Noble Truths

My dog sleeps at my feet, curled around like a black and white coquina shell. What is it like to be her? What goes on in that little wee head of hers?

We say His Holiness the Dalai Lama this past weekend. He gave a teaching in Long Beach, the Four Noble Truths. Suffering and the cessation of suffering. The Facts of Life. Every sentient being suffers, and every sentient being wants to avoid suffering. All people, all animals, all insect. Like our little dog. She wants to much to be happy, I can tell. Wants to play, run, roll in the grass, eat everything in site. Wants to be around us, with us, held by us, talked to by us. Not much different than a lot of people. Like me. I just want to play and roll around and also eat everything in site. I want to be my own person, but I want to be liked and loved by other people as well.

It's hard seeing His Holiness. The first day I felt like shit. Not physically, but mentally. I walked out of the afternoon session feeling anger, frustration, and thinking my pissed-off thoughts at all the pissy people who constantly piss me off, and all this while I'm trying to learn to be self-less and compassionate in front of a great lama. Supposed to put myself in other people's shoes. Supposed to see everyone as my mother, my sister, my father, my son.

I wanted to give my next day tickets away because I figured someone else would make better use of them than I would.

I felt so angry, so annoyed, so ultimately irritated at everyone in my life. Not everyone. Just some people. How can I love someone when that person hurts me so much? His Holiness says that we must separate the action from the actor. The actor always deserves love and compassion, but it's okay to be angry at the action. But what if the actions are so painful? So painful that somebody like me can't see past it? Is it better to go or stay? Are these the things I'm supposed to be thinking?

And then the next day, I did feel a little bit better. A little more open, confident, clear-eyed towards the people around me. But then the irritation began to percolate. To bubble and boil until by the afternoon I was the embodiment of irritation. I was the definition of irritable.

I hate this food thing. I hate this need to eat and desire to eat, and wanting to not eat yet wanting to eat everything, and having the whole act of eating surpassing the power it really doesn't deserve because it's just food and eating and I'm lucky to have the food to eat, yet I hate it when others exhibit the same behaviors I do but they can get away with it because they just can and I have to eat to be healthy and isn't that a better thing? But somehow it pisses me off and I almost feel like I have no power and control and am forced to take care of myself while others don't, and doesn't that make for some sort of twisted sense? Shouldn't I be compassionate towards people like her who eat barely nothing at lunch and exclaim how good it was because she didn't have breakfast and she's thin as a rail but drinks a whole hell of a lot, and is beautiful, successful, and I'm me, the awkward insecure four-eyed asian girl who picks her face, has no true career, and has to eat everything on her plate because she's an overall pig, and spends her time obsessing and getting pissed about this when I should be grateful that I just came out of a wonderful opportunity to listen to one of the greatest lamas teach and all I can think about is how much food I ate and how fat I am and how jealous I feel towards her and angry at him and overall confused about what purpose I'm heading towards and what a waste of air I am and I am not satisfied by anything in life which is all my fault.

Sigh. and my dog just sighed too.

I'm going to go pet her now. And give her the love she deserves.

Overreacting?

Yes, I am frustrated. It's hard being a partner with your partner. And it's hard being human and having to harbor feelings of jealousy, inadequacy, insecurity, and having to justify it by throwing blame and constantly being defensive.

I'm not a bad writer. I wish I were a good writer. Maybe I am, I just personally don't believe it. I'm married to my writing partner, for our business that is. And he's a good writer, a very good writer. He may not know it at times, but other people who read his stuff knows he is, as do I.

I don't write stuff. Even though I want to. That's why I write on this blog. Because it gives me something to write, to vent, to explode. All about how I can't write.

Anyways. It's hard when someone says your writing is "almost there" or still "needs some work" or "well, it's still the first draft." I get this, I know that this is the writing process. But it feels different when we're writing for a client and I have done work that isn't asked to be rewritten because they like it on the first go ahead, unlike what's happened to previous mentioned partner (insert snarky look here), yet still there's the idea that my stuff is on the first go around and needs approval by him. This has never been stated. No one has said this at all. But it feels this way to me. Is it overreaction? Extreme defensiveness? Ultimate insecurity? Yes, I know, it's all of the above. But how do I get rid of this frustration without laying blame, accusing, thinking mean little evil thoughts about other people, and wanting to quit. I'd rather move on. But I can't, otherwise I wouldn't be ranting about this.

I am a good writer. I have to believe this, even if it isn't true. How else can I get myself to write if I think the words that come from my pen, pencil, and keyboard are loads of unreadable crap. So I have to fake it until I make it. But how can I do this without being defensive. With still maintaining my confidence, and not letting my security be bruised. Am I overreacting?

I just want to be good.

Rejoice and Regret

We're supposed to let go of grudges. But how do I do that if they stain?

I'm the worst at laundry. I only started separating colors when I got married, only because there were more clothes so it made logical sense when dividing piles. Delicates? That's just a state of mind. Handwash? My ass. I'd only discover a stain after I washed a shirt and by then it was too late. I mean, I'd still try to wear it, maybe it didn't look too bad, no one would notice. But then I'd look in the mirror and it was like I had been eating grease for lunch and it all dripped down my front. How could I get rid of it? Perish the thought of actually throwing the shirt away. Because god damnit I liked the shirt, liked the cut, how would I ever find another shirt just like it, that felt the same, fit the same, made me feel the way I did, and now there's a nasty locked-in stain and how do I let go?

Story of my life.

Listening to Pema Chodron, she says regret is not the same as guilt. I get it. But I have a hard time actually absorbing that into my brain so that it will actually function that way. I can't even remember the last time I regretted something. Guilt, on the other hand, when have I not felt guilty. Do I actually believe that it will be possible for me to regret all the food I ate but not feel guilty? It almost seems impossible. I don't know what it would feel like. I imagine it would be like a thought that's concrete, no ifs ands or buts. It would sit in my head, clear, concise, and straightforward. I would acknowledge it the way I'd acknowledge a stop sign when driving. I would pause. Be present, pay attention to my surrounds, exist in the moment, heed the circumstances, and then move on.

My god, how many times have I ran a stop sign or didn't even notice it at all?

I'm getting better at rejoicing in my past. Seeing where I've come from and who I am now. And I've gotten better at not regressing to the past or combing over it and imagining "what if" scenarios. I'm not so tied down to praying for a rewind and recording over it with new decisions, new events. I'm also getting better at not praying to hit the stop button and throwing the whole tape in the trash, since we're on the subject.

It's hard to forgive. I don't expect to forget, but the forgiving...ouch. That's hard.

I'm supposed to be working on Hulk right now. Supposed to be, what does that mean? I'm supposed to be doing a lot of things.

It's hard to think right now, about words that sound right, about words that will be read, judged, understood or misunderstood. They're just words, I know. Little letters, symbols, sounds from the tongue and throat. But oh god, they hurt sometimes. To say and hear.

Words. They're just words.

Distracting the Distractions

Here I am again. Stuck in a mind rut that isn't necessarily a mind hole, or brain bump, but rather the treadmill of laziness. I'm doing, things and stuff, googling and "research." Moving moving moving, but not getting anywhere. Basically because I don't feel like it. Don't feel like trying. I'm being lazy. I'm about to say that I am lazy, but then I'll convince myself that that's who I am so it's probably best not to do that. I'm good at convincing myself that I'm bad things. Worthless, boring, not-smart-enough, too shy, too loud, incapable, uptight, too soft. Might as well throw lazy in there, but then it might just be pushing the mean button too far. You think?

This is off topic. Not that there really was a topic. But I'm into bento-making. Granted, I haven't made a bento box, meal, lunch or dinner. But I like the idea of it. I'm ordering some bento bags from a certificate my sister gave me for my birthday. Yes, I'm 32, I'm glad you asked. Anyways. One has a little pig on it, and the other one has a monkey on it. Yes, that's right, I'm 32. I like pigs and monkeys and cute little bags that just may sound like they should be for a grade-school kid. What can I say. I already said it.

There's something about the creation of food as a visual that also complements the palate. I like that kind of synchronization. I used to think of it in the same way as I thought of film-making. Blending writing and photography together to create an entire new piece of art. 'Course, now that I've studied film production, it's a whole lot more than that, I realize. But drained down to the essence, it's a melding of the visual and the aural. Just like bento-making is a mixture of visual, smell and taste pleasures. Never thought that film-making and bento-making were so similar, huh? Yeah, that's what happens when I waste the time I have on my hands. Create similarities for unsimilars. And look, I also made a new word!

I should stop this and get to work now. Shouldn't I?

What?

So what exactly am I looking for? I hate the internet and love it. It's sucks my attention like a drain that's been cleared of muck and wants to clog its pipes again with my brain cells.

I always have an agenda to start off with, the standard email and hey, what's going on with that person's blog, and oh, I wanted to look up a recipe for Vietnamese sandwiches.

But then I'm reading about the best and worst pizzas in the nation, not based on flavor, but caloric and sodium content. Obviously, the more of each, the worst the pizza. Anyways, exactly! Off on tangents and information which truly isn't necessary for my already wee-sized brain space. Then I'm googling stuff about dogs, I love our dog, but it can border on an obsession for information. And hey, what about that Doghouse wine we had this summer. Well now I know the places to buy it because I went to their website, watched the cute little flash video and searched for stores nearby me that sell it. Informative, but essentially useless.

I guess that's a judgement, but time ticks and tocks away again. Not really, but in my head mentally, and another sunset lays down on our tiny condo neighborhood and what exactly have I accomplished and learned?

-I had no new emails except for a coupon for Borders.

-Everyone else on their blogs seem to be having a very exciting life, they must be or why else would I read about what they had for lunch and how long they exercised at the gym for?

-I already had a recipe for Vietnamese sandwiches, I just felt like one wasn't enough, but now I know that one is.

-Other people are obsessed about their dogs as much as me, they even refer to them as their children.

-The next time I'm driving on Alicia, I can look for a liquor store that sells Doghouse wine, because that's what I need in my life, more alcohol.

Phew, thank god for the Internet. Otherwise I'd be doing something else with my time, like paying attention to the physical world I'm in, reading a book, or God forbid, communicate with someone using my own voice.

Oh well, see you on the internet again tomorrow.