On Beauty

Scene: Fred Meyers Grocery store in Hillsboro

Aisle: Juices

While delighting in the sale of V8 Fusion, I hear a man and his small daughter move into the aisle. 

"Look at her hair, Daddy!" She points at me. I smile at them, still cheerful about my bargain juice (its the only thing I drink when I take my horse-pill multivitamin). Her father doesn't look at me, scanning the rows, eyes nervous. I turn back and chuck four bottles of V8 into my cluttered basket. Then I contemplate the other flavors. Should I try the acai berry? Or the Lite flavors? 

"God, she's ugly," he says, just as he passes me into the mouth of aisle. I blink a few times, unsure that I heard what I really heard, and then see him looking at me. 

What did he look like? Middle-aged. White. Sloppy ill-fitting t-shirt that stretched taught against his gut. Worn jeans. I didn't see his shoes. He was plain, shaved brown hair with the hint of a bald spot developing. Eyes nondescript. He was plain. Unremarkable. 

But then when he said those words, he was ugly. 

It is amazing how words can transform perception.

I am not physically remarkable. My eyes elicit comments, mostly for their shape, but my face has always been round (chipmunk cheeks was a grade-school taunt). When I have hair, it is dark and wavy, but not too curly. I am curvy, strong, and short. Never will I claim to be beautiful. I think Rita Hayworth was beautiful, but I get away with cute. My style is "what ever is the covered with the least amount of dog hair," but I take pride in my jewelry. I never wear gold, only silver, and each piece has a story. I am proud of my tattoos, even the terrible ones. I think my feet are hideous, and that my nose would look just fine with fewer freckles, and my scars sometimes bother me. But I am not ugly.

What is ugly is judgement. I have ugly moments. Certain people  grate my nerves like a peeler over a lemon. The pungent oil weeps from the fruit and my bitter emotions rise, stinking up my entire day. My faults are many, and I am aware of most of them. But I am trying, most of the time.

I like to think I'm kind.

Bullheaded? Yes.

Intimidating? Maybe sometimes.

Fierce? Always.

But ugly?

I used to be ugly. I was cruel, vindictive, aching to wound the world so that everyone understood my pain. 

But my reactions to you, and you, and you are my own. His reaction to me, his ugly reaction, was all about him, not me. 

No, I will never be statuesque (maybe that's why I like being on skates so much). My hands will always me mismatched, my thumbs odd, smile crooked. But I live with love on my sleeve. I say please and thanks you, and I mean it. I think manners are just as important as sticking up for what you believe in. I can be ugly, but today I was just picking up juice and salad and a few tidbits for dinner. 

I am beautiful when I pour my soul into my cooking, or when I write the perfect phrase. I am beautiful when I stow my fear and face the track, my ankle still smarting from that break months ago. I am beautiful when I laugh, no matter how loud and ridiculous it may seem to others. I am beautiful when I give honest advice, when I help others, when I listen

My self confidance is riddled with holes, like everyone's is (okay, maybe not everyone). Working hard, reshaping my body and my mind, finding reasons to smile every day - that makes me happy. That stranger did not hurt me. He is a lesson - find those things that make you feel wonderful, and do them - OFTEN! Today, that thing will be finding peace within. Tomorrow that thing will be skating. At some point this week, that thing will be writing. I am beautiful when I am happy.

I hope that man understood that when he said "ugly," he was talking about himself. I hope tomorrow he wakes and looks into the mirror and finds something beautiful to love. I hope he tells his daughter that she is beautiful. He doesn't have to remain a vicious, cruel being.

Maybe, given another chance, he will see "ugly" and understand that it is just "different."

Instability and Snakeshit

This is going to ramble a bit... I'm not all that focused right now and am writing from emotion rather than any kind of skill... so I apologise.

My family is brilliantly complicated. Our relationships ebb and flow, like tides, the intensity and the need for proximity dependant upon the situation. Grannie (my mother's mother) passed away a few years ago. With her passing, Gramps was diminished. She illuminated him, filled him with fire and passion and laughter. Without her, he withered. Last Tuesday, with my mother holding his hand, he died. 

While I was sad when Grannie passed away, it was almost a blessing. A lifetime of medical issues eroded her body and mind. The paragon of propriety, with perfectly coiffed hair and matching shoes and earrings had  devolved into an angry shadow of a woman. My grandmother and I had a loving but edgy relationship. My grandfather was my refuge. His quiet grace and quick wit always made me feel safe. I think he was the first man I truly trusted. 

When I heard of his death, waves of anguish tumbled me into a darkness I am just coming up from. Gramps was many things I knew and understood, but he was also a mystery. Truths I held firm to turned out to be mispoken half stories that I filled in with my own memories and wishes. I think he fought in a war (Korea maybe), but I know little of his military service. We didn't talk about that. We always talked about family. His life centered on Grannie and my mother (the only girl out of 4 kids, and the oldest). Grannie was our matriarch, but Gramps supported her from behind the scenes. When he had no one to help... he was done. All those truths, those stories he never told me, died with him.

I didn't call much. To be honest, I didn't call at all. I'm not a phone person, and that's a horrible excuse for not keeping in touch. My life moved at a swift pace, brimming with selfish endeavors and a struggle to hold on to sanity. Moving, schooling, writing, derby, friendships, beagles, traveling - that has been my life for these past years. But my family, beyond my siblings, was far from my mind. My mother steered the ship when Grannie's health started to fail, and then kept things afloat when Gramps gave up. She was there for them at their last moments - what a terrible blessing. I haven't talked to her about it yet. I can't really. My grandparents are gone... her parents. I'm still coping with that. 

I think my love for writing came from them. They had no idea what Urban Fantasy is, but they knew I loved to read. We talked about books, but never the newspaper or politics (I think I am way left, and they were centerist, but conservative)  But we are a family of storytellers. Big, tall tales, teeming with unlikely charaters fill our family history. We weave together our past with these tales. My grandmother loved telling people, especially as I grew older, how she dressed me up as a cheerleader when I was an infant. Believe me, it was the one and only time I wore that kind of an outfit. Gramps loved telling stories about Grannie and Mom. Those were the two women in his life, and there wasn't room for much else. 

I lived, for a time, with them. When my parents were divorcing, and my mother trying to find a place to settle, I stayed in Tampa with them. I loved that house. I can remember how blissfully cool the kitchen tile was under my bare feet. Grannie kept crystal candy jars on the table, but I hated those candies. I think they were sugar-free. Gramps had the stash of peppermint patties, in that bucket with the plastic top, and he'd give me handfuls of them when no one was looking. I have no idea where he kept the bucket, but it magically appeared whenever I had a bad day. Even today, every time I eat one, I am reminded of him. The fuzzy-headed nutcracker, almost as tall as me, sat next to the door. The front windows were lined with bird feeders, the kind with suction cups that stuck on the window so I could stare at the birds from inside. They lived on a canal, and Gramps taught me how to "call the seagulls." It was a ridiculous whistle that I thought brought the swarms of birds to me. I only later understood that they came for the bag of stale bread I fed them, and not my charming animals skills. I fished with my Gramps off the dock, mostly catching a whole lot of nothing, and on the rare occasions I did catch something, I made him throw it back.  He bought me a fishing pole, which I lost to some very insistent fish (maybe a stingray, I can't remember) later. But in those still moments on the dock, with the salty breeze crawling up the canal, and the warmth of the dock beneath me, I was whole. 

Grannie was proper, and Gramps knew how to ruffle her feathers without getting into much trouble. His favorite term, especially when he wanted everyone to laugh, was "snakeshit." Even thinking about it makes me smile because I remember his face when he said it. His eyes would light up, a mischievous smile painting his face. Grannie would say, "Bill, that's not proper language." He'd giggle again, and promise to be good. But we would share secret smiles, and try to stifle our laughter behind our hands. 

I could tell you about his green-thumb magic and the wonder of his garden, or how he would feed the wild parrots from his hand. I could share with you the serenity I felt just sitting next to him in the mouth of the garage as he sipped cheap beer and listened to the radio. Or how safe I felt when he held my hand. But at the end of life, and at the end of this, I understand that not all stories are meant to be told. Life is about filling in the spaces with as much light and love, that when things go dark, you have a reservoir to tap. I'm not used to being this unmoored, this riddled with instability. I know that never again will I see him dancing to Frank Sinatra, holding Grannie in his arms. He won't hug me and call me kiddo. He won't tinker with the lawn and the flowers... he won't say goodbye.

But now, I have. 

Compound Fracture #0W

No, I did not break another bone, I promise. After months of thinking, scheming, searching, and being disappointed because there are some witty fuckers out there - I figured out my derby name. It's "Compound Fracture."

"But, Erica, you broke those bones and that's not really funny, is it?" 

I say - embrace the suck. Yes, I broke two bones. No, it wasn't funny at the time (although the word "humerus" still makes me giggle in that "so bad it's REALLY bad" kind of way), but now, how can I not laugh? Who does that kind of thing? Two bones? Six weeks? It sounds like some kind of demented reality show.

I submitted my name this month, and my number, which also makes me laugh: 0W (zero W). Yes, I am a silly monkey. But think about it. If you know me (or read this blog...or stalk me on twitter...or... never mind), you know how funny this derby name is. If you don't know me - it could sound a touch scary. Although, the idea that anyone finds me frightening is also very amusing to me. 

Because most derby names are shortened, people have been calling me "Fracture" or just "Frac." I kind of love Frac because it is close to Frak and I'm a big Battlestar Gallactica fan. Well I love the new series. I couldn't watch the old one.

Shudder.

And if you try to tell me that the new Battlestar sucked, I will put my fingers in my ears and start singing "Yellow Submarine" and ignore your blathering because... You. Are. Wrong.

Anyway. This week, tomorrow actually, I'm headed back to the doc to have a look at my fibula. It is also the day that I am allowed back on skates. With all the PT work I've done, I think I'm getting stronger every day. The therapists are having me work on balance with a Bosu ball, which I love.

I'll admit that the hardest part about getting back into derby is not going to be the physical stuff - it will be the mental. I went to our off-skates workout on Sunday and left pretty defeated. As with writing, I should not compare myself to others. But I did. Instead of being proud of the fact that I could do most of the exercises, I focused on how slow I was, or how my arm was exhausted after doing the plank, or how my flexibility in both my arm and leg was limited. We were doing a walking plank exercise, and all I could do was hang my head and cry.

Thing is, I think if I had gotten out of my own way, I would have been able to do everything.

Fear is the mind killer - as they say in Dune. 

After wiping away the tears, and embarrassing myself in front of the skaters (although I'm not sure how many noticed), I decided to change my mind.

No, I will not be able to do it all like I used to, but I can work towards it. If I don't try, I'll never get there.

Compound Fracture doesn't quit.

In May, I plan on trying out for Fresh Meat again. While that seems like plenty of time, I know the caliber of skater they want. It is foolish to think that FM will take me without a fuckton of work. When I got on in October, I had been skating for 4-6 days a week for months......months. I'll be doing that again. The league is being very selective now and the bar has been raised. I'd love to skate with some of my closest derby friends again, but if that doesn't happen in May, then it will happen later. Right now, I must focus on getting back on skates, getting strong, and remembering why I love this damn sport so much.

Now, on the writing front. I'm reworking Chapter two, taking out a few characters that are problematic and annoying (as in, they are becoming loose ends before I've even finished the damn book). I'm killing them off, because killing is fun when you are writing. I'm writing a big scene, or rewriting it actually, that takes place in a train yard (if you live in Portland, or are from around here, you know what I'm talking about). I need to actually visit the location, get down there and get into the physicality of the place, because the opening scene of my book involves the area around Widmer and the river.... which in my mind were very close together - reality is an entirely different animal. I can't squish and rework details about this city if I have it as the setting. I wonder if I am allowed in the train yard at all.... things to research.

I'm trying to balance my need to research and my tendency to get stuck in the googlemachine. I shit you not - I was looking up western seagulls, and ended up losing about an hour just reading about the damn birds. It is maddening.

Scrivener is helping with the research part. Now I have somewhere to plant the links I find, and when I'm just screwing around, I can go back and apply the research in a focused manner, instead of being distracted by the shiny words.

So my goals for this week?

• Make it through off-skates without crying 
• Finish Chapter Two
• Get on the bike at least once
• Negotiate a schedule with work where I can start going to the speed skating classes (which are hell and gone from where I work).
• Buy the sports psychology book recommended by a friend and coach
• Get started on a new fantasy series. I own it, haven't read it in eons, but the hubs said the author is great with multiple characters. We will call this research too.

Now, back to your regularly scheduled Tuesday.

From Burning Out to On Fire

First - I'm sore and it's FUCKING AWESOME.

Why am I sore? I did a whopping (sarcasm) 20 squats 2 days ago, after the PT routine (who knew big rubber bands would be so difficult to stretch?). Why was I squatting? Because I haven't been able to since December. And that's just insane.

What else have I had a hard time with?

• walking down stairs
• lifting from the floor
• writing

"But Erica," you say. "What does writing have to do with bending over?"

I nod, all wise and stuff. "I will tell you grasshopper." 

CHICKEN

Why is it always a grasshopper? Seriously. Why isn't it a ladybug or a dung beetle? 

Anyway... 

I'm tired of being broken. If I hear "fracture" in reference to my body, I will punch someone in their face. Okay – I won’t punch anyone. I'm more of a kicker, or a hip-checker. It's been a rough couple of months. I'm burned out on being broken. When you are independent (albeit slightly lazy), being unable to do what you normally do is both frustrating and disheartening. And because pouting is a full-time job for me, I haven't had it in me to get that much writing done. 

I talk a lot about writing. But how much writing do I actually do? Less than I would like to admit.

The Physical Therapist (or "She Who Smiles Brightly When I Wince") gave me a long lecture for allowing my sadness to sully my progression. She reminded me that if I wanted to get back onto skates and come out of the whole ugly situation intact - I had to fight for it. Healing is as much of a mental game as it is a physical one. Flexibility in the mind will allow for flexibility in the body.

Then I thought about writing. I could talk a lot about doing my PT, but unless I actually attempt to stand on my toes (surprisingly difficult on the broken/healing leg), I will never get there. 

Unless I write a chapter, the book will never materialize.

Work = progress.

Pouting = fat lower lip and a lot of wasted time.

For the past few weeks now, I've been doing my PT (almost) daily. I can now stand on the broken/healing leg while closing my eyes for over a minute. You should try that as well (after finishing the blog, of course). Stand for a whole minute on one leg - with your eyes closed. It's challenging.

I have also sent pages to my Crit partner. It was an odd little short story with rough edges and a lot of emotion. The most important part is that I sent it (with apologies, of course). 

I've rewritten Chapter 1 in the WIP, bringing it back to 1st person. This will prove to be difficult to maintain since the damn novel is massive already (in my head) and I have other characters to follow. But for now, the thing that gets my ass in the chair and writing is my 1st person POV. I'm also using Scrivener to organize my research and chapters and character descriptions. At first the program was daunting - there's so much you can do. Once I used the walkthrough I have a handle on things. I also put Simplenote on my iPad so I can sync changes and edits as I make them. The system is pretty seamless. I heart it.

I feel energized. There is an end in sight. On the 22nd I will return to skates. Okay, I'll just be roller skating and not doing any derby for a bit, but that is the first step. I'm in love with my writing again, and find myself taking ridiculously long showers because I get caught up in plotting in my head.

Have we had the whole pantser vs. plotter discussion yet? This planning stuff is new and exciting and oddly efficient.

More importantly, I finally understand that I don't have to obey my own rules for the novel. I just have to write.

I have to move.

I have to remember what makes me happy. It is not pouting. It is not feeling sorry for myself. 

Flexibility and strength are not only important for physical prowess on the track, but they are equally necessary for a writer’s life. And that, grasshopper, is my lesson for the day. 

Motivation and Matching Shoes

The one good thing about being broken? Time to write (and play Skyrim, but we can talk about that later). But  after a month of scooting around on the "Wheels of Doom" and hobbling along like one of those landstriders from The Dark Crystal (which is still one of my favorite movies) I am now walking. I walk like a pimp, according to a 5 year old kid I saw at the grocery store last week.

(how does a 5 year old know how a pimp walks, I ask you?)

You know what I missed about being able to walk? 

• Getting up the stairs without the dogs chasing me. I appreciate the rewarding kisses when I reach the top of the stairs, but am grateful not to have my ass sniffed as I crawl up them.
• Driving (omg I can drive again!!!! Guess who is back to sleeping in?) I would like to state for the record that my road rage returned within seconds. 
• Getting to the bathroom before I feel like my bladder is going to explode (I think I was only partially potty-trained...sometimes I forget to go to the bathroom before the pee-pee dance starts. Stupid bladder).
• Cooking - David will tell you that I've not put this newfound kitchen freedom to much use, but my excuse is that I've got a fucking cold now...so I have made cookies, but not much else. 
• Freedom. 

But the one good thing about being broken was it made me focus on writing. I've been plotting (as a pantser, this is a big fucking deal) and trying to rework a short story I found on my iPad. There are little bits of story that float around in my digital devices that are just waiting for a bit of attention and time so they can grow up and into big, full stories. My attention span is shit, but those seeds are what keep me writing. Right now I'm low on story seeds. Remind me to write my ideas down more. 

So, bone prognosis. After getting frustrated with the care at one clinic, I moved my happy ass back to the hospital that helped with the broken arm. The broken fibula was worse than what was explained to me initially. It was, in fact, displaced. Not by much, but enough. I'm going to go ahead and blame the original clinic since they didn't have time to help me get anything on it, not a boot, not an aircast, for almost 4 days. Taking the Max with a broken leg wrapped in an Ace bandage = kind of dumb. But I had to get to work. They should have seen me earlier. 

I'm too trusting with this shit. 

So, after a month of sub-standard care, I'm seeing people who understand what I will expect from my bones, and my ankle. Good news? I'm on skates again in 4 weeks and no bone scan is necessary. Bad news, "It's going to hurt for a year."

Doc, pain I can handle. I can't handle not skating.

I start PT next week and am allowed to use my bike/trainer combo to get my lungs all sexy again.

Did I mention that I have the plague? I know what it feels like to cough up a hairball. 

Yum.

So, tonight I am going to hop on my trainer and rock out to one of my Sufferfest vids. The only caveat is that I have to keep the resistance light. The bone is still broken and I can't wear my aircast with my bike shoes (they fit like a glove). Exercise tonight. Tomorrow....I'll take over the world. 

As for the writing. Sometimes I think that it was a waste of a lot of fucking money for me to get my MFA. I'm writing at work, which is wonderful. But I want to continue working on my novel. Every time I sit down to do some kind of long writing with it, my brain shuts down. I can't even get crap words on the page. Yes, I am whining. The only solution is to keep my butt in the chair until something comes. My little story seeds are safe. They aren't so big as to require world building or a complex plot - not like the novel. Sometimes I wonder if I am cut out for the whole writing gig. And then I remember that there is nothing I love more than being surprised by something I've written. Writing is much like excercise for me - a pain that I love if I have motivation. If someone told me tomorrow I couldn't write, I'm sure I would bitch about it until kingdom come. I can write. If I let myself. 

I wish I would give myself permission to fail. I'm the best at giving advice I never take. 

I miss school for the deadlines hurled at me, much like I miss matching shoes. I miss cute matching shoes. I also miss the breezy confidence I had in my writing.

Wait. I think I'm lying.

Okay. I'm done now. 

I don't know where my head is at today, but what I do know is that I have these characters knocking on my eyeballs, clawing at the back of my throat, wanting to see, wanting to taste ...

wanting to be...

The smart thing to do? Take this time off skates and do what I was trained to do, what I love to do, really. But first... I have some procrastination to take care of.

(I realize that is a random end to this blog, but my coffee just ran out.... meh)