how the media is like bad nutrition

By christa 16 February, 2006 random

the media is a bunch of soul-sucking demons. one might say they are only talking about what the public wants to hear, but I disagree. it’s kind of like feeding a baby…sure you can give him sugary sweets and soda and candy and he’ll gobble it up, thereby spoiling his tastes for better fare. But if you avoid those things and instead give him healthy choices and offer balanced meals, that’s what he’ll eat, because he doesn’t know any better. He won’t miss what he doesn’t have and he’ll be perfectly happy with it. Most importantly, he won’t be loaded down with all garbage.

Okay, so that isn’t exactly a great analogy, because I wouldn’t say the crap that the media puts out is in any way like candy, as candy is a delicious and tasty treat that I love very much. But you get my idea.

So media of the world, listen up! Give us a choice. Offer us healthy balanced meals and we’ll eat it. Every now and then it’s okay for some fluff, for a bit of pie or maybe some ice cream. As long as we’re getting the nutrition we need on a regular basis.

Information and knowledge is power. The more they fill up our minds with useless crap, the less room there is for the good stuff we need to be strong, and the weaker we become.

By christa 15 February, 2006 best of loafe, vol 1, random

This swamp I’m treading through is because I can’t stop being angry, I can’t stop from saying, “if only” I can’t find forgiveness. I can’t let go. Forever blaming my past, I’m destined to drown in it.

The anger is mine, I own it and I earned it. but it’s burning my tongue and scorching my eyes, leaving me with charred hands and black feet. What I touch, what I taste, what I see, what I feel-all covered in soot.

I don’t want to be this way.

I can move to a hundred different cities and meet a hundred new people, but it won’t solve my puzzles, close any doors or heal the wounds. I will run to escape my unhappiness, but you know the story. I’m too slow and it always catches me.

These words of mine, boy are they stale and brittle; you poor tired, overworked little words. All these years, all this time, all my adventures. Yet still, the same words, the same anger, the same blame. Some things never change.

It is because I can’t let go.

I hoard. Of course you know. Even what I don’t want, what I’ve forgotten, what I should forget. I won’t let any of it go.

It’s lucky with me. I never remember. Except for when I do.

So many memories leaked away, lost; too many memories refusing to go. With me, there is so much uncertainty, so many questions, so much unknown.

I never remember, except for when I do. No superheroes then.

I wrote all this down in my notebook. But private journals aren’t enough anymore. I’m a junkie; I need more, stronger and better, faster and higher.

What is wrong with me that I have this raging need to spread open my metaphorical legs and show the world my secrets? What exactly am I searching for? Validation? Understanding? Sympathy? Disgust? Or maybe I am just that self-involved and narcissistic.

either way, we are all covered in ash. So now what?

ahhh, love.

By christa 14 February, 2006 random

it’s valentine’s day and love abounds. We can all be sick together in the bathroom.

I’m not a big valentine’s day kind of gal, in fact I’m mostly the opposite (as my sisters like to say, I hate love). But after reading pablo’s tale of adolescent passion, I was inspired to recall my own early dabblings in love. Perhaps this is a sign of who I was to later to become, but I had my first crush on the opposite sex not as a randy 15-year-old, but a randy 2nd grader, making me about 7 years old. Actually, I believe my first crush was on my uncle Chuck, but I’ll stick with no-relation crushes today.

Anyway, the boy of my dreams was Lance. I don’t remember his last name, but I remember liking him. He had black hair cut in a sort of Beatles-ish pageboy style and he wore tan corduroy pants and button-up shirts. I can say without bias that 2nd grade was pretty much the peak of my attractiveness, so it’s disheartening to tell you that Lance wasn’t interested in me. No, Lance liked Carrie, my best friend, the cute, freckled blonde Carrie who lived in a big fancy house made of fancy red brick. Our house was puke green and made of siding. Umm, no contest there. I vaguely recall a sleepover at Carrie’s house once. And I vaguely remember thinking it was the most divine, wonderful place I’d ever been. So naturally I hated it.

The protective forces of my mind has blocked out just about every painful memory from this time period, but I think there was some sort of uncomfortable incident on the playground, involving me and Lance and Carrie and the breaking of my heart. I suppose if I sat in a dark room and thought about it hard enough I’d remember something worth sharing, but I’m much happier not remembering. Let’s just be glad that I left Carrie and Lance and all that elementary school drama behind me at the end of the year, as my family moved to Arizona.

The rest of my experiences in love have all essentially ended up the same way, me shamed on the playground by those that I hold dear.

It’s funny how when you have kids, even lame days like today seem to affect you more. For instance, I actually considered bringing RG to get valentines pictures taken in one of those cupid costumes. My friend did it and her boy looks SO CUTE THAT I COULD DIE, but at the end of the day, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’m so not a cupid girl and even though RG would look adorable, I have to draw the line. I hate love! I can’t have photographic evidence proving otherwise.

I promise there will be no 4-leaf clovers on St. Patrick’s Day, no bunny costumes at Easter, no flag-wrapped babies on July 4th.

However, come Halloween, all bets are off.

for the love of ry

By christa 12 February, 2006 random

it’s kind of cool to know that I will never love another boy so wholly and completely as I love my little guy. doesn’t matter what happens with me or G, doesn’t matter who I’ve loved in the past or who I’ll love in the future. No one compares, no one even comes close. Just being near him is overwhelming sometimes, how intense that love can be. He’s just so perfect and a reminder of why we’re here in the first place.

I love how he looks at me, the way he smells, how he runs, his chubby little hands in mine, when he scoots up real close to my face and whispers, his pokey messy way of eating, how he cuddles with his stuffed animals, his belly button, his curiousity of everything around him, his fearlessness in situations when us adults would be terrified, how he’s scared of colorful little toys that move on their own, his desire to please us, his laughter, the way he claps when he hears other people clapping and laughing, his round fat feet with sausage toes, how he feels like my little tiny baby still, even though he’s half my size. I love his cry and his moans and his tantrums, his defiant attitude, his persistence and stubborness. I love that I can’t even go to the bathroom without him trailing behind me.

I can’t remember what he was like as a baby, I’m so wrapped up in the here and now and experiencing him as he is today. And pretty soon I won’t remember what he was like as a toddler, and then as a preschooler, and so on. That’s how it goes. You live one day to the next and that’s how it should be, you know? I live too much in the past, rely too heavily on memories. But with Ry, I don’t have time to dwell, I can only be in the moment with him, enjoying every second, even the seemingly mundane and simple ones, like changing a diaper or putting on shoes, enjoying them without even realizing it. When he rests his head on my shoulder and pats my arm, I’ll want to freeze-frame it, thinking, “I want to remember this second forever.” But I know I won’t. And that’s okay. It’s okay to let go, it’s okay to enjoy the present and then not remember it.

He’s my little contribution to this universe, my lasting gift, and I feel pretty lucky to be around him. Two years ago, when I saw those two lines on that stick, I was terrified and confused. Talk about surprises. Talk about the unexpected. Talk about completely unprepared in every way. Not for a second did I imagine I could handle this parenthood thing and not for a second did I imagine it would be so affirming and joyous, even the hard parts. Not for a second did I imagine I could actually be GOOD at it.

so with this knowledge, loafe, I can admit to you that yesterday, when I saw just one little pink line, right next to my immeasurable relief, I also felt disappointment. Do I believe everything happens for a reason? Maybe a little, in my more naive and weaker moments, but mostly I believe that things happen just because they do, and sometimes they turn out great and sometimes they don’t. And I also believe that quite often our greatest glories come when we aren’t looking for it.

but lordy, I’ve never been so happy to get my period.