Measuring success

The following video was posted all over facebook yesterday because I happen to know both of the talented little kiddos (and I only say little because they were freshman and sophomores when I really knew them in high school) who created this film...

http://vimeo.com/29384939

Apparently, it won them the opportunity to go to Hollywood, as well as to the Cannes Film Festival in France. It is definitely a big deal, and quite an honor, and I am quite excited for them.

That. Having. Been. Said... it got me thinking lately about my own life, and wondering what I have really accomplished since graduating high school. Sure I went to Ireland...for a class. Not to France...to be globally recognized for my talents. This has just come as a reality check for me to realize how the paths we each take in our lives can go so many different ways, all truly depending on what WE do with them.

I suppose this comes at a not-so-great point in my path...only because I feel so static and stir-crazy, not because it won't ultimately become a good thing...so it's difficult to see some youngin's fresh out of high school already proving themselves worthy of the world. Questions creep up through some of the stress cracks, like "What should I really be doing in my life? Did I choose incorrectly? Will none of this get recognized? Why am I caring so much? Shouldn't I just be happy!? UGH"

You get the idea.

So at this point is when I slow the hell down and remember what I love about my life, and how this path is going to lead me to where I want to be, and how I need to be (and am!) grateful of all I got.
But it helps to make a physical list:

I have a goddamn roof over my goddamn head.
I live in a society where I am allowed to say goddamn a lot. Though I shouldn't and needn't.
I have a family that, no matter how crazy they can get, will always support me no matter how many tattoos I get. (For the record, I already got away with one. For the most part.)
Although I may not be able to afford to go to any college I desire, I do have some source of money to pay for it that isn't my own pocket.
I have the most wonderful, loving, and thoughtful boyfriend who LITERALLY keeps me sane. I pray he stays around for awhile since I don't know exactly how well I could function in the world without his ears to rant to and his big manly shoulders to hug me, ground me, and catch a few tears.
I have food readily available, unlimited water to drink, and hip and trendy clothes to wear.

I'm gonna figure it all out. But not now! I'm 20 years old for crying out loud. Most people never figure it all out, and the ones that do (or say they do) are probably trying to keep it together.
Moral of this story rant is... Shut up. Be happy. Figure it out as you go along. Everything is going to be fine.

An attempt to write about love.

Love seems like such a simple word for such a complex matter.
Love is four letters, one syllable, and takes only a few muscles to say. And yet it is far more complicated to express.

We met in high school, although we'd known each other awhile before then. And I had no idea.
No conceivable notion of how much you'd change me...
And let me stop right there for a moment to talk about what I really mean by "change." Even writing this I feel like a cliché, like there are so many more unique and interesting ways of expressing how you have affected me. But even saying that "you have changed me," cliché or not, is a huge example of how much it is true.
I grew up thinking love was eating food even when you didn't want to or you were bloated from thirds, because otherwise you would hurt your father's feelings.
I thought love was making sure everyone else was happy and didn't think poorly of me, because otherwise I would feel like a failure and nobody would love me.
My first boyfriend said "I love you" after two weeks and I knew immediately he didn't mean it and never would.
I saw my father date a few women and finally marry one who could deal with his anger issues, family dynamics, four almost-estranged children, and almost compete with his drinking.
Finally, I watched my mother fall in love with a man who showered her with useless gifts and food and songs and a look I would be a fool to try to describe.

So when it was my turn to fall in love, I was terrified. I didn't want to screw it up. I wanted everything to be perfect, and I wanted to make sure you were happy. But then I realized...that's not what love is. At least that's not how it works. Not for us.

You told me you loved me first, and I actually believed you. But I held off saying it back because I wanted you to believe me. I kissed you hard and sputtered something about not being quite ready.
When I finally did tell you, you kissed me and I knew you believed me. Since then, I can't say it enough, and I mean it every single time. Cliché, I know, and I love it. See? I'm a natural.

Love seems to creep up and infect you, like a disease from a little kid who brings it home from school one day. There's no way to truly avoid it, though you can take some time to really try, taking vitamins and drinking fluids...shutting down your walls and fearing commitment. It creeps in and eats you from the inside out, and once it gets going, you start feeding it...with "I love you"s, kisses, looking at each other for no reason than to look at each other, talking about songs that remind you of one another...it all seems to subsume you until you look back and realize there is absolutely no turning back. You realize that you will either make it forever, or someday you'll be sitting, staring at your heart which lies in a murky puddle on the ground, trying not to listen to those songs you once talked about.
Love is terrifying.

But on those nights when you've had a little alcohol and you've bottled up a few million stresses, and they all come bursting out like a Pandora's box of tears and snot and words, love is there. Love is holding you, wrapped around you, supporting you when you feel like the ground beneath you has vanished, and for a moment you can't possibly imagine how anything could be wrong if you have this wonderful warmth with you, always. I mean, it must be love that puts up with the puffy eyes and snot running down your face and your lips trying to form words and ideas but in actuality making no sense at all, right?

And, after living almost 20 years not thinking about love and soulmates, in fact mostly poo-pooing it all, it's an almost devastating phenomenon to realize that you are actually starting to believe in the stuff.
I bring up the idea of a soulmate, only because of the things that have happened to us, since love...
The frequent psychic moments, saying things at the same time, responding, not to your words, but to your thoughts, getting sick at the same time when 3,000 miles away, and feeling achy and empty when I leave you for any period of time. This could be coincidence, this could be what some people would just call "two crazy kids in love," but to me, it seems like just slightly more. It feel there is a fragment of my own psyche hidden inside of you, tucked somewhere beneath your organs and your emotions. And sometimes I feel that piece of me drawing me in, connecting with a piece of yourself which lies somewhere festering inside of my organs and emotions. But it centers me all the same.
This may be a really crude and graphic image of what I think a soul is, but love is not cartoon hearts and chirping birds. Love is a disease that we give ourselves. A sickness that consumes our day, our months, sometimes it lasts for years...if we're lucky.

But I don't want to talk to you about sharing a disease. And I couldn't possibly say all of this every moment I look into your eyes for no reason, or every time I hear a song that reminds me of you...
So I simply say, "I love you."

Happy Fall.

She plunged the knife into the skin, pushing the blade as far as it would go, her hand straining at the resistance she felt from the thick layer of orange flesh. The tip of the knife reached the hollow cavity and she began pulling the knife, back and forth, cutting further into the smooth skin. She continued until she reached her starting point, where she pulled the knife up and placed it on the newspaper beside her. She reached for the hazel, gnarled handle and pulled upwards, each layer of skin and flesh gradually seeming lighter and lighter, ending in viscous strands of orange fibers and teardrop seeds hanging from her specimen.
She reached inside and smiled.
The soggy hairs squished wonderfully beneath her palm and squeezed through her fingers. She pulled out the stringy mass and dropped it in a brown paper bag that sat waiting on the table, clean and empty for the last time. Her hand dived in again, and again, each time pulling out cold clumps of orange meat and dropping it inside the bag. She paused for a moment, only to grab a spoon, before she continued...plummeting its rounded edges towards the crisp tissue, which she began to scrape upwards and continue dumping in the paper bag. She paid particular attention to the very bottom center, where she had carved a shallow, round space...a place to hold a small, cylindrical object.
Finally, after placing the spoon gently on the newspaper-clad table, her laborious job was done. She took a black pen, traced shapes along the rounded, deep orange columns of skin...triangles, half-moon shapes, one large "O" towards the bottom. She put down the pen, stood back, and scrutinized her artwork. Perfect.
She picked up her knife, turned it at an angle, and plunged it once more towards the depths within.