Think Yourself to Big-ness

You know those times when you just sneakily not so surreptitiously stake out a spot at work in view of potential outsiders and just go ahead with writing a new blog post ? Yes , this is it.

I won’t even tell you where I work to save my own ass  manager’s face.

I guess something that’s been on my mind lately is how surprisingly small the people around me think. If I were to put it down to concrete metaphors its like .. Barney not having the dream of a big family but just a normal sized nuclear one. Wouldn’t that be a shame if that was how the story went? That Barney didn’t have big enough dreams to become this iconic figure in my childhood, and settled to be a neighborhood mascot instead. Maybe he might’ve made a life of entertaining a few generations of some poor mans son, without ever knowing that he could’ve been a famous television franchise. Its a bit sad. Supposing all that’s said has an actual point to it , I’ll reflect more honestly.

When the economy’s not good and things aren’t busy, you happen to be more likely a good listener. Or eavesdropper if you really gotta put a label on it. And listening to my coworkers, its really no wonder the economy’s as godamn slow as it is now. I’m not too much younger than them , and honestly, I wouldn’t give myself too much credit on the smarts, and this will be a ridiculously true example, but even I know better than to not trust the bathroom wall of our society – a.k.a Google – to determine what career I should pursue based on the annual net worth income we are currently giving the benefit of doubt to. That is, before the tax.

The thing is , as much as I feel uncomfortable about my coworkers , what with them jiving occasionally about my pursuit of a business model, I do acknowledge that they could do better. Not from the stance of a condescending witch, just someone who’s a few years younger and can still see clearly the possible potential of say for example, a particular one that’s very beautiful and sharp yet actually trying to be serious in googling a profession. The oddity of feeling like close encounter high school, plus some.

I try my best not to judge them in their personal choices of ‘mild’ drug use and whatnot, and I say that to only emphasize what a sardonic critic I am as I’m sure I still judge them all the same…just that I couldn’t get it out of my head how they came to thinking in such a small constricted box to which they have the key to open but choose not to. Not only that, but to try and drag myself down alongside them. How did so many of us come to this point? Its like someone has been told since birth that the sky is green, and when someone gently suggests that it is in fact blue, no evidence in the world will change their mind that the sky will always be green. It makes me think of the saying that a myth is only something that’s been repeated enough to be bought into belief by the masses. The myth here being they think they can only wait for that biweekly paycheck and hope feebly on that college degree while looking in disdain on that Google profession. Like there’s nothing else more you can do in this world or for yourself.

According to my title, if there is a point of greatness in your life , a pinnacle that goes beyond the ambition of blowing the fuzz off of a peanut, I believe we can all first and foremost,  think our way there. And I don’t know how and where and when and why we all came to be such conformists but I make the decision daily to walk against that current  ; probably because its comfortable to be one of the masses that we stay in complacency our entire lives. Living with half a mind forward with all these great ideas that you will never put to action because the other half of your mind gives you great excuses not to risk it. But someone here, just shy of 18 in the blessed world of the north west, says to herself everyday that anything I achieve in life will be because I persistently chose not to think like the ones around me. And that someone plans on being successful.

I am no better than anybody, and I choose to deviate simply because whoever you might be – my coworkers for instance – you do not have the life I wish. Do not have the funds I desire to properly honor my family. Do not have the success in seeds and roots for me to see a harvest of plenty in your horizon. And so everyday that I am here , sharing space with these perfectly fine beings, I can’t help being mad at how little everything is to them. How just hair tuggingly maddening a man of 35 should discuss the on goings of television shows and reckless information with a 21 year old who would turn to me and scoff that I should not be caught up in their scheme of working 8 hours a day being semi to not productive and then spending the evening hijacking yours and your future family’s funds because a certain set of skin care was buy two get one free, and your buddy happened to invite you out to the downtown pub.

I just know better. So I choose the latter of delayed gratification.

So just take a moment and look at yourself. Now why on earth would you think I choose so differently from you.

…After a moments breather, I’m actually quite shocked at myself for the outburst. The above statements had been happening probably forever , and I’ve just recently taken keen notice of them. I can’t say too much of why, but I guess for once in my life I am touching a cord inside me that might be closely related to passion and resolve. Working towards a life greater than still being a coworker with a 17 year old at 35.  Harsh right ?

What do you know, I do miss blogging and blowing off some of that steam.

 

So This Happened…

It’s a little strange to be back..just ever so briefly. I feel like not having blogged for awhile you kind of forget how, and trying to recall now is like trying to remember how to ride a bicycle after a long intermission of disuse.

*Regardless, for the people who had been here before or during my absence, maybe you care enough to remember I had been going on a blog run about a project we can say, I had started. I didn’t for one minute waver from the goal, but I just decided to take away all that because it’s just a separate part of my life that I had never meant to involve into the blogosphere. It just didn’t fit with the image of the Duck. And maybe if you don’t recall any of that stuff, then I’m just talking crazy and I got to steal away a few minutes of your life that you will never get back. To get that point across, let’s sit down awhile and think about this: we’re really trading our lives here reading these posts, these are actual minutes multiplied to hours of your time that you will never get back. And with that genius transition of topic, I tell ya the Duck can only survive on such combined petty life source. Like a leech.

I guess I can say I should be glad none of that grateful cynicism had gotten lost.

Hope you’re just as pleased.

*because K.A Brace said so.

Guess a brief self-absorbed update is in place:

Celebrated my grammy's 82nd birthday; isn't she just a doll?

Celebrated my grammy’s 82nd birthday; isn’t she just a doll?

Went to my first car show and pissed some old ninnies off

Went to my first car show and pissed some old ninnies off

Andof course the grand finale that you were all waiting desperately to hear about..

Milo got fixed ; look how happy

Milo got fixed ; look how happy

Sobbing over those lost, shriveled balls; I grief with him too

Sobbing over those lost, shriveled balls; I grief with him too

Back to posing and being a cat

Back to posing and being a cat; cheerios.

 

 

 

Let Me Humiliate Myself

Father, Mother, Sister, and I, let me humiliate myself for one more day.

Let me ride a bicycle, wobbling though it may be, with no support. Let me thrash in the swimming pool and scream high heavens while you step backwards. Let me be a child and praise me for writing a whole page detailing you my dream room. Let me humiliate myself for another day, so that one day I can look back on it and laugh, and maybe somewhat learn, the lesson of humility.

Have me fail – forward – while I still have the bare guts to, for sooner or later, this will all be over, and I will not have done much.

Father, Mother, Sister, and I, if I seem assured, absurd, you must know of my 80% truth. This is the girl that ‘dreamed’ of an average life. This is she, who said, “I don’t want to be anything big in life.” And she never found that sad, until a comment a later ago. Right now, she wants to do something big, and being something great has never been easy. Call it my petty streak, but I want to be significant too; I want to live a life of value, if I might as well have to.

Remember those days of my insane youth; I played basketball, and climbed trees and raced boys because I wanted to be better. And I became. Not because you did not tell me the calluses on my hands were ungraceful, or that the scraps on my knees were unflattering, but because I played and played, until one day someone would shout out my name to say, “Good Job Sarah !” And at that time, though I did not mind it, I grew muscles and lean arms, I ran fast – I practically flew on air – I remember, how it felt to be so liberating, to be rewarded with something you never even knew you were working towards, but in the process of doing something you loved and wanted, it just happened.

I’m sure, when I first began, I was not anybody’s first choice. I’m sure I still cannot aim. I’m sure I was definitely not the best player. Yet somehow, I became something slightly better than average, because I maintained to play. It was a team work, for if you could shoot and score, I could steal and pass. And because I did not sit aside with the other girls in the shade to watch you guys, and because I threw myself towards the ball in the same fierce animalistic way that made us friends; because I did not feel the effort, the work that went into it. So even when I missed a ball, or a catch, or a goal, or a steal, it was strengthening, urgent for me to go on and make the next one.

For that, I miss being a child. If not only because you would never say it wasn’t okay, or tell me that it was inane, but that I did not mind failing, and making a fool of myself and laughing it off. I did not develop the awareness that we have over-cultivated to make us feel ashamed.

I miss being a child, because I had wanted to just win. So let me humiliate myself for one more day, and so be it, if I can make it or not, to win or fail, I did something great.

 

An Anxious Christmas

So before all else, Merry Christmas everyone and Happy Holidays; Hope you all celebrate(d) in good cheer and may all your selfish shameless wishes come true in the form of your loved ones’ empty pockets and twitching smiles around the Christmas tree.

The Duck is also open for business to send out late Christmas cards because after her first one, she deems it fun. Really, I will write exactly what I said above with pleasure.

For myself, this Christmas eve had been quite the night of confessions. It’s hard to even begin or try to sum it up. How to explain one’s first experience with a panic attack? You can’t really. Or I can’t. So I’m going to attempt.

In the house of the Duck, it’s usually an atmosphere of quiet. Brimming silence that is penetrated with an on-going TV show that she can repeat off the top of her head (10 years of knowledge crammed for life!) and the scuttling of a scaredy-cat – which sometimes might be myself running once I hit that tab on the toilet – but mainly is my cat if nothing else to save my delicate pride in hindsight. So to have celebrated the Christmas eve at my sister’s boyfriend’s house this year, it was a very different environment. Make no mistake that they were wonderful people; his mother whipped up a beautiful feast that I would never have thought myself to lay intimate eyes on in this life time. And here’s where I get into my writer mode to help myself cope in social situations.

There was this one particular gentleman, let’s call him Steve…with a lisp, just to be slightly childish and spiteful and have you think of that dreadful sssss-ing of the s in your head. Now Steve could be the nicest person in the world, turn his car around outside to go visit the shelter or the homeless – after he shoots down a couple of a shots, who wouldn’t feel homey and giving. Yes, Steve represented a great deal of things that the Duck does not incline towards… like constant reference to alcohol or just the absolute depletion of Christmas spirit in this man. We had just watched Elf ! How could you !

“So you guys only have wine? Man I thought -beep- would’ve had hard drinks or something.”

“Yeah, my brother is at this party..but I didn’t want to go because it’s with people that I don’t really like.”

And here’s what’s interesting, there’s always a slight pause, like a lilt in the sentence for a breath before he continues, by himself, “but I haven’t seen my brother in awhile, yeah.”

“My mom’s having her own Christmas party with her friends. I don’t really like them, they ask too many questions.” – at this point the hostess of the house said aloud that she always saw him with a new gal each time. I don’t know if that’s true, but what a madame at 50-something, won’t you agree with me?

It’s about 10pm. “Hey, yeah, I came here too early didn’t I? So we’re just going to go grab some drinks.”

Brings home about what the Duck perceives to be 4 tonnes. “Anybody want some of this – beep-?”

We’re playing board-games and you see him silently pouring into his glass. If the colors of the alcohol had been different maybe the Duck could tell you how many bottles went by under her nose. In retrospect, the Duck blatantly thought Steve was an asshole. BUT, in efforts to revise herself in such crippling company, she tried folks, to pay attention to the words he’d say, lest he becomes one of the best-worst characters that she will write about one day. Let’s face it, authors who write wacko characters are either them themselves secretly, or needed a rude example of it. Living life vicariously.

It didn’t really work.

Sitting on the couch playing board-games, for someone who is not near much company at her own place to be suddenly surrounded by a wall of guys, jostling each other and egging comments while deeply indenting the backseat of the sofa with their weight…the Duck began to slowly ebb towards panic.

At first, it was the mild discomfort of feeling warm –  which my sister later confirmed that the room was in fact quite warm truthfully – then it escalated to unease, constantly changing positions, the inability to lie back on the couch lest I could feel their masculine breath upon my head. Shudders. I began cold sweat, even though I wore only a tank top under my knit sweater. My face felt red, skin felt clammy, my mindset was in want of shutting down, and so my facial expressions went along with it. Nada.

“Are you okay Sarah?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

The Duck attempted a few times to remove herself of the situation at intervals. Silently exiting and entering the amorphous blob as what she will always try to find the words to describe for the rest of her life as this ‘social setting’. Even walking towards the doorway, where it was cooler helped. Cold hand bars at your fingertips, I had only wished I could have pressed every inch of hissing body frame against it.

Eventually the Duck had to actually walk outside. This is a townhouse, so in the square of everyone’s front steps there was a little children playground. I went behind the shed of a wooden house, invisible from the front steps of said house.

Creepy thing is that even writing about it now brings back sweaty palms, without my having noticed it, sticking to my laptop as I type. Does anyone else have a better word for what I always say is the anxious tugging of heartstrings ? It’s happening.

This situation was somewhat similar to the one I had in early January. Having been at the function of a birthday party – one which was much different than the one the birthday girl had planned or warranted. Except that this time, the Duck did not have the exclusion safety to opt out completely. While drunken strangers at my friend’s birthday party could not give two crap for the girl who just virtually disappeared from sight as it would seem, my sister called out to me after I took a few deep breathes listening to Jeff Buckley sing ironically, his song called “Everybody Here Wants You.”

It helped, but then she called me back in to take pictures, and immediately I could feel the brief peace of listening to Jeff’s soft voice singing Lilac skin dissipate to fear and panic. I walked back inside the doorway and stayed there a moment longer until my sister appeared again to get me, at which point I crumpled on the stairway steps and said I needed to get out.

It’s impossible to remember everything that I said, only that I briefly said I had anxiety, whimpering that it was really warm inside while gathering my shoes in front of me. I don’t think my sister comprehended because her immediate reaction was to confirm what I had said earlier – it was indeed very warm – so she offered to open the window when we walk back in.

Sadly, that wasn’t what I was looking for, so the Duck began to actually cry fully. It was too late. My sister asked me what was wrong and rather than resume stoic-ness I did what I had pondered and dreamed about always in the past year, but never had the courage to do. I told my sister about me.

Before anyone gets a big epiphany here, for those of you who have been with me in the turbulence of last year, you already know, for those that don’t, it’s a rudimentary series of teenage mistakes and downfall veiled by the express desire to ‘grow up’ hence the dabbling in promiscuity, beguiled at times, guilty at others, and almost raped once, to self harm from spite and hate. Yes, last year was tough. And living with my mother all the while is tough.

The conversation maybe at whole took an hour and a bit, because at the end of it the Duck could scarcely recall the feeling of her fingers. I can’t tell you either what my sister’s immediate reaction to my confessions had been because the Duck was not in the least brave enough to look at her head on. My confession brought on a weird expulsion of calm – almost –  a sad little voice that tells a bleary story that happened, deceived only by the fluttering palpitations inside my chest that tells me that this is in fact very real, and only an outwardly reserved recollection of events does not take anything away from it. At one point I erupted to panicky statements, defiance against the doorknob that is life, retreating from an embracing sibling, escalating to a yell that, I didn’t want to be strong.

It was interesting to find that my sister had always had the same view of my mother as I had half way in my head and half way out my conscience.

My mother is very childish at her worse moments.

Spoken in no spite whatsoever, that’s just who my mother is. Youngest of six, she grew up with a mother  - my grandmother, my po po – who complained, gambled and did not take care of her. Sometimes I wonder if I should feel bad for either of the two parties when I watch them communicate in the hours my mother goes to visit po po at her senior home. I found out also that my father was discovered of his affair at a much earlier time then I had thought. I saw the glimmer of a reverberating story line – if only because it is actually true and close to me – that my mother had turned to my sister, at age 6, to dare her to live with my father’s ‘aunty’.

I had actually smiled warily at that confession. Simply because it summarizes so much about a woman of volatile temper and damning laughter.

And so my sister proceeded  to tell me over and over again, paraphrasing to shield my fat load of self-pity, that we all make mistakes, and that she is so proud of me for having turned towards her. Proud and surprised that I had not fallen to narcotics or alcohol. Telling me that our mother does not heed the feelings of other people, many a times, when she speaks. Proven just then when my mother did come out for a brief while to inquire what was wrong, to have threatened to go home and leave before us because she was having cramps. Had I been alone with her, had it been someone else who stepped aside and let my mother through to personally question me, I’m sure I would have said my most practical line. “Nothing.” And the issue would have been resolved in her stormy awkward silence and a runny nose in the center of the living room. But my sister didn’t, and she told my mother to go back inside or to just leave if she wished to because I could either stay with my sister for the night or be driven later. She asked my mother whether her cramps or my crying was more important, and for that instant, my mother thankfully shut up. She went back in.

See, you guys, I am not really all that strong at all to have been so crippled by the sound of my mother’s irritation, to be asked directly what was causing the commotion and for me to be upset. It was nice to have your older sister with you again, to feel that someone should speak words that you only wish to say calmly one day.

I keep saying every year in the cards of Christmas, or Birthdays or Mother’s Day, that I forgive her, if nothing else but to be herself, to be her disappointing self because it was part my fault to hold a ‘mother figure’ at such high esteem and her’s for having been so different from my imagination, even if that is what we are all ultimately guided to do. I say that I am at peace with her for whatever she has or has not done. I hope I’m not lying. I really do foresee that what they say about distance going hand in hand with love is true, because I am really trying to honestly be bigger than that and love you, mum.

After an hour of freezing cold in the dark, my sister and I re-entered the ‘social setting’. We opened presents and had food. And of course, Steve passed around drinks. My sister’s gift to me above all else was unexpected and incredibly thoughtful, it has it’s own podium here alongside the large feast. And with that, I conclude a Merry Christmas and the longest post I had ever written.

Authenticated Personal Library - with my own specially carved stamp!

Authenticated Personal Library – with my own specially carved stamp!

Need I say more ?

Need I say more ?

Mad Minds

An artist’s hand quivers;
She writes.
But before that, she experiences her character’s life,
How to die;
“Have you ever thought of jumping off a building?” She asks.
“No.”
“Everybody thinks of jumping off a building,”
Trembling fingers.
“If you don’t, then you can’t help me.”

* Last day ! Plus it’s snowing ! Happy Duck is a happy Duck. (:

Mindlogged

As of recent I find myself waking
Before a great idea lost
In dreams
Of red illuminated clouds, in bleeding light
My arms lay limp
To the gentle plucking of invisible hands upon nerves
How unnerving; indeed, indeed
And all I can notice is the pressing weight of the looming clouds
That the skies are altogether moving
At such speed ! I am besides myself -
To wake up again among a baleful light of neither dawn nor dusk
The
T
W
I
L
I
G
H
T

Zone
Trailing off…
Into the ticking-tocking of the clock
It is in fact my heartbeat
Pulsing its way upon the pillow of my conscience
Threaded out to chasing bus routes
And playing catch-me-not with Time.
Is it any wonder someone tried to rearrange the sun
Align the shadow of the stick this way and that
Ever since the first timetables of such.
I lay my head on the train tracks
Brilliant light – I am mindlogged.

* 2 more days…two more and 13 hours of sleep later the Duck will be back to drop feathers of nuisance everywhere she goes.

Update and a Steal

It’s been about a week and a bit since I last posted anything or even really frequented the blogosphere, which is sad. Even more sad that I alternately feel worse and turn to avoid blogging even more, and then feel more like a dipshit. It’s a beautiful win win cycle.

So because this is the one time that I am actually awake – which has been quite the rarity in the past week; I’m quite sure I’m officially one of the ‘bad kids’ now for having fallen asleep in practically every class at least twice. And here I have always wondered the art of sleeping in public. Hm. Lots of random loud outbursts that shudders you awake. Or the occasional cat-dream-chase that caused me to elliptically jerk and hit the person next to me. What a laughing commotion that caused. Is this how tough skin and class clowns begin?

I’ve also come to learn that no matter what I wear I will never do right in the eyes of the middle aged adult. As of yesterday, Duckland has finally experienced her first dusting of snow – paradise, to be said precisely – and because the Duck tried to give more of a fluff to her appearance for work today, she dressed up and wore stockings and a skirt. Let me briefly say that I’m wearing a large parka coat (courtesy of fetching raw gems in the coat closet) and that my legs actually have no feeling to the cold. I’d imagine that if I were a real Duck I’d be one to waddle angrily and swiftly everywhere I go – so, I keep the blood flowing. That is to say that while I was out to get myself a French Vanilla/Coffee today, I got the less than conspicuous stares and a kindly, but now suspicious comment of, “Dear, aren’t you just freezing?”

No, no…

Stares. Grimaces. Stares. Smiles. Trailing looks to the back…

Why. I am now a supposedly good soul hard working citizen bumming her way along the soul-less sky of winter at 8 am in the morning, why the hate guys. I’d understand, I suppose, the discrimination if I were to dress down and laugh a little too loudly with my friends about matters that don’t really matter…but really, this has just proven that the Duck will always be a misunderstood poor soul. Oh, you adults… you make me laugh. Wearily.

Otherwise, my sister and I actually got Christmas shopping out of the way, and for once I am entirely too glad to have paired up with her in the purchase of my mother’s gift – something I believe to finally be worth her while since the three years ago that I began making home made gifts. Either that, or I have completely ran out of ideas and skills. Except that now I am completely broke. Happy holidays and good spirits everyone! Truly, only the poor does say money doesn’t mean everything!

On the other hand my mother is suffering from a case of anaemia and possibly something else as well, so best of hope to her and that winter won’t be taking it’s worse toll this year.

In terms of work, the Duck is also very humbled and glad to have referred her friends to her job – some struggles out there are just too real to be true. They are only supposed to be the perverse sadistic type that the Duck reveres and wishes to write one day. Characters, I say. So hip-hip cheerios to those guys (:

I’d end in a poem, but I found that the only one I had written as of a recent was a rather hard hitting angry slam poetry, so maybe not on this post…but a nice 7:30 am picture to end the day accompanied by a charming little thing that the Duck read in class. Oh and the fact that this link of unlikely animal friendship makes me very happy. Humour me.

snow morning

The Drawer

She opened the drawer and he fell out. She helped him to get up and to allay his embarrassment. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Next time I’ll open the drawer more carefully – you probably won’t be there.”

* And plus that I received an award as a 2013 blog.. Just give me a minute to beat the time line.. Drone. Snooze. Zzzzz