Before all the Matrix Reloaded hoopla dies down, I thought it might be a good time to post the pictures of my Trinity costume that I wore this past Halloween. This was a costume that I threw together in one day, since I decided to last minute dress up for work.



Click on the pictures for larger versions. My mom took these photos of yours truly. I'm sure it was a very proud moment for her.

It's always fun to assume someone else's personality for a day, especially an extreme character like Trinity. Even though everyone knows you are in a costume, and YOU know it's a costume, you are treated differently, FEEL differently, and that can affect how you act. That day, I was more confident and "in your face" than normal, and because of my appearance it was completely accepted. Though I like myself, I had fun inside Trinity's skin. I imagine that Carrie-Anne Moss, the woman who played her in the movie, did as well.

That's why I envy actors. Not for their celebrity, but because they get to explore so many versions of the human being both from the inside and outside with no severe risk to themselves or the ones they love. To dive inside another person's head or go to another time and give their own a rest.

To let go.

It's why I enjoy writing fiction so much, when that hole in the monitor appears and you're looking at the world through someone else's eyes. It's also why I enjoyed the book, The Parker Grey Show that I mentioned a few posts back. Aside from being a fun, engaging read, it goes deeper and explores that desire to take flight from ourselves during times when our own skin feels fallible. To pull strength from characters that seem so much larger to us than life and better suited to handle challenges that seem too much to bear for the regular life size reality of ourselves. Not to mention, they get a cool soundtrack and great lighting as they perform their deeds.

In reality, like me inside the Trinity costume, we're still pulling on our own strength, but at times disguising it from ourselves as coming from somewhere else seems to make it that much more accessible.

The book comes out July 1st, so go to your nearest book store or to amazon.com or barnesandnoble.com and buy The Parker Grey Show.

Do it, or I'll don my pleather and kick your ass.

Contentment.

I don't know why it's come all of a sudden, but I'm happy that it's arrived and I've welcomed it with a firm handshake.

Currently, I have no outside stimulation on to try to divert my attention away, no TV, Radio, CD's. Just me in my soft Old Navy T-shirt sitting with my legs crossed on my computer chair. My quiet apartment a comfort to the quietness I'm feeling inside.

Tonight, my own company is an ally, not an adversary. I feel like I've been moving more in that direction, and it's good when it hits.

So good. So I'm going to go enjoy it.

And memorize what it feels like.

I actually had a decent time at work tonight.

Yes, this is the same blog. Not a hoax. It's real. I'm cracking up, because my last post completely contradicts that. However, there is a word that is very important in that first sentence.

Tonight.

I haven't worked a close since November. Almost eight months. I'd forgotten the difference in the day and night people, and the quickness in which it passes.

Most of the people that I deal with during the day most likely do not have jobs or are retired. Stay at home moms, unemployed, people passing through, welfare recipients, and those on disability. And there is a world of difference. Most of them, that is. We get a few professional people at lunch hour, but not many, and they are rushed.

And despite my last post, I came into work with a good attitude. Perhaps it was the change in routine, or that I'd blown off steam, but I was feeling good when I walked in. The night customers are a completely different species, and it was good to see that. I NEEDED to see that, not because I plan to stay in retail, but because I needed hope. And I needed it today from other people. That sounds strange, as we are all responsible for our own happiness, but tonight I needed a little outside help with it. A leg up, so to say.

And it came from the least expected place. I love it when that happens.

I have to admit, I was worried about tonight. It was Friday the 13th and the first close that I've worked in almost eight months, and only the second as head cashier. It didn't help when the local homeless guy came into cafe with a baseball bat and set it on the table. Security kept an eye on him.

Things went well though, and I stayed in good spirits. I made a lot of the customers laugh, and that felt good to know that I was still capable of being funny. It also makes me feel good when I can send someone else off better than they came in. And also, to be received positively.

I have a hard time doing that with the day people. I think because I'm just trying to get through it the best that I can, so any extra energy I reserve for myself.

Also, and I just can't deny it anymore, but I'm a night person. My energy kicks in at about 4pm, and peaks from 6:00PM to midnight. So, perhaps working days in a non-professional job is a lose lose situation and I finally cracked. The customers are horrible, and I'm horrible (though I'm much better at hiding it than they are.) It was a time bomb on my part waiting to go off. And I blew yesterday. Hell, I've been boiling over this whole week.

And, it's recorded here. I think I'm going to leave that post up there, because that anger and in some ways despair, is part of the process. It happened, and it came from me.

Thank you to all who emailed me with your wonderful encouragement and stories of your own frustrations from similar situations. I will not stop blogging, even when it is painful to do so. It's easy to want to quit when the chips are down, the temptation to disappear is overwhelming. The important thing, is to not let the haze obscure you from view, but to walk through it and emerge on the other side. No matter how thick the haze gets, or how far you have to walk, to keep walking.

Even if you have to crawl.

I asked the manager to transfer from the store where I work today.

Who knows whether I'll get it, but it's high-time I get out of there. Even though I'm looking for another non-retail job, it will get me out of that horrible place in the meantime. Not just because of the situation with the potentially creepy coworker, but I'm getting to the point where being there is turning me into a mean person. The one thing I am, is fallible to my surroundings. And they have gotten the better of me. I put up a good fight, I tried to look at things positively, or deny they were as bad as they were, but my shield has broken and I am dangerously exposed. I haven't felt this kind of anger since growing up in Topeka, that ripe, teenage anger that doesn't have an outlet, so you take it out wherever you can. The artsy kid growing up in a town that didn't welcome difference, God, I can't believe I'm even talking about it as if it was yesterday, but here I am. She wasn't as far away as I thought she was, and boy was she ready to surface again. While I admire her passion, I don't really want her leading my trek. She can be reckless.

Because I've stayed at this particular store way too long, I am venting in ways and at people that I might not normally do. Not only that, the clientele has really soured me on Baltimore.

I'll be honest, and say that I hate them.

I really hate them. I was talking to my therapist yesterday and said that my day is filled with mean thoughts. Almost every person that I see spurs one. Because, and I'll say it, the Jerry Springer white trash that makes up the majority of the customers are my only stimulation when I'm at work. I can take minimal amounts of anything, but when almost every person that you deal with on a daily basis is belligerent white trash, my defenses kick in. And those defenses, are mean thoughts. My wall, that protects me from that ugliness, at the same time locks it in.

When I came here, I didn't expect Los Angeles. And yes, in some ways that is good. I've been able to write a lot more, to get back into painting, and be close to family. However, I didn't expect Deliverance, either. There is a cloud of cynicism that is starting to envelope me and cause my brow to remain in a furrowed state. I've even noticed a tiny horizontal wrinkle that is forming between my eyebrows. It has taken a long time to get to that state, but I've crashed, and now I have to figure out how to climb my way out of this hole. And the first step, is to get out of what I feel is major a catalyst for this irritated state.

The store.

As I've said before, I thought a bookstore would be a good place where interesting people would congregate. In California, it was. My coworkers were wonderful as well. Savvy, interested in things, and so many I learned suffered from depression or panic attacks. However, they were lively, funny, intelligent, and proof that you could be so with this disease. Everyone had things going on or projects they were working on.

However, instead of furthering that quest, I've ended up in a fucking nightmare. I have dreams all the time that I'm back in Los Angeles and going to my old haunts, seeing smiling faces instead of angry ones, only to wake up here with nowhere to go.

The store where I work is probably one of the worst Barnes and Noble clientele that exists in the country, and I'm not kidding. Perhaps this was a necessary part of the journey, to end up among white trash wasteland and get a lesson in how good I have it and the advantages that I've had. To know that I've lived one damn interesting life and experienced a ton of things most will only dream of because I dared to. I've always known that, but sometimes you have to get a glass of cold water thrown in your face to realize it emotionally.

My entries have changed dramatically since I've started this journal, from ones of hope and strength while enduring depression, to that of an angry individual. And yeah, I'm angry right now. As far as the store goes, I'm angry at the customers for not being smarter, or funnier, or more lively, and yes, better looking and not morbidly obese. I'm angry at my coworkers when they don't get my pop culture references or when they aren't more worldly or ambitious. I'm pissed off that I've exposed myself to some whom will go unmentioned. When they talk about the video games that they play at home or say they have never been to New York City when it is only a two and a half hour drive away. At every customer who has to ask if we take credit cards, or who scratches my hand with their long yellow fungus infected nails as they take money from me, who can't construct a proper sentence, who only buys romance novels or bargain books and then wants, no demands, a discount. For every person who tells me proudly that they don't read. The loud clothes, loud mouths, loud lipsticks, the men who have bigger breasts than their wives or whose stomachs hang out from under their T-shirts. The entitlement, the gimme this, gimme that, their hatred of those who have succeeded. Their deadpan glares as they wait in line, then stepping up and slamming their Dr. Atkins diet books and romance novels on the counter and exhaling a long sigh, souring my air space with their sour breath. The slobs, oh the slobs. So many people with food stains on their shirts, dirt under their nails, holes in their shirts, greasy hair, and a funk that follows them around. The tacky press on nails painted with racing stripe designs and the kitsch shirts. The cow with a home bleach job who tried to butt in line and smacked her gum at the counter beside me in hope that I'd notice her as her son, who hadn't fallen far from the tree, tried to maneuver between two women who were in line. The absolute freaks. The many people who don't get how the world works, that the price is right in front of them on the book and that no, it doesn't include the tax. The ignorance, and lack of class. The ignorant comments. The people that use us as a library, returning books that they've read to buy new ones. The lies I get told on a daily basis from scammers. The anger. The poison. Their lack of enthusiasm about life, complacent ignorance, and their bitterness that has manifested into their physical ugliness. The way I see them treat my coworkers as if they've come in the store looking for a fight. It's all pressing me down and I've run out of air. I'm suffocating. I see nothing but hate when I look at them. I've somehow ended up back in Topeka, KS.

But somehow I still manage to smile at these jerks. Though that is becoming harder. My cheeks shake at the sheer effort it takes.

So I'm getting out.

I hope I am not beyond repair. I've even thought of quitting this blog, because I can't believe this is my world right now. That this is what comes out of me who has experienced so many great things and can write about so much more than this puny, freakish sideshow that managed to envelope me in it's greedy, unrelenting fist.

I've been in the process of Klimting myself the last few days.

And what the hell is that? It's turning one of my self-portraits into a Klimt-ish looking piece. I'm doing it as an experiment, one that has gone very well in the exploration of my artistic voice.

When I was in middle school, I won a national award from Scholastic for an ink pattern drawing that I did in one of my art classes. It consisted of a grid, three different patterns within three shapes, and alternating the patterns that filled those shapes by three. It's the best that I can do to explain it. My art teacher liked it and entered it into the Scholastic yearly art competition. I got a letter a couple of months later with a pin, and brought it to him. I had no idea what it meant, or the Gold Key pin that was sent with it.

Mr. Balda, our cute young art teacher who rode a Harley Davidson to work, held the letter and read it. "Holy smokes," he said, "This is big." I'd won the competition in my age group from a national entry base. It was one of the first times that I remember feeling extraordinarily proud of an accomplishment. I had not set out to win this award. I had not practiced for years to reach this point. I was simply doing the assignment, and this was the result. It had come completely naturally, almost innocently from inside of me. It made me feel like a superhero who had just discovered she had a special power that could open a whole new world. And, winning this award did exactly that. It set me on an artistic path that would lead to me being accepted at one of the top art schools in the country, Parsons School of Design. Finally, I had something in a school environment that I felt not only confident in, but excited about. I also had an identity. The artist. And that artist would go on to win more awards.

And that's where this idea came about. I've been a fan of Klimt's work for a very long time, and since the pattern seems to be a form of expression that I do well with, I decided to give it a go. And that's when something wonderful happened. I was really able to let go with this, and let my brush guide me as I used a different part of my brain to paint. The part that isn't afraid to be a bull in a China shop and just go. In my art classes, I was a very slow painter. Not as slow as some of the students who were just learning, but slow and cautious with my brush strokes. As each class came to a close, I'd have to rush to finish the class exercise. Always, that was when my best work would surface. Because at that point, time was limited and the goal was to get as much on the canvas as possible, which loosened the constraints I was putting on myself.

Doing this assignment that I have given myself, I feel like Forest Gump when he ran from the bully and those leg braces came off, allowing him to sprint his way into a life of wonder and discovery. In my case, I was my own bully, telling myself that I had to be cautious, to not act out of line, and that art was supposed to be an arduous process if I REALLY wanted to be good.

That is just not true.

I've learned the same lessons with this blog, and having it gain such a wide exposure. I used to worry so much with my writing, that I be careful to not offend anyone. This is my journal, and as with a journal, it comes from the heart. It started out as a cathartic side project, and has now gained international exposure. I have gotten tremendous feedback from people that once again, made me feel like that twelve-year-old who innocently brought that letter to her cute art teacher. "Holy smokes," the feedback has been, and once again I have been made to feel that I possess something special. Not only that, it has taught me that from the few letters that I've gotten where what I've said has truly pissed some people off, that I can not only take their criticism, but be completely content with the fact that I don't have to please everyone. And that has once again, freed me to be what I am, to write what I feel, and if what I have to say on a particular day gets a couple of people's knickers in a knot, then so be it. It's as real as it gets, and I'm not afraid of being real. And that includes all sides of being real. The good, the bad, the ugly, depending on who is reading it.

And Holy smokes, I never knew that I had that in me.

Pop!

Pop...pop...pop!

Silence...silence...

Silence.

Sirens...SIRENS...sirens.

And that's the sequence. It's the second set of gunfire I've heard the last two days. One last night, and the ones that I just heard tonight. The nights are warmer, and the drug dealers are out battling for turf. Baltimore is a city of pockets. A good area can be right next to a bad area, and there is no gradual decline. You can have $600,000 rowhouse mansions on one street, and boarded up vacant houses on the next that serve as crack dens. Baltimore city has a huge crack problem, most recently detailed in last year's HBO original series, The Wire.

The sirens are really wailing right now. They sound like a pack of coyotes. Must have been a bad shooting.

For the most part, the violence doesn't cross over into my neighborhood. We have some overflow problems, such as car and house break-ins and robberies, but rarely does the gunfire make its way here except for in sound. I would not take a walk around at midnight, but I've never felt unsafe here. It is however, unnerving to be reminded that someone out there thinks that shooting someone is a sensible resolution. Or, has been forced into a situation that offered no other way out. Last night I laid in my bed, and heard it. Pop. Pop. Silence.....silence. Sirens.

Stop, hey, what's that sound? Everybody look what's goin' down ...

There seems to be a particularly bad drug war going on between two gangs right now. Last week, there were two drive-by shootings in the same day, followed by a few more shootings. I do not know if the one last night or the one that I just heard tonight is part of that, but I wouldn't be surprised.

I've driven around those neighborhoods, looking at the inhabitants who lack hope. And who can blame them, living in those conditions, feeling like the invisible majority? The neighborhoods look like cell blocks. Tiny unairconditioned rowhouses with cramped apartments inside. People literally living on top of each other. The ones that I hurt most for are the kids. They are so innocent and like the Dawson family, are the ones who suffer the most. The Dawson's were a family of seven who perished when a drug dealer set fire to their rowhome last year. Five kids, the mother and father all died when their house was firebombed. And for what? Because the mother spoke out against the drug dealers and wanted a safe place for her kids to grow up. Because of that, a scumbag drug dealer sentenced the family to death.

I have a link to another blog called rebuilding Madison Avenue. It's another person taking a stand, and I get frustrated because it seems like Baltimore is working against him to clean up his block. Here's someone who cares, and most people would have given up by now. You can read about his struggles and triumphs here, and you will certainly be shaking your head at what seems like the unwillingness of the Baltimore city government to fight the good fight alongside him. Not only that, but to aggressively prosecute the drug dealers and let the people who want to fix up the vacant housing buy them from the city instead of keeping them empty for years.

Man, just as I typed the last paragraph, six more shots rang out. Four just followed that.

Now it's the silence.

And soon, the sirens will follow.