For 30 years without the savior who pried you from loss
Adopting a family that held thorns and roses in equal parts
Ignoring the tenets, skating on mores, and firing your own boss
It's impossible to tell someone what you meant in our hearts
Thank god it's over and that you have the break you deserved
I hope you find him there and that it all will now be clear
After a lifetime of letdown, hope for you was fully interred
Can't imagine seeing them all again and you not shedding a tear
We continue on, wondering why we failed and succeeded
The wall remains unbreeched, and we remain broken on it
The lies that protected us also forced us to be unbelieving
I sit and work through the years backwards, soaking in it
And yet, it still remains untenable.
Someday we'll sit beneath the shade, and you can tell me all.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
That Day
On the road. 7 am. Listening to one of my favorite CDs when the phone rings.
"Is your TV on," asks my boss, Director of Operations for our little international startup healthcare firm.
"No, why someone get shot," I laugh with the ignorant machismo of the uninitiated.
"The company's done." The line goes dead.
Switch the audio from disc to KROQ. My normal irritation with morning DJs as soon as the tone of Kevin's voice hits me. Somber. Shocked. Nigh-hysterical.
"It could be anybody, I just don't understand, I mean, who could do something like this. . ." his words are no longer in his typical coherent syntax, rather he seems to be trying to assimilate an unforgivable reality into a carefully structured world through the medium of the sound of his own voice. Car crash survivors are much the same. People babble when nervous systems are on overload as a means of reinforcing their own existence.
The car drives itself to Claire's. At the time, my closest friend, confidant, and Grand Marnier cohort. She opens the door, eyes brimming.
Hand in hand, we silently walk into the living room and watch the replays of the jets colliding with the buildings. Tears fall unabashedly until shirtfronts are soaked. Today is one day where recriminations will find no hold and all tongues are silenced.
'Dear god, those buildings won't last,' ran headlong from my subconscious until it exploded, unwittingly and unwillingly from my mouth. Claire looks at me. I walk to the liquor cabinet as television ground crews capture the sights and sounds of people leaping from 90+ stories to their deaths rather than burning. Hell of a choice to have to make.
The collapse starts, the implosion is improbable, impossible, inadmissable. People running, screaming, hiding, covered in the ash of their fellow human beings, striving to make sense of it all. Claire and I are clinging for dear life and dearer sanity to each other, sobbing, wanting to look away, to ignore, and to find some coward's exit from the hell of it. But, we can't. We drink to forget.
Hours later, or maybe minutes later, my family calls. No one go to downtown LA today. Who knows what these crazy bastards will do next? We commiserate over a cousin who was visiting Gotham with her husband, and whose itinerary called for a WTC visit that very morning. No word as of yet. Like all others this horrid day, we pray. No atheists in foxholes, no agnostics on this day.
Later, we hear the details, the truth comes out, the story is told, and blame is placed. Many of Middle Eastern lineage openly decry the attacks. Shame that they feel the need. Sikhs and East Indians in many places are treated as though they've had a hand. Shame that our country felt the need.
For a week, tears wait in the wings. The cousin is fine, decided to spend the morning in bed. Thanks be to a loving God. The death toll climbs. Workers sift. The horror slowly subsides.
The scar is there, but the pain still remains. Who knew we could ever hurt this way?
"Is your TV on," asks my boss, Director of Operations for our little international startup healthcare firm.
"No, why someone get shot," I laugh with the ignorant machismo of the uninitiated.
"The company's done." The line goes dead.
Switch the audio from disc to KROQ. My normal irritation with morning DJs as soon as the tone of Kevin's voice hits me. Somber. Shocked. Nigh-hysterical.
"It could be anybody, I just don't understand, I mean, who could do something like this. . ." his words are no longer in his typical coherent syntax, rather he seems to be trying to assimilate an unforgivable reality into a carefully structured world through the medium of the sound of his own voice. Car crash survivors are much the same. People babble when nervous systems are on overload as a means of reinforcing their own existence.
The car drives itself to Claire's. At the time, my closest friend, confidant, and Grand Marnier cohort. She opens the door, eyes brimming.
Hand in hand, we silently walk into the living room and watch the replays of the jets colliding with the buildings. Tears fall unabashedly until shirtfronts are soaked. Today is one day where recriminations will find no hold and all tongues are silenced.
'Dear god, those buildings won't last,' ran headlong from my subconscious until it exploded, unwittingly and unwillingly from my mouth. Claire looks at me. I walk to the liquor cabinet as television ground crews capture the sights and sounds of people leaping from 90+ stories to their deaths rather than burning. Hell of a choice to have to make.
The collapse starts, the implosion is improbable, impossible, inadmissable. People running, screaming, hiding, covered in the ash of their fellow human beings, striving to make sense of it all. Claire and I are clinging for dear life and dearer sanity to each other, sobbing, wanting to look away, to ignore, and to find some coward's exit from the hell of it. But, we can't. We drink to forget.
Hours later, or maybe minutes later, my family calls. No one go to downtown LA today. Who knows what these crazy bastards will do next? We commiserate over a cousin who was visiting Gotham with her husband, and whose itinerary called for a WTC visit that very morning. No word as of yet. Like all others this horrid day, we pray. No atheists in foxholes, no agnostics on this day.
Later, we hear the details, the truth comes out, the story is told, and blame is placed. Many of Middle Eastern lineage openly decry the attacks. Shame that they feel the need. Sikhs and East Indians in many places are treated as though they've had a hand. Shame that our country felt the need.
For a week, tears wait in the wings. The cousin is fine, decided to spend the morning in bed. Thanks be to a loving God. The death toll climbs. Workers sift. The horror slowly subsides.
The scar is there, but the pain still remains. Who knew we could ever hurt this way?
Meeting Alexandria
The crowd is fun, upbeat, and joyfully sad. While we hug, Lindsey tearfully tells me Alex is here. She points out Alex's husband, strong, smiling, with a heart rent asunder. There is her father, whose pain is only evident in his eyes. There is Joss, who's done more than can be imagined to create an intimate, melancholy, and spiritually fulfilling experience that will remind friends old of, and introduce friends new to Alex.
The band plays, feet tap, heads bob, and a vibe embraces the group. Then an acoustic guitar, Joss dancing a dance of life. A life vibrant, filled with amazing people, as only amazing people can themselves attract, and a life herein shortened unnaturally. Her tall, beautiful, blonde figure stretching, flowing, ebbing, and finding structures to hug, and ultimately cease against. It's hard to recognize the physical pulchritude, when the soul speaks so loudly.
At first, I'm an interloper. A crude voyeur into serenity only the intimacy of dear friends, an avatar of someone of value. Suddenly, the gears -click- and I am here. And am embraced. The slides begin, and a life runs before me. A father to a beautiful daughter myself, the tears flow. I am suddenly robbed.
As we all are.
The band plays, feet tap, heads bob, and a vibe embraces the group. Then an acoustic guitar, Joss dancing a dance of life. A life vibrant, filled with amazing people, as only amazing people can themselves attract, and a life herein shortened unnaturally. Her tall, beautiful, blonde figure stretching, flowing, ebbing, and finding structures to hug, and ultimately cease against. It's hard to recognize the physical pulchritude, when the soul speaks so loudly.
At first, I'm an interloper. A crude voyeur into serenity only the intimacy of dear friends, an avatar of someone of value. Suddenly, the gears -click- and I am here. And am embraced. The slides begin, and a life runs before me. A father to a beautiful daughter myself, the tears flow. I am suddenly robbed.
As we all are.
Stop the Society, I Wanna Get Off
Just when we get to a point where no more can possibly strike us as insane:
1. Britney Spears loses custody of her kids. AND IT'S ON THE NEWS. Why does our culture care about her? A good friend was partying with her the night before the Emmy's and declared, "Wow, she looks even worse in person. Her breasts have apparently been replaced by flapjacks."
2. OJ Simpson makes like the Cincinnati Bengals organization (http://sport.monstersandcritics.com/nfl/article_1183059.php/Cincinnati_Bengals_2006_Training_Camp_Preview all on his own. Unbelievable. I think the guy might go on a three state rape spree, start printing counterfeit money, and take up dog-fighting, just to complete his transformation to career criminal. Has anyone checked the man's VCR? He may be pirating videos in his spare time
3. James Spader (!) beats James Gandolfini for an Emmy. The only way this could have shocked me more is if he'd actually physically beaten Gandolfini for the Emmy. I'm not TV guy, but Jesus, I don't live in a closet, either.
What blows the mind is how all of these items are hot-point issues. I mean, the NFL is facing a scandal that is growing by leaps and bounds (http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=easterbrook/070918&sportCat=nfl&lpos=spotlight&lid=tab1pos1) which means women nationwide may have their husbands back on Sundays in just a few years, the former Fed chair who is widely regarded as the architect of the greatest economic surge in American history indicates a recession a 1 in 3 possibility http://www.cnn.com/2007/US/09/18/fed.interest.rates.ap/index.html?iref=newssearch, and AlQaeda now is targeting comedians http://www.cnn.com/2007/WORLD/meast/09/15/qaeda.cartoon.ap/index.html, and all our media clowns focus on are the lifestyles of the inane?
I think we've jumped the shark as a society. Now excuse me while I go watch 14 hours of reality TV.
1. Britney Spears loses custody of her kids. AND IT'S ON THE NEWS. Why does our culture care about her? A good friend was partying with her the night before the Emmy's and declared, "Wow, she looks even worse in person. Her breasts have apparently been replaced by flapjacks."
2. OJ Simpson makes like the Cincinnati Bengals organization (http://sport.monstersandcritics.com/nfl/article_1183059.php/Cincinnati_Bengals_2006_Training_Camp_Preview all on his own. Unbelievable. I think the guy might go on a three state rape spree, start printing counterfeit money, and take up dog-fighting, just to complete his transformation to career criminal. Has anyone checked the man's VCR? He may be pirating videos in his spare time
3. James Spader (!) beats James Gandolfini for an Emmy. The only way this could have shocked me more is if he'd actually physically beaten Gandolfini for the Emmy. I'm not TV guy, but Jesus, I don't live in a closet, either.
What blows the mind is how all of these items are hot-point issues. I mean, the NFL is facing a scandal that is growing by leaps and bounds (http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=easterbrook/070918&sportCat=nfl&lpos=spotlight&lid=tab1pos1) which means women nationwide may have their husbands back on Sundays in just a few years, the former Fed chair who is widely regarded as the architect of the greatest economic surge in American history indicates a recession a 1 in 3 possibility http://www.cnn.com/2007/US/09/18/fed.interest.rates.ap/index.html?iref=newssearch, and AlQaeda now is targeting comedians http://www.cnn.com/2007/WORLD/meast/09/15/qaeda.cartoon.ap/index.html, and all our media clowns focus on are the lifestyles of the inane?
I think we've jumped the shark as a society. Now excuse me while I go watch 14 hours of reality TV.
The Quickening
When I came to, I was free-falling. Some portion of my besotted psyche somehow knew that while this wasn't a healthy state, it was a natural one for me. Being weightless is phenomenal, although the only way to achieve it is to plummet. L'Amour said that the space a man takes up in the world is equivalent to a finger in a pond, and that once it's withdrawn, the pond barely notices. Maybe I've been testing his theory.
The most difficult hurdle the vain can clear in the path of self-destruction is the hard cost of dying. It's tough to be a pretty corpse when it's self-inflicted. Plus, the struggle, O the struggle!, of balancing love for others with a good, strong apathy for self. Someone said that love for others is impossible when love for one's self is absent, but the truly gifted can pull it off. So, instead of packing up and leaving immediately, I chose this slow road that would lead to a life worth dying to avoid.
It's offensive now, this journey I'd undertaken. Waking up from somnambulence is akin to the morning after the fever breaks. Energy courses through the skin, power radiates from the eyes, and fire burns incessantly in the soul. (How great are my hackneyed phrases? And here I'd committed to stop being boring.) Each day is a gift from the universe, it seems. Music makes more sense, love seems more deeply mysterious, life appears more complex and simple.
A spirit broken can mend.
The most difficult hurdle the vain can clear in the path of self-destruction is the hard cost of dying. It's tough to be a pretty corpse when it's self-inflicted. Plus, the struggle, O the struggle!, of balancing love for others with a good, strong apathy for self. Someone said that love for others is impossible when love for one's self is absent, but the truly gifted can pull it off. So, instead of packing up and leaving immediately, I chose this slow road that would lead to a life worth dying to avoid.
It's offensive now, this journey I'd undertaken. Waking up from somnambulence is akin to the morning after the fever breaks. Energy courses through the skin, power radiates from the eyes, and fire burns incessantly in the soul. (How great are my hackneyed phrases? And here I'd committed to stop being boring.) Each day is a gift from the universe, it seems. Music makes more sense, love seems more deeply mysterious, life appears more complex and simple.
A spirit broken can mend.
Hollywood Hilarity and Total Trainwrecks
So, the roomie has an event entertainment business. It has to do with Clowns and being Around. (It’s possible there would be copyright infringement issues, or that libel could be pointed this way with this post, so let’s just say it’s some combination of the two words.) He asked what yrs truly was up to on Saturday last.
I shrugged. "Nada. Maybe some volleyball. You know, just get some exercise in, finish unpacking because I’m clearing my storage unit on Friday morning."
"Cool, want to do an event with me? I need someone to drive the train," he said with the air of one not sharing the whole story.
Fast forward to Friday, unpacking the storage unit, and combining/condensing/consolidating 13 rubbermaid 64 gallon plastic containers and a ZGallerie (shameless plugs, send me my check) footlocker/chest/coffeetable, and then loading them all into a Jeep Cherokee took it a little bit out of me. Then, when I arrive back at the house and unload everything, the roommate has his trackless train in the front yard, sanding, painting, and re-fiberglassing.
He looked over as I carried 75 pound containers into the house. "Ready to get to work?"
I coulda and maybe shoulda smacked him then and there.
What followed was 7 hours of painting, loading a riding lawnmower into a truck, using Bondo for the first time (a truly disgusting substance used for patching holes in fiberglass), sanding, painting, and throwing heavy equipment around more. Note to readers: avoid fiberglass splinters. They f-king hurt.
Then, Friday night out with the boys. G-lamp, vodka, vodka, vodka, followed by Taco Bell beef and potato burritox4. Sleep at 2 am. Knocking on the door at 5:30 am. Pure pain.
The rest of Saturday morning was a blur of trying to put an innertube on a tubeless tire (note to readers: don’t do this. It’s stupid.), loading said riding lawnmower into truck bed, trolley cars into trailer, and discovering that the bounce house he owns is totally filthy. Caked with dried mud from recent rains, there was no way on God’s green Earth that the client for this little production number will accept it as is.
We’re late. Of course. The event coordinator only has my number. My phone is blowing up. We arrange for a bounce house to be delivered at 11:00. It’s 9:45 when we place the order. The warehouse for said rental is in Santa Fe Springs. The client is in Bel Air. You can do the travel time math.
We show up at the client’s location. The event coordinator, a pretty, mid-to-late 20’s brunette with a New Zealand accent is relieved, not happy, to see us. And we then scout the location.
Bad times. The riding lawnmower will have to through the doorway to the backyard, and the locomotive "body" that fits over the mower will have to go over the doorway, which includes hopping up onto a garage, carrying said body over the rooftop and then lowering it to waiting hands below. This baby is fiberglass and big, so it takes at least two men to move it.
But wait. It gets better.
After the doorway fiasco, there is a hedge with 28 inches of clearance through which we have to fit mower, the two train cars, our cotton candy cart, and ice cream cart. The locomotive body will not, repeat not, fit in this gap. As my buddy put it most succinctly, if crudely, "It’s like black d*ck and Asian p*ssy."
We eventually made it happen amidst copious amounts of sweating, straining, and cursing, and in so doing, got a round of applause from the production crew who were filming the whole thing, as we were bringing the train in to work an event for a celebrity kid’s birthday party, and mom and dad have a reality show that’s in its 3rd season.
The rental bounce didn’t show up until 2:00. The event coordinator was damn near tears. And my roommate did balloon animals for the kids while my buddy and I took turns driving a smoking, coughing, and sputtering lawnmower with a train body and cars following it around a backyard basketball court trussed up to look like a railway.
Overall, it was an okay day for me. Horrific for my roomie’s business. But okay for me. Aside from when the party was over. Then it was time to push the damn thing back through, up, and over the hedge, garage rooftop, and onto the trailer and truckbed. When the event coordinator approaches you and says, "Oh my God, I feel so sorry for you guys having to take that train back through there," it’s indicative of the herculean task before you. But, we did it.
Oh, and although we spent all day driving the damn train around without a hitch, when it came time to get the celeb’s kid on it for the money shot, the f-king thing broke down. Just awesome.
I shrugged. "Nada. Maybe some volleyball. You know, just get some exercise in, finish unpacking because I’m clearing my storage unit on Friday morning."
"Cool, want to do an event with me? I need someone to drive the train," he said with the air of one not sharing the whole story.
Fast forward to Friday, unpacking the storage unit, and combining/condensing/consolidating 13 rubbermaid 64 gallon plastic containers and a ZGallerie (shameless plugs, send me my check) footlocker/chest/coffeetable, and then loading them all into a Jeep Cherokee took it a little bit out of me. Then, when I arrive back at the house and unload everything, the roommate has his trackless train in the front yard, sanding, painting, and re-fiberglassing.
He looked over as I carried 75 pound containers into the house. "Ready to get to work?"
I coulda and maybe shoulda smacked him then and there.
What followed was 7 hours of painting, loading a riding lawnmower into a truck, using Bondo for the first time (a truly disgusting substance used for patching holes in fiberglass), sanding, painting, and throwing heavy equipment around more. Note to readers: avoid fiberglass splinters. They f-king hurt.
Then, Friday night out with the boys. G-lamp, vodka, vodka, vodka, followed by Taco Bell beef and potato burritox4. Sleep at 2 am. Knocking on the door at 5:30 am. Pure pain.
The rest of Saturday morning was a blur of trying to put an innertube on a tubeless tire (note to readers: don’t do this. It’s stupid.), loading said riding lawnmower into truck bed, trolley cars into trailer, and discovering that the bounce house he owns is totally filthy. Caked with dried mud from recent rains, there was no way on God’s green Earth that the client for this little production number will accept it as is.
We’re late. Of course. The event coordinator only has my number. My phone is blowing up. We arrange for a bounce house to be delivered at 11:00. It’s 9:45 when we place the order. The warehouse for said rental is in Santa Fe Springs. The client is in Bel Air. You can do the travel time math.
We show up at the client’s location. The event coordinator, a pretty, mid-to-late 20’s brunette with a New Zealand accent is relieved, not happy, to see us. And we then scout the location.
Bad times. The riding lawnmower will have to through the doorway to the backyard, and the locomotive "body" that fits over the mower will have to go over the doorway, which includes hopping up onto a garage, carrying said body over the rooftop and then lowering it to waiting hands below. This baby is fiberglass and big, so it takes at least two men to move it.
But wait. It gets better.
After the doorway fiasco, there is a hedge with 28 inches of clearance through which we have to fit mower, the two train cars, our cotton candy cart, and ice cream cart. The locomotive body will not, repeat not, fit in this gap. As my buddy put it most succinctly, if crudely, "It’s like black d*ck and Asian p*ssy."
We eventually made it happen amidst copious amounts of sweating, straining, and cursing, and in so doing, got a round of applause from the production crew who were filming the whole thing, as we were bringing the train in to work an event for a celebrity kid’s birthday party, and mom and dad have a reality show that’s in its 3rd season.
The rental bounce didn’t show up until 2:00. The event coordinator was damn near tears. And my roommate did balloon animals for the kids while my buddy and I took turns driving a smoking, coughing, and sputtering lawnmower with a train body and cars following it around a backyard basketball court trussed up to look like a railway.
Overall, it was an okay day for me. Horrific for my roomie’s business. But okay for me. Aside from when the party was over. Then it was time to push the damn thing back through, up, and over the hedge, garage rooftop, and onto the trailer and truckbed. When the event coordinator approaches you and says, "Oh my God, I feel so sorry for you guys having to take that train back through there," it’s indicative of the herculean task before you. But, we did it.
Oh, and although we spent all day driving the damn train around without a hitch, when it came time to get the celeb’s kid on it for the money shot, the f-king thing broke down. Just awesome.
12 Months and Counting
Thinking about Alexandria today. It's been 12 months since the plane went down and she moved on. In one of the ironic twists that makes life so unbearable sometimes, it had been a few weeks previous that I'd seen her pic on Linds' fridge, and asked, "Who's THAT?" in that tone that indicates a strong desire to be introduced as quickly as possible with the highest recommendations available.
She laughed at the time, told me it was her friend Alex, and that she was married. I'd meet her husband a few months later at Alex's life celebration, this intelligent, brawny, and just shredded shell of a happy man, struggling to deal with losing what must have felt like the winning ticket of the lottery of the Universe. Despite all of that, I envied him. Anyone who knows anything about Alex would envy him.
I was in San Diego, opening a restaurant, dealing with some mild depression issues of my own when I attended the memorial, and wrote the blog "Meeting Alex." Guess it could be said her timing was horrible and perfect. That night tore open a dam strong as papier mache. She lived a life that can't really be captured in photos, words, or MySpace pages. The strongest testament to who she is, is the love her friends still espouse, the inspiration she remains for them.
Seeing someone loved and celebrated like that just took my breath. It crushed me. SHE crushed me. From that moment on, I was somnambulistic. It was just a matter of time until something, somehow, happened. And it did. A few weeks later, I'd end an 85 hour workweek with the (underline-italicize-bold-all-caps) STUPID decision to go out with some of the boys before driving home. Which lead to falling asleep at 75 miles an hour, waking up at 45 miles an hour, airborne on the side of the road.
Which lead to the realization that something was seriously WRONG. Wrong line of work, wrong dreams, wrong lifestyle, wrong approach to love and life, wrong everything. Each month following was a new revelation, a new deconstruction in order to make way for something stronger and more permanent. No more restaurants, bars, lounges, pubs, or private party bartending. No more bartending, period.
It's unclear how much it all has to do with the events of 12 months ago. How much inspiration she was is unclear. Or how much of a stomach punch it was to realize how seriously screwed up my way of doing things was compared to hers is unclear. What is clear is that the night I met her and her friends, I admired and appreciated them all. And felt the leper amongst the whole, the unwashed amongst the clean, the dandelion in the tulips. How do we measure the effects of people in our lives? Is there some litmus test that can exactly determine the weight of love, support, and example?
12 months ago, Derek and I were sitting on a porch, sipping on 40s and smoking at 10 in the morning. Today the only chemical in the bloodstream is caffeine. 12 months ago, I ignored my true self, waiting for something to happen. Today the only waiting I do is for my clients' approval on my writing and creativity. 12 months ago, I had no idea how to reach. Today I can't stop.
She laughed at the time, told me it was her friend Alex, and that she was married. I'd meet her husband a few months later at Alex's life celebration, this intelligent, brawny, and just shredded shell of a happy man, struggling to deal with losing what must have felt like the winning ticket of the lottery of the Universe. Despite all of that, I envied him. Anyone who knows anything about Alex would envy him.
I was in San Diego, opening a restaurant, dealing with some mild depression issues of my own when I attended the memorial, and wrote the blog "Meeting Alex." Guess it could be said her timing was horrible and perfect. That night tore open a dam strong as papier mache. She lived a life that can't really be captured in photos, words, or MySpace pages. The strongest testament to who she is, is the love her friends still espouse, the inspiration she remains for them.
Seeing someone loved and celebrated like that just took my breath. It crushed me. SHE crushed me. From that moment on, I was somnambulistic. It was just a matter of time until something, somehow, happened. And it did. A few weeks later, I'd end an 85 hour workweek with the (underline-italicize-bold-all-caps) STUPID decision to go out with some of the boys before driving home. Which lead to falling asleep at 75 miles an hour, waking up at 45 miles an hour, airborne on the side of the road.
Which lead to the realization that something was seriously WRONG. Wrong line of work, wrong dreams, wrong lifestyle, wrong approach to love and life, wrong everything. Each month following was a new revelation, a new deconstruction in order to make way for something stronger and more permanent. No more restaurants, bars, lounges, pubs, or private party bartending. No more bartending, period.
It's unclear how much it all has to do with the events of 12 months ago. How much inspiration she was is unclear. Or how much of a stomach punch it was to realize how seriously screwed up my way of doing things was compared to hers is unclear. What is clear is that the night I met her and her friends, I admired and appreciated them all. And felt the leper amongst the whole, the unwashed amongst the clean, the dandelion in the tulips. How do we measure the effects of people in our lives? Is there some litmus test that can exactly determine the weight of love, support, and example?
12 months ago, Derek and I were sitting on a porch, sipping on 40s and smoking at 10 in the morning. Today the only chemical in the bloodstream is caffeine. 12 months ago, I ignored my true self, waiting for something to happen. Today the only waiting I do is for my clients' approval on my writing and creativity. 12 months ago, I had no idea how to reach. Today I can't stop.
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