Back in the Saddle Again!

And the rest of my ABCs...(condensed, of course...)

Picture it: Atlanta, Georgia, April 15, 2011...

I’m sitting innocently at my desk, a stack of paperwork in front of me. I long for the paperwork to be over. For the day, Friday, to be over. I am methodically going through the stack while wondering how I can write a blog on my chosen M word, excited that I have been keeping up with the ABC Challenge, and that, half-way through, my desire to write has really been rejuvenated by this blogfest.

I sneeze.

My right arm goes numb. My hand, the dominate one, is twitching and suddenly goes limp and numb as well. My neck, well, there's no numbness there. It's screeching, seething, agonizing pain. I wish for numbness, but it never comes.

And so it began. The last two months of my life have been chiropractor visits, massage sessions, bikram yoga, and finally doctors and surgeon consultations. I have a bulging disk in my C6.

This is nothing new. Two years ago, I had the same thing happen to me on my left side. That time, it was caused by running. Uber-stressed in my last semester of school (summer, no less), I took up running. I was so caffeinated, that I could not go to sleep at night. Once I was ready to sleep, I would put on my running shoes and go. Problem: I have flat feet and was running on pavement. Solution to sleep, but not my body. One week after I graduated (stopped running), I woke up in the middle of the night with this exact same pain and numbness, just on the left side.

What the sneeze did, in essence, is reactivate this injury. Apparently, a sneeze has a speed of up to 100mph. That's a lot of movement in that short period of time. One side of the nerve controls the left side of your body, the other side controls the right. When I sneezed, the side that controls the right gave in and dropped, after two years of supporting both ends.

I've been in bed. I was in bed for nearly two weeks. Then I slowly started to get up and out. Every movement was deliberate. Every action pre-planned. Living this way is a great teacher. Patience is not something I come by honestly, and I had to be patient, both with myself and my surroundings. I had to not get frustrated.

Chiropractic helped. Massages helped. Bikram Yoga helps. But nothing was fast enough. So I went to the doctor. They took an MRI and sent me for a consultation with a surgeon. I’m not excited about that. I am thinking I will not get surgery. So, my next step is an acupuncturist. I am going to get an appointment to go see one for next week.

The worst part of all of this was that I could not do my two favorite things: write or read. I could not (and still have trouble) writing because my hand was numb. My thumb and index finger are still numb, so it is difficult to hold a pen. Typing was annoying because I could not really support my laptop and my fingers were not doing what my brain told them to. More frustrating than anything, really. Reading was difficult because holding a book was a little much. It is still an interesting feat, however, I do a little everyday. 

There are lessons in everything. I am still realizing the ones I have learned in the last two months. Maybe I will write about them someday soon. I do not want this time to go unfounded, and lessons have always been a growing point for me.

I had a list written out of the subjects I wanted to write about for the ABC blogfest. I'd like to share the rest of it, beginning with the letter M, where I would have been on taxday 2011, when all hell broke loose. I am only going to write a few sentences about them, since we are covering half the alphabet in one sitting. 

Meatloaf. and Mashed potatoes. and Macaroni and cheese.

These are my favorite foods. I crave them often.

New York City.

This is my place. It is where I feel safe. I long for it when I’m not there.

October.

The month of my birth. It is a breathable month, the trees changing colors, the cool and crisp feeling of the air, the wind. It reminds me that I am alive. I was actually due in November, but I was meant to be an October baby.

Prepositions.

I love prepositions. I am obsessed with them, the way they change and interchange, or completely change the meaning of a statement.

Quiet.
Being quiet is something that I had to learn. Be quiet and listen. To myself, to others, to the god of my understanding.

Reading.
I love to read. I always have. It inspires me and takes me to a whole other place.

Shickley, Nebraska, population 376.
This is my hometown. I’m going to write an entire blog about it someday, since I didn't get the chance during the blogfest.

Tattoos.
I have them. I’m getting more. I'll post pictures soon.

Underwear. My secret girly obsession.
I am not girly. But I love girly underwear.

Virginia Woolf.
My favorite author. I have been reading Virginia since I was in middle school. There's something about her style that encourages and drives me.

Walking.
Walking is my favorite activity. I feel alive when I actually take the time to get there slowly, observing, watching, looking. It is one of the best things about New York City.

Xanthrippe Richmond. my original pseudonym.
In seventh grade, I developed this name as a way of writing from the outside. Xanthrippe even had a signature very different than my own. S/he always wrote in green ink.

Yoga – My biggest fight turned into my biggest need.
I did not want to do bikram yoga, I thought it was a little nutty.  But, it has turned into the 90 minutes of my life when I am able to shut down my head, and focus on my body, mind, and spirit. I go to solve problems, both physical and mental. And usually walk out of there with a solution.

Zealots - they scare me.
Living in the bible belt, I have seen my fair share of zealots. They are crazy and creepy. One of them told me I needed a hug a couple months ago and I screamed like I was a human rape whistle.



Zealot



That is the Reader's Digest version of the rest of my alphabet. It's good to be back writing. Even though this took longer to type than it should have, it sure is worth it.

 

Hating Like

Slam poet Taylor Mali wrote a poem in 2005.  I like it.


Totally like whatever, you know?


In case you hadn't noticed,
it has somehow become uncool
to sound like you know what you're talking about?
Or believe strongly in what you're saying?
Invisible question marks and parenthetical (you know?)'s
have been attaching themselves to the ends of our sentences?
Even when those sentences aren't, like, questions? You know?

Declarative sentences — so-called
because they used to, like, DECLARE things to be true
as opposed to other things which were, like, not -
have been infected by a totally hip
and tragically cool interrogative tone? You know?
Like, don't think I'm uncool just because I've noticed this;
this is just like the word on the street, you know?
It's like what I've heard?
I have nothing personally invested in my own opinions, okay?
I'm just inviting you to join me in my uncertainty?

What has happened to our conviction?
Where are the limbs out on which we once walked?
Have they been, like, chopped down
with the rest of the rain forest?
Or do we have, like, nothing to say?
Has society become so, like, totally...
I mean absolutely... You know?
That we've just gotten to the point where it's just, like...
whatever!

And so actually our disarticulation... ness
is just a clever sort of... thing
to disguise the fact that we've become
the most aggressively inarticulate generation
to come along since...
you know, a long, long time ago!

I entreat you, I implore you, I exhort you,
I challenge you: To speak with conviction.
To say what you believe in a manner that bespeaks
the determination with which you believe it.
Because contrary to the wisdom of the bumper sticker,
it is not enough these days to simply QUESTION AUTHORITY.
You have to speak with it, too.



I don't understand what has happened.  I'm not that old.  But I do not remember ever using or hearing the word "like" like I hear it now.  I remember when it was funny, in a Valley Girl sort of way.  But I never thought it was, or could ever be, like, real, you know?

I remember learning about like: 

Like is used in similes, not in metaphors. 
"I play the guitar like Eric Clapton."  (Untrue, yet a good example.)

Like, Nick Cage is like, like, hot!

Like shows appreciation or a feeling towards someone or something.
I like bacon.  (Okay, I LOVE bacon.  But we're talking about like here.)

Like shows comparisons between two related things.
My watch is like his, except blue.

And then, there's finding out if someone likes you.  Usually, someone near you in study hall:
Do you Like me?  Circle one: yes     no

If you circled yes, you do Like me, do you Like Like me?   Circle one:  yes    no

If you circled yes, you do Like Like me, would you Like to hold my hand at lunch?  Circle one:  yes     no

But never as a word just randomly put in the middle of a sentence, one, two, seven times.  Maybe this is why we need unlimited minutes on our phones?  Our conversation time has to go up with the amount of likes are like in one like sentence.

People DO talk this way.  I do hear them.  All the time.  I cannot stand it.  In an effort to not get angry or scold strangers and friends about their complete misuse of the word and explain that "I like went to the park." is not a simile and then explain the rules of the road to them, or to simply ask them if they actually went to the park or did something resembling going to the park, I have started counting.  I count the likes in a sentence.  I count the likes while people are talking.  This is amusing. 

However, it gets me in trouble.  They usually want a response, and I like, don't have one.  The only thing I've heard is like, blah, blah, blah (one), like, blah, blah, blah, blah (two), like, blah, blah, blah, blah (three)...

Please, share your experience with like.  Do you say it?  If you do, can you tell me about it?  Do you hate it?  Do you want to punch anyone in the mouth because they use it so much?  Have you ever asked anyone to stop talking because of excessive use of the word?  Have you ever stopped listening to people who use it?

Kinky. My word in 7th grade.

Kinky - (adj.) quirky or eccentric.

I love this word.  I have since I came across it all those years (YIKES!) ago.  Quirky or eccentric...all in five little letters.  It seemed perfect!

I used to have this habit when I was younger of looking through the dictionary at random to find new and interesting sounding words.  Two years later, I eventually read the entire thing.  I also had a habit of writing out lists of words I liked, and then spending time looking them up in the thesaurus and finding new ways of saying them.  Which, I think, is how I came across kinky.  It is a synonym for different.  It means a lot of things.  My seventh grade brain couldn't wrap itself around the other part of the word...

Kinky- (adj.) slang  given to unusual, abnormal, or deviant sexual practices; perversly erotic in behavior

Who knew it was sexual? 

Who knew it meant deviant behavior?

Who knew it meant perversly erotic?

Who knew it meant all these things?

I guess a lot of people. Apparently, not me.

In my ignorance (lack of knowledge), I said it.  A lot.  I used it in any sentence I could for a long time, both verbal and written, as I did with all my new word finds.  I have always loved words, and when I found one I particularly liked, it became my word, a word I would use to the extreme. 
 
There are so many things I love about words in general, and the word kinky seemed to have it all.  Kinky.  I love the way it sounds.  Kinky.  I love the way it is spelled.  I knew then that the letter k is a rarity when standing on its own twice in a single word.  Kinky.  I love the way the letters look stacked together. 
 
I guess I'm lucky that my parents let me use words, no matter what they are.  I feel I'm lucky that I love words and wanted to use them.  I get so discouraged when I hear parents say to their children "Don't say that."  To kids, it's all an expieriment.  It's just them testing the waters of their brains and their vocal chords.  In school, teachers tell their students not to write a certain way or to use certain words in their writing.  It's all about the challenge of the new.  It helps them grow and change and become who they are. 
 
Wow, this post took a weird turn.  But, writing it out sometimes does that.  Stop filtering.  Say what you mean and mean what you say.  And find new ways to say it.

J: When I balk at writing, it must be of the honest kind...

I love to write. Obviously. I always have. It’s something that comes naturally and easily.

I write stories. I write poems. I write lyrics.

I even think story form most of the time.

So, what does this have to do with the letter J?

I hate to journal.

Journaling is, um, real. It is directly attached to feelings.  And has a purpose. It is writing for the sole purpose of an outcome containing growth and getting through. And it there is all kinds of room for error, for improper spelling, grammar, and punctuation.

Getting through what?  Getting through the roadblocks in my head and the speedbumps in my soul.

I journal about two or three times a week. Sometimes more, sometimes less. It depends what is going on. I have kept journals on and off for years. Initially, I always balk at the idea. It is frustrating to me. It forces me to look at myself, to be honest, to work towards a solution. And sometimes, that is just not fun.

I write what's real in my journal.  I write and write and write.  The same things over and over and over.  The point of journaling is to find a solution.  And that takes days.  Sometimes weeks.  On the same issue.  The words change from day to day, and eventually, the problem words turn into solution words, the solution words take over, and all of a sudden, days later, I know what to do.

As I move through each day of journaling, I re-read the entries and ponder my course of action.  As I re-read the entries, I try to ignore the writing mistakes I made in my haste to get all the thoughts and feelings out.  Sometimes I get stuck on the mistakes.  Sometimes I wish I had typed instead of hand-written my journals so I could go back and correct the mistakes - as if they were never made.  This is deflection, not wanting to face the issue on paper, and instead, focus on what I can fix.

But I must hand-write.

As much as I detest the act of journaling, I see it for what it is, and it is finding soltutions.  It is unabashedly looking at myself and knowing there is room to grow and change and become.  And that makes it worth every minute, every word, every imperfection those pages contain.

What's in a Name?

“Mary Poppins, is that your name? It’s lovely.”


I have heard that so many times.

Ok, it’s actually, “Ivy Bliss, is that your name? It’s lovely.”

Yes. Ivy Bliss is my name. My first and middle name. I tend to just go by that, my last name is difficult to spell – not because it is hard, but because it could be spelled in so many different ways, due to phonetics. Also because when people see it on paper, it is always said wrong.

And, of course, there’s a story behind it. My parents are not hippies. That’s me, remember?

My mom doesn't.

My parents worked at a ski resort in Colorado long before I was born. My mom was a maid, and my dad ran the ski lift. They met several famous people in that time. My mom met Lucille Ball. My mom is not a fan. Apparently, Lucy lined up the maids and hand-picked who was allowed in her room. She told them who looked like a thief and who was pretty enough to clean her room. I have heard that story my whole life. Therefore, I have never seen a single episode of I Love Lucy.

However, my dad met Buddy Hackett, and his daughter, who was very young, maybe four or five at the time. This little girl fell in love with my dad. Her name was Ivy. And for some reason, it stuck.

On their way to the agency to pick me up, they stopped to get something to eat. Their waitress’s name was Bliss. And it worked with Ivy.

So there you go, I am Ivy Bliss.