Thursday, October 09, 2014
Friday, September 19, 2014
Thursday, August 14, 2014
Suddenly, an old man appeared at the front of the crowd and said, "Your heart isn't as beautiful as mine." earning a gasp from the crowd. The young man along with the crowd looked at the old man's heart. It was beating strongly, but full of scars. It had places where pieces had been removed and other pieces put in, but they didn't fit quite right and there were several jagged edges. Some places even had deep gouges where pieces were missing entirely. The people stared with disbelief. "How can he say his heart is more beautiful?" they wondered.
The young man looked at the old man's heart, saw its state, and laughed. "You must be joking," he said. "Compare your heart with mine. Mine is perfect while yours is a mess!"
"Yes," said the old man, "yours is perfect looking but I would never trade with you. You see, every scar on my heart represents a person to whom I have given my love - I tear out a piece of my heart and give it to them. Often they give me a piece of their heart which fits into the empty place in my heart, but because the pieces aren't exact I have some rough edges, which I cherish, because they remind me of the love we shared."
The younger Man stood. Now motionless.
The crowd's silence was deafening.
"You see Son, the old Man humbly continued, giving Love is taking a chance. Although these gouges are painful, they stay open, reminding me of the love I have for those people. I hope someday they might return and fill the space I have waiting. Other times I've given pieces of my heart away and the other person never returned. Those are the empty spots you see. So now do you better understand what true perfection and beauty is?"
The crowd looked to the young Man for a resopnse. They saw he had tears running down his face.
He walked up to the old man, reached into his perfect young and beautiful heart, and ripped a piece out. He offered it to the old man with trembling hands. The old man took his offering, placed it in his heart and then took a piece from his old scarred heart and placed it in the wound in the young man's heart. It fit, but not perfectly.
The young man looked down at his own heart, no longer perfect.
But it was more beautiful than ever.
Posted by Lisa Diaz at 1:00 PM
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Robin Williams killed himself yesterday morning. I can't even *type* it without tearing up. Apparently he strangled/hung himself, whatever... it doesn't matter; he's gone.
Of course I was a big fan, everyone was a big fan. Of his comedy as well as his dramatic work. He was a gem, a true superstar, a genius and one of those guys you'd love to be friends with and invite to your parties. He was a gazillionaire with a wife who by all accounts loved him dearly and a successful career that spanned decades. He struggled and fought Depression, and Addiction, and fought them off successfully sometimes, and not so successfully others.
I feel like Depression always wins. And I feel helpless against its power. If someone who truly does have "everything going for them" can't fight off D, what chance do I have? Me, unemployed, unloved, uncharming, unbeautiful, underweight, impatient, needy, grumpy me... who doesn't make any significant contribution to the world in any way. In fact I'm a burden to my loved ones, and even the government. D's got a really secure foothold on me. What chance do I have?
I keep thinking of the phrase "tears of a clown" and what it means. It used to mean to me a vague reference to something that was so sad or beautiful that it could even move a clown to tears. Now I think of it in terms of identifying myself as a member of a raconteur breed of clown. As such, we don't cry; at least not where anyone can see us. Our tears are the jokes we tell. Our tears are the almost desperate attempts to solicit a laugh out of you. The quick comebacks, the funny one-liners, the sarcastic observations and the strange connections our brain makes that are unexpected and make you chuckle. Our tears are the cocktails we drink too many of so we can overcome the social anxiety we really feel and be considered a good time. Our tears are all of the attempts we make to make ourselves loved and valuable, and make our company coveted; to get ourselves invited to parties, and asked on dates, to make up for the intense and crippling feelings of inadequacy on the inside. And the more successful the clown, the larger the inadequacies loom, because you feel that everyone only loves the clown, the makeup, the mask, the costume and nobody, nobody in the world loves YOU.
Underlined in my life by the fact that everyone I've ever taken the mask of for has then abandoned me.
Its a long line of laughs that have been lost to D, or its offshoot, Addiction. I put them in the same category because the addiction (booze, pills, food, drugs, whatever) is a coping mechanism in a D victim. Its too prevalent to pretend they aren't the same thing. In addition to Robin Williams, we've got Freddie Prinze, Patrice O'Neil, John Candy (yes I know Candy died of a heart attack. I also want to remind you he was 43. Tell me Addiction didn't help him along.), Chris Farley, John Belushi, Mitch Hedberg, Greg Giraldo... okay I can't go on any further. Those are just the ones I can remember right now.
Depression always gets its guy. What chance do I have?
Posted by Lisa Diaz at 12:07 PM
Saturday, August 09, 2014
But I can't.
It would be easier if I could just toss my head and snort and proclaim, "Good riddance!" But that's not how I feel.
It would be easier if I could discard all thoughts of you and file them away as stories to tell to friends in the future. But they're ubiquitous and here and REAL and they're not ready to be shoved aside. And I don't really want to.
Instead I find myself being so proud of you, and what and who you are. I find myself wishing I could have seen your face and been there with you for those moments and I find myself missing your smile so much I can't breathe.
If I hated you I could chalk up one to experience and take that red hot emotion and put it to some practical use. Instead I find myself still belonging to you. If I hated you I could put away your T-shirt, and maybe send you your stuff, or maybe burn it all, instead of stockpile it where I can keep an eye on it, as if someone was going to steal it away from me.
If I hated you I could join in when people want to say mean things about you. I could use my wit to say brutal things & share confidences to make everyone laugh and think less of you. I could do that easily, if I hated you. Instead I tell them that you are wonderful and I was very much in love with you and I won't hear a word against you. I tell them that it is none of their business and I don't need to talk about it with them. I tell them the band is awesome. I tell them you're doing great and they should go check out your shows and find you on facebook.
If I hated you I would be all right with the fact that people you have declared you don't even like get to stay close to you and I don't. No, instead I'm wondering where I went wrong; where I keep going wrong.
Because I don't hate you I find myself missing you. I look at your pillow and remember your soft sleep-breathing and the curve of your back moving in time with it in the moonlight. I think about the smell of your neck and your hair when you held me. I think about making you laugh, and all of the things we did together and the places we went and the people we met. The green of your eyes and how the sunlight catches them just right and makes them look like opals for a split second. Long musician's fingers on hands that are too big for me to hold all at once so I just hold one finger when we hold hands. The way you kissed me like you meant it and called me beautiful like it was my name. I miss our banter and how easy and fun it was to do anything or nothing. These thoughts hurt me but they also console me, because they're beautiful and full of love.
If it were possible for me to hate you, I would. I would hate you, and I would scream and stomp my feet and throw things and call you names and drink too much and fuck strangers and tell everyone how much I FUCKING HATE YOU and it would be a cathartic release and I would recover and move forward.
No, no. I don't hate you. If I hated you, this would be easy.
Posted by Lisa Diaz at 7:39 AM