The sky opened and God handed you directly to me

This is an extremely belated blog but I finally have my thoughts in order (or rather, I have work I don't want to do).

A few weeks ago, on Mother's Day, I fainted in church. The fact I fainted was strange but that it was in church made it even more surreal.
My family and I had gone to the Los Angeles Cathedral for mass because my sister and I were too unimaginative to come with anything else my mother would enjoy. Also, it's close to Olvera Street so we could enjoy that side of our heritage, along with some heart-stoppingly delicious food. We had to wake up very early to make it to 8 o'clock mass (I know, I know...my parents are old). I was cranky because I had to wake up that early, so it wasn't a good day from the start. Everything was fine once we got to mass, but as we're kneeling during the blessing of the Sacraments, I start to get light-headed. This happens a lot so I just sat back, thinking it would pass. Instead of passing, it increases and I realize that if I don't go out NOW, I will vom all over the pews (and the old woman in front of me). I get up, already starting to sweat profusely and both my mother and sister look at me like WTF. I put a hand up, the universal signal for "I'm fine" and tell them I'm going outside. However, I don't make it that far because my vision starts to go and suddenly, I can't see anything. It's hot in the church, the incense is making my head spin, and I'm dizzy dizzy dizzy. All I know is that there is another pew somewhere in front of me, so I stumble over and sit with my head in my hands because I'm not sure what to do. Suddenly, a woman comes out of nowhere and asks in my ear, "Are you all right?" Speech functions all but gone, I shake my head. She takes my arm and leads me up the stairs, telling me it's going to be ok. Walking is difficult for me and she notices that I can't stand up, so she asks if I want to lay down. Without waiting for an answer, she takes me and lays me on the cool marble floor. This is heaven, I think, here in church. I lie there for a long while, as this woman - this strange, this parishioner - holds my hand and talks to me. I don't remember much about that time - I began sweating profusely and my vision was still gone. She kept asking me if I was pregnant and I laughed at that because there was no physical way I could be (unless God was having some fun). She asks my name and where my parents are and I realize, at that point, that they aren't here. They didn't notice me falling over but some random woman did. I am not upset because the floor still feels nice and my vision is clearing. People keep walking by, staring at me, so I keep my eyes shut. It's embarrassing and I don't want to be here, so helpless, but I'm so thankful that woman is. A little old asian woman comes over and takes hold of my clammy hand and starts to do some pressure point stuff on it. I am too tired to pull my hand away or worry about it being sweaty. Her nails bite into my skin and it makes me think of stigmata. My breathing is less labored now. I'm telling the woman why I'm here when I finally see my sister, who has wandered over to go to the bathroom and sees me there on the floor. Then my parents come running and a security guard and I tell them all no, no, I don't want an ambulance, I'm ok. So they get me a wheelchair instead. Sitting in it, I notice someone has removed my cardigan and you can see my bra. The reflection of myself in the windows shows that my hair is standing up. My mother puts her hand on my cheek - "You're as white as a ghost." They wheel me outside and I keep apologizing profusely for ruining Mother's Day, because I have. The wind feels good and a Mary statue stands over me, all purity and calm, while I sign papers saying I will not sue the Cathedral. I don't want to anyway. It's my fault - my blood is too thin or something. My mother tells me again and again it's ok, but it's not.

I always fuck things up.

I get orange juice from somewhere because I finally remember I haven't eaten. There's a collective "Oh!" as if this is the answer to why I fainted. It's not really, I think, but if it makes them happy. As I'm sitting outside, the woman who helped me walks by. I want to hug her, cry, tell her thank you but that's not enough. I want to get her name and address and write her a thank you letter because she helped a stranger on her day - but I don't. She smiles at me and I wave and know I won't see her again. I am constantly indebted to the kindness of strangers, I realize. She didn't have to help me but she did. She saw I was in need and reached out. This makes me heart at peace and I want to be a better person when I think of this. It's simple - just try and be nicer. I think I can do that, but it's taking a little bit of work. Small steps, though.

Bonus: on the way out, as I'm being wheeled like an invalid, we run into the Cardinal. His Eminence, or some shit, because this is the Catholic church and we've got a hierarchy if anything. He puts his hand on my head and blesses me. I don't feel any different than before, except a small warm spot from the heat of his hand.

Lost and Found

I lost my Moleskine notebook last week. It was a weird experience - I rarely misplace important things like that (but I lose everything else), so when I couldn't find it at my Irvine home, I assumed it was in LA. When I went home that weekend, it wasn't in my room there either. Panic set in and I started thinking, what now? I didn't know where I could have left it, let alone who could have possibly found it. And if someone had found it, would they return it? A notebook like mine is worth nothing of monetary value but has a priceless sentimental one. I write EVERYTHING in there - the beginnings of all my poems, musings, doodles...a veritable collage of my mind. These are things that I don't back up on my computer unless I actually do something with them, which is few and far between. So I was panicking at the loss of some part of my identity and creativity. I guess the only thing I can liken it to is it being like I had lost my child or something (not that I know what that is like, but I would assume it's the same sort of WTF WHERE DID IT GO? feeling, followed by a lot of hand wringing, that I had. But not by making an announcement on the loud speaker, telling my child to meet me in the frozen food section of the market).

On Sunday, after I had basically given my notebook up for dead (or for it to become the personal laughingstock of some humanities student), I received an email from someone saying that they had found it in the photo lab and that I could pick it up Monday. My first reaction was: ahsigodfgjdfoihjgfihoj YES! and then, I would leave it in the photo lab, followed by, I wonder if they will notice the $10000000 award I promised on the inside if returned. Thankfully, the latter was not brought up but I did send a very grateful email, punctuated with many exclamation points. I probably seemed like the sort of person who WOULD lose a notebook (and it turns out, I am). When Monday rolled around, I sprinted up to the photo lab to see the technician on duty. I stumbled out a, "heyi'mheretopickupmynotebook...theblackonebecauseilostitandtheysaiditwouldbehere" and she just smiled, reached under the desk, and pulled it out. I don't think I've ever been happier to see something in my LIFE. Grabbing it, I thanked her profusely and hugged it to my chest. I had been reunited with a part of me that I wasn't going to lose again so soon - so I buried it in my book bag, checking every 5 minutes to make sure it was still there. Now I have relegated it a spot of honor and luxury on my bedside table, where it belongs.

I'm looking at it now and it is beckoning me to write in its comforting pages, so I think I will.
Oh Moleskine, I've missed you.

Indian Lover

Tonight, I had dinner with a very old friend (not old age-wise, but I've just known him for several years). It had been a long time since we'd seen each other so playing catch-up was a little out of the question. We settled on talking about the most important things going on in our lives at the moment - for him, that was the impending moving in with his girlfriend. Now, for the record, my friend and his girlfriend are about my age and haven't been together too long but he feels secure in his decision to move in with her.

I wasn't so sure about his decision and told him so. Most of my complaints were about (surprise!) my own hesitations moving in with a hypothetical significant other at this age and in thus could no way reflect his relationship. How I feel about moving in with someone is how I feel about most relationships: they are pointless. We are too young to know much of anything, let alone who we want to spend the rest of our lives with. Also, relationships are scary and uncertain. Why would you want that...in your HOUSE? It's such a huge risk. I just feel like I'm way too incompetent to even live by myself, let alone co-habitat with someone I actually love. I would fuck it up. But then he pointed out that he was legitimately happy in his life and wanted to cement that. So he's willing to take that risk and just see what happens. I sat back and thought about this for awhile and realized that while I'm not moving in with someone, I'm also taking a pretty big risk in my life right now.

This brings me to what I talked about: the boy. It's been about a year since I've liked anyone legitimately. You all know what that means - butterflies, giggling, the works. Cue rolling your eyes. So I told my friend the whole story (because there is a very long, complicated one even though its been a short time) and how I felt somewhat morally torn on being with this boy, but that it felt right. He said then that why should it matter. I kind of already knew that but it was comforting to hear from another person, especially an outsider. It just reinforced everything that has come to head in the last three weeks - that I like this, I like where it's going, and I should keep it. Yes it's a risk, and while it's not moving in with someone, it's still letting someone into your life and your minutiae. It's all extremely personal and for someone like me, who has intimacy issues, it can be scary. But I'm going to do it anyway, for a couple of reasons that I won't share here, but the last not being that I'm wearing his sweater.

I forgot how nice this feels.

Dear Internet,

I just won the Bret Baldwin Prize in Poetry.



I almost hyperventilated.





Sincerely,
Samantha

Musings on a hot day

For your consideration:
Irvine, CA - 104 degrees
Norwich, UK - 43 degrees

This heat makes me feel slow, like I have no bones. I melt on my bed when I get home.

All the blinds are drawn in our apartment. It is still too hot and the fans just stir the air. I am sitting because there's nothing else to do. Or that I feel like doing, anyways.

When it's this hot, I don't like to be touched. Walking to class, I avoid the crowds because they makes me anxious. I don't want to feel other peoples sweat, their own body heat. I don't even like my own.

My sister called me at 12 and said it's too hot, so she's at home, in the cool dark of the living room. I'm walking across Ring Road under a mean sun and tell her I want to take off my skin.

Intermediaries

For the first time in a very long time, I considered going to confession. It was an accumulation of things, I suppose, that made me come to this conclusion. Basically, I'm a horrible person with no morals who should stop drinking/smoking.
This is the Catholic guilt that has been instilled in me since Day One - since my baptism. I know this is the guilt talking. I know this but I listen to it anyway.
So last night, as I wasn't sleeping in my bed, I thought about going to confession today. The more I thought about it, the more ridiculous it became. It's just the basic idea of it: I'm going to sit a room and tell everything to a priest. I haven't done that since before my Confirmation, which was humiliating. It was a retreat, in the middle of nowhere, and I had to go in a bungalow where I sat face to face with some priest. With my bones digging into the metal folding chair, I told him whatever lies came to my mind - that I stole, that I hit my sister. I figured at the time that it was safer to tell him lies about things I didn't do than actually tell him the truth about what I did do. I don't know...15 year-old logic, right? I still feel like that, but if you're looking at it in a Catholic manner, I'm still sinning since I'm not telling the truth. So either way, my immortal soul is fucked. Later that night, as I was doing my penance by some cacti (seriously - this retreat really was in the middle of nowhere), I thought of something: why did I need a priest to absolve me of my menial sins? At that point in my life, I hadn't done anything wrong. Aside from the stray rude comment to my parents or coveting something, I had led a pretty simple and blameless life. So why did I have to sit in an awkward room, looking at the floor, and tell some man I've never met everything? And why did he get to say, "It's ok, my child - you are absolved. But here are 23748 prayers you have to say to make it better"? I decided then and there that I did not need someone else to speak to God for me or to give me punishment for my wrongdoings - I'm a glutton for self-punishment anyway. Also, if God had a problem with what I was doing, He would probably smite me where I stood. With that, I got up from the cacti and never looked back, spiritually speaking. I took my soul into my own hands and stopped going to church. A few months later, I made my Confirmation with what the church thought was a purified soul. My mom was happy. I had to wear a gown that made me look like something out of the KKK, but that is church for you. Now, I really don't second-guess what I do - if it feels good, then it must be ok. A pretty primitive outlook for most people, but it works for me. I probably won't be starting a religion any time soon, though.

Now a days, I go to church about twice a year: once on Christmas and once on Easter. Maybe a few times in between, but really, I try and limit my exposure. Which is why the urge to go to Confession was a strange one. Maybe it's like being pregnant and wanting peanut butter and pickles at the same time. I'm not going to act on this need to spill my innermost secrets, mostly because it will be a waste of time and I won't feel any better. So I'll just wake up tomorrow with a dish-water dirty soul (figuratively speaking), go to church, eat a lot of Peeps, and contemplate just why I'm even celebrating a Savior I don't think did much, except be a cool dude with a beard.

Please, Mr. Postman

Lately, I've been writing a lot of letters. I've sent a few to Christopher, a few to Nick, and I'm working on one for Hillary right now. It's not a long list but letters take awhile (at least for me they do). Overall, I find that letter writing is not only an excellent time waster that involves no electricity or computers whatsoever, it's also highly romanticized.

I dig that.

Sometimes, when I'm writing a letter, I'll light a candle and pretend to be in some Jane Austen novel (even though I hate Jane Austen and, on the whole, prefer Emily Bronte if I'm going to have to pick a chick-lit author). I also like letter writing because it lets me gets my thoughts in order. I'm a such a conversation spaz in general. This is probably because I'm really awkward in social situations and that carries over into my conversation, which is full of random topics and stupid jokes no one gets. Thank GOD that on paper, I come off as slightly educated. And maybe even - dare I say it? - interesting. I'm going to attribute this to the fact that letter writing lets me sit and figure out what I want to say before I say it. It totally eliminates any possibility of my frequent foot-in-mouth episodes. That's probably something I should take up in real life, but that would take a long time and I would be even more quiet than I normally am (which isn't a good thing). I also just think letter writing is more personal than emails or Facebook, which I've decided are soul suckers. I don't respond to emails because I don't want to and I'm trying to get off Facebook more, but that's easier said than done. I need, like, a 12-step program or something for that. But I digress. Letters, like film photography for me or writing poetry in my notebook, is something that we're losing touch with the more technology takes over. It makes everything so much easier and accessible, which isn't always a good thing. We're losing the face time we would normally have thanks to FB chat and Skype (although I'm thankful for that when I want to talk to Flat 3). Conversations become merely text to be over-analyzed or over-simplified with "OMG"s and the like. On the whole, when things are easier, a lot of the fun and originality in the world disappears. Kind of related side-note but mostly because it's cool, check this out:


Now, I don't know about you but I don't want a brain implant! I don't even want an iPhone. They are just trying to fast-track life while I want to slow it down, savor it. Ideally, I would want to do things the old-fashioned way for as long as I can. I used to think I wasn't a romantic because I hated the idea of getting flowers or chocolate or being cliched, but now I realize romantic can mean other things. For me, it's developing my own film instead of using a $700 SLR or writing letters to people I miss dearly. Think about it: the process takes time that would otherwise be spent online. And it lets you think. You're doing something much more worthwhile when you're writing a letter. It's a very selfless thing, I think, because you're taking time out of your schedule to write to someone. Also, it's just more rewarding. Afterwards, you sit and think, "I wrote that," or, "I printed that picture. And developed that film..." It's completely satisfying in a way I haven't found in anything else. I think everyone should try writing letters.


Now, if only they would write BACK, then you're set. There is nothing better than receiving mail.