacks," and a peach-colored sleeveless top, with outdoor navy blue slippers. Her hair was always short and permed and ginger-colored. I'm not sure if ginger was her natural hair color, or if she dyed it; after all, she was of Irish "decent," as she would always put it. I recently gave her a new nickname, I've been calling her my little "mashed potato" Naner-- because she was a bit short and plump, and I always loved her mashed potatoes, and sometimes she would add an "er" to words and names. I could only guess this was part of her New York/Manhattan accent, because that's where she grew up. Or perhaps it was from a distant Irish accent.... I hope you don't mind, Nana, living with dad just makes me miss you and think of you a lot.

However, in this dream she seemed a little nervous after I hugged her, looking out to the street to see what my dad was doing so she could get a hug from him too. But he seemed far too preoccupied with something I can't quite remember what. And that's all I remember. Of course this dream has great significance. I told my dad today. I'm sure he thought it had great significance as well. Perhaps I'll ask for his interpretation, but I bet it would be the same as mine.

French Braid

I remember my mother teaching me how to french braid her hair when I was younger. She loved it, especially when I brushed it. Having someone brush or play with your hair does hold some element of pure bliss and ecstasy, now doesn't it? I mean, who doesn't like being groomed? I remember her teaching me by french braiding her own long black hair on the back of her head. Now, this I could not do-- french braid the hair on the back of my own head-- I found that to be quite the magical skill.

The more I look back on the little memories of my childhood, the more I begin to understand the little bits of my own identity. Whatever identity that is.

Tears

Rising Libra airs the Sun's Sagittarian flame
Moon Pisces' water flows deep within
Fire meets water
The passion, the pain

(from Notes: January 30, 2015 1:12am)

Control

So, throughout the years I have learned.... how much our minds control us. After all, the brain IS what controls our reality, our actions, right? But, what is it that REALLY controls our actions, via brain? I will let you take a guess.

...............................
Thinking
..............................
Thinking
..............................
Thinking
(This is where the pinwheel would be spinning for all you Mac users)
..............................

Have you guessed it? Well, if you guessed EGO. Then you win..... a candy bar ;)

It is amazing how much our egos control our emotions, and inevitably, our actions. Oh, and don't get me started on social media...

This thumbs-upping and heart-ing is just a mess. Are we really going to define our self-value and morals around mouse-clicking? Please. Just. Don't. I mean come on, we all know it's a "mouse trap." Hopefully we are smart enough to see that it is, indeed, a human trap.

But, alas, we have that very, very interesting concept of addiction..... I have yet to crack that code. Social media is.... the most recent form of human addiction we can have; how we find ourselves "needing" this social media to define us. Or are we just extremely bored with our lives? Are they one in the same?

Philosophers of the world. I understand why you philosophize.

Windowsill

When I was younger, I would find myself sitting at the windowsill, just staring outside for hours it seemed. The most vivid of these memories were days when the sun would come out, and then back behind the clouds again, and then back out, in repetition. My outside view from the windowsill went from light to dark, then dark to light, then light to dark again. I remember how much these outside changes would change my mood as well-- from happy to sad, sad to happy, then happy to sad again-- in a matter of seconds.

Now, you could say this behavior could be a bit descriptive of "bipolar" behavior-- but how can our earth be so naturally bipolar, yet not the beings in which it inhabits (without the label of "disorder" being attached to that very same behavior)? Is the way the earth was naturally formed a "disorder"?

It's amazing how our environments affect our states of mind, it only makes sense that we are a reflection of our surroundings.

Direction

Today, I decided to to blog. Perhaps because it's 7:28 on a Saturday morning, and I am awake. I made myself a little kitchenette in the basement; it's set up in the laundry room by the exit door, because it's the only door that brings in the sunlight. And sunlight is very important, of course---especially if you live in a basement.

I like to make coffee, and sit. And sip the coffee. Although I do wish I still had my espresso maker. Maybe I'll invest in a french press next. But Mr. Coffee will have to suffice for now.

Next to my kitchenette, there is just enough space to fit a chair to face the exit door, preferably a fold-up chair. The only one I could find was a green director's chair. It is comfy and folds up, so I sit in that-- next to my kitchenette, with coffee on my little kitchenette table. Perhaps this director's chair is an omen. I did once have an acting teacher tell me in high school that I, "have the intelligence that would make an interesting director," with the hopes that one day, "she creates a chance for herself to direct a play." (I still have my high school progress reports saved... :/).

Although, I'm not sure if I'm sitting in a play director's chair, or a movie director's chair. I wonder if the type of direction even makes a difference.

Late Night Dreams: Loosing Teeth

To give a bit of background first:

I was raised by a mother who was a dream interpreter. Not the psychic mirrorball kind where you would go and get your palms read. But she was always writing down her dreams in her journals in the morning, sitting at the kitchen counter in her robe with black coffee and rollie in hand, pen in the other. She was not to be disturbed at this time. However, she did encourage us to pay attention to our dreams as well. So I would tell her mine when I could remember them, and she would listen. And at times, if she felt so moved, she would reflect and interpret the possible meanings.

I have now learned to interpret my own dreams, thanks to her.

So, I have been having dreams all week of my teeth falling out. And I know that this is a common one to people, and I have had them before, but not so repetitive and close together like this. The first dream was feeling my teeth getting loose, then the second dream was pulling out a couple back molars, and then the last one was the worst-- not only were my front teeth falling out, but I had loads of little teeth clumped together falling out. Like chunks and chunks of baby teeth just falling out of my mouth. I think there was so much coming out, I started to crunch on them as if they were food. Like a crunchy bone protein snack. A bit morbid and disturbing, I know. So of course it was signifying something in which I should pay attention, so I had to look this one up.

After researching a few dream sites, the general meanings came down to the anxieties around a transition. Change. Rebirth. Personal growth. That kind of stuff. So I thought that made sense. I am in a transition. I just don't know what I am transitioning to. It's as if I am walking down a road in the pitch dark and I can't see anything, not around me nor ahead of me. I am in some kind of motion, I just don't know where I am headed.

So, that's basically it. I didn't get any answers (which dreams unusually don't give you), but more importantly clarity and understanding on my current state. I suppose I should just keeping moving forward, even though it's quite blindly, and that new place of transition will reveal itself to me soon enough.

Connecting The Dots

When I was little, I would cover my eyes with my hands, placing pressure on my eye lids until I could see bright colors in blues and reds, large spots and little dots amidst the blackness. It wasn't until recently that I remembered this childhood activity of mine, and realized how much the visuals were like being in outer space, or seeing inside your own body at a molecular level. Now, I'm no astronomer or biologist, but I do examine human behavior quite often, and it's amazing how our lives are so interconnected with the small dots (molecules) and the big dots (outer-space). After all, we're all made of the same stuff anyway.

It's interesting when we remember the little things we did as children, the things that fascinated us and gave us joy, and how those things have changed or stayed the same over time.