The things that matter
When Spike Jonze took the stage at last year’s International Advertising Festival in Cannes, I was really excited to hear some advice from a creative superhero. But when he started talking, it was immediately obvious that he was uncomfortable. The confident man I'd imagined looked like a deer in headlights, all wide-eyed and frozen, and every question from the audience was received as though he was being interrogated. Lots of stuttering, lots of throat clearing, lots of umms and errs.
Instead of giving us a secret recipe, Spike admitted to never knowing nor caring whether or not his projects reach anyone. It turns out his process is simply about reflecting what he loves and doing it for himself. That there are others who like the end result is just lucky. A lot of people were disappointed to leave the auditorium without a shortcut to fame and fortune, but I remember walking out with a light in my belly.
I feel the same warmth each time I read a Steve Jobs eulogy. Most people highlight the same qualities: He was a tyrant in the work place, he didn’t take no for an answer, and he absolutely loved what he did. In her own version of his life, Steve’s sister Mona called love his supreme virtue. His god of gods. “He tried. He always, always tried, and always with love at the core of that effort,” she wrote.
These are two men from opposite ends of several spectra, but I see a very clear pattern that connects them. Passion is like a personal language. The individual chooses the sounds, the structure, the inflections, and attempts to communicate. There’s no method outside of having the courage to tell the world who you are, knowing that nobody will ever fully understand.
I love the word ‘courage’. It comes from the root ‘cor’ (the Latin word for ‘heart’) and its original meaning was to tell the story of who you are with your whole heart. Speaking from experience I can tell you that the process is scary, doesn't usually make you famous, and the cost can be high and heart-wrenching-- especially when it's a friend. But I also know that the vulnerability it brings to your life will make you a better person.
I like to remind myself of this (permanently!) because I am passionate about telling the story of who I am: a tyrant, a deer in headlights, intensely emotional and painfully nervous. And this isn’t just when I’m writing or practicing some other creative outlet-- I am one or all of these things (plus more) every second of every day because I believe living is about having the courage to be alive.
To all the people who have stuck with me over the years, thank you. Thank you for listening to my story for better or for worse. Though you've never fully understood it, you've somehow managed to recognize that at the core of it there is only love. For that, I am more than lucky to have you. I am blessed. And to all the people who have left or ever will leave, I never lock my door
Neophyte
I’ve been meaning to write this post for several weeks now, but it’s just such a beast of an entry that I reverted to my four-year-old self and have been sitting in a corner playing with toys, pretending not to hear my laptop calling and ignoring life almost altogether. Then I made the realization –well, not the realization, more like I finally chose to address the fact –that the reason everyone is so freaky about getting things done in life as soon as possible is because we’re all trying to make something of ourselves before the inevitable. It’s all a race against time, isn’t it? So if I can’t move on and maintain a proper website until I get over this hurdle, I should just get it over with.
I realize how psychotic that sounded. Please don’t e-mail me about it.
A few weeks ago a good friend of mine that was going through some relationship issues told me she’d once found the answers she was looking for right here on this website, and since then she’s been coming back hoping for more. A few weeks before that another friend of mine all the way on the other side of the world sent me an e-mail and the first line was: Dear Chelsi, Queen of LOVE. -Both poor friends are actually under the impression that I actually know what I’m talking about half the time. But the truth is, dear Internet, when it comes to relationships, I know nothing. Sure, there are times when I’ll spout off some things that sound logical because often we can make sense of our lives when we look at them in retrospect, or if we’re just coming from a third person’s perspective, but there are more times, times like the ones I’m currently living, when everything is just a jumbled pile of crap.
When I’m going through relationship, or what-the-fuck-is-this-ship problems, they are more often than not ones that have lasted years, involve the same stupid person, are always either on the forefront of my brain if not floating around in the periphery, and just when I think I’m getting over it, getting stronger, something happens and I completely fall apart. You’d think that I, the one they call Queen of Love, or Girl With Answers to Life, would be able to step back and look at my heavy situations and find that one tiny pinprick of a malfunction, like a single defunct wire in a bundle of Christmas lights, and just fucking fix the shit. Or better yet, I’d just go buy a set of new lights and call it a day. But in all honesty, I’m just not as smart as I come off to be. And I suppose if things were ever that easy, I wouldn’t feel the need to send my problems out into the electronic, unrelentingly judgmental abyss that is the Internet, now would I? (Side note: for my newer readers, if you were around to read my high school entries, you probably would have pulled out a gun and shot yourself because I was the biggest sack of self-pitying shit ever.) Of course, I stay in denial by not opening up my comments because I’m sure strangers would gladly rip me another asshole, but that’s another story.
Denial doesn’t work for this relationship stuff, I do know that for sure. The longer you stay in denial the better chance you have for monumental heartbreak on top of monumental heartbreak from the same person, and I really don’t think anyone deserves that much power over another human being. It just isn’t right. But, another truth is I am masochistic, so, even though this paragraph alone sounds like it came from a fairly level-headed person, I rarely ever take my own advice. Instead, when I’m going through problems of the heart, I do the following things:
- Sex and the City on repeat. I know how girly that sounds, I’m sorry. And no, I’m not going to go into how many times that show has saved my life because it’s too ridiculous to actually put into words, but it has definitely been more than like, a hundred.
- Music. Music has saved my life even more times than SATC, if you can believe that, and I’d be more than happy to suggest some tracks that can make you feel temporarily invincible, and I promise that none of them will be I Will Survive.
- The banner on my phone says DON’T DO IT. “It” being drunk dial of course, (another problem I’ll save for another post) but it also means don’t text, don’t call, don’t sit there and think up reasons to call the person you so desperately want to talk to because if they’re making you feel like a big fat pathetic slug, they’re probably not worth it.
I feel really dumb for just typing those out, but it’s all I really have to offer at this point. So to the two gals I mentioned earlier: I hope this helped. If you can’t connect to me through my false all-knowing-ness, then maybe we can just relate through our own girly stupidity.
Cheers.
He also throws trains at my head while I’m asleep
Can I tell you that I’m really terrible with children? Because I am. For the most part I’ve felt like the maternal instinct was just never a part of my makeup. For one, I don’t usually baby talk. Goo goo gaga--bullshit, I will talk to your spawn like I am Terry Gross because that’s just what makes the most sense to me. Secondly, I just don’t do labor, and normally when I see moms with bodies and hair that look a hot mess, and all they have to show for it is the screaming, crying, drooling little dough-ball of a human being that most likely just shit their pants and/or threw up all over the place, I cannot conceive of any reason why anyone would do that to themselves. I suppose my logic in general when it comes to dealing with kids is all off: They look like miniature people, so can’t I treat them like miniature people? What's really all that wrong about substituting a drawer for a crib? And don't call my enclosed play structure a cage, that's totally not what I meant!
But then about a year ago I started hanging out regularly with my friend Jo, so being around her 3 year old son Josh was unavoidable, and though we had a rocky start because I wasn’t into the whole, Chelsi play trains? Trains, Chelsi? Chelsi, TRAINS? CHELSI PLAY TRAINS? game, and still don’t see the fun in watching Baby Einsteins or Wonder Pets for twelve hours at a time, I’ve gotten over a lot of things and now we get along famously. I mean, I won’t be speaking with Kathie Lee about Mommy Blogging any time soon, but let me take a second to tell you about the ways a child can change your life, even when you’re not their parent. Because I promise, the second you let one of these miniature people get to you, there really is no turning back.
Josh was diagnosed with Autism about six months ago after he started exhibiting some very clear cut signs that there was something abnormal going on (problems with speech, bedtime was a nightmare, obsession with reciting dialogue from cartoons), and since then there’s been a constant struggle to understand him, to find ways to keep him comfortable, and to get the best care possible because he’s at that oh-so-crucial stage of development. The most surprising thing about the whole process for me is that none of it has felt like a burden. I mean, I'm certainly not in his mother's position and I can’t imagine what it would be like if activities as simple as washing my hands felt similar to rubbing fiery sandpaper all over my body, but I gladly do my best to put myself in his shoes when I'm around and he’s having a tantrum, and I offer up as much information about Autism that I can find because when I'm not around him he's still on my mind and that has lead to a constant search on my part for new ways to improve his life. So I'm willingly putting myself out there for this guy, doing things I normally wouldn't do, and it's funny because it feels so natural to me. Oh, and the time that I actually babysat him alone and had to change his diaper? DIDN'T EVEN GAG. And there was real poo in it, by the way. Baby poo. A substance I might suggest should our country ever want to go all-natural in bomb development.
Recently Jo and I had a conversation about how likely it is to get pregnant when you’re using protection and she said something like, Joshy broke all barriers, so I’m sure he’s here for a reason. –I’ve come to wholly agree, but beyond that I think kids like him are here for many reasons, one being to teach stuck up bitches like me a thing or two about how to act selflessly and love unconditionally, and when he wakes me up at the crack of dawn every time I have to sleep over his house because it's so far away from where I live, just so he can crawl into bed and scream into my ear: CHELSI, I LOVE YOU SO MUCH! I realize this all over again, and all those mothers who look like shit? that they don’t care, because when you’re around something as amazing as a child, there’s really nothing else that matters. I am so thankful for being able to see that now, and for how it’s changed me.
I’m participating in a walk for Autism at the Alameda County Fairgrounds on June 7th, and wanted to reach out to all of you readers for help. Help includes donations, emails of support, well wishes, etc. But mostly donations because if I meet my goal of one hundred dollars I get a free t-shirt! Just kidding. If you want to donate to me personally you can do so here. Otherwise you can donate to the team, the entire benefit, or better yet, become a member yourself if you’re in the area and can join us in a few weeks. For all of you potential donators, I’m not expecting much. Even if all you can give is what you’d normally spend on your daily coffee, there are no words for how thankful I'd be. And if you email me with your name and the amount you donated, I’ll write it on my face the day I walk and take lots of embarrassing pictures of myself which I will then post on this website. I swear.
Thank you
I recently met a girl who has inadvertently turned my life around. She was hired at my place of business just before the New Year because everyone and their mother wanted to take some vacation time. I wouldn’t say that we really hit it off right away; I mean, she’s a friendly girl with lots of questions about, oh, everything there is in the world, and I love to answer questions so I guess it was just natural for her to enjoy my company. But then when I saw her for what was maybe the third time just before January hit, she hugged me and said, “Chelsi, I’m so glad to have met you this year! You are such a good friend and I feel like we’ve known each other for a long time.” Whoa, right? I wanted to be flattered, I really did, but I’m so uncomfortable in situations like that. With the hugging and the appreciating. Who does that anymore? Anyway, I decided to pass it off as a foreign thing (she’s straight out of South America) and haven’t thought about it since.
Because we work the same position, I don’t see her unless I catch her at the tail end of her shift or vice versa, but even in those short five or six minute windows she’s always eager to play twenty questions or to set up a time when we can hang out outside of work. My schedule between two jobs and TRYING to find an internship is crazy, so I usually have to tell my friends that unless they book me two weeks ahead of time, I can’t hang out. But how do you repeatedly turn down someone who HUGGED you and thanked you for existing? Unless you have no soul, YOU CAN’T. So then yesterday, after sitting on my ass for a good four hours because we had a total of thirty three customers all morning, I decided to give Miss South America a call and ask her if she’d like to get together for some coffee or a movie after I got off. (Does this sound like it’s going to turn into a story of the lesbian variety? Because it isn’t. Sorry to disappoint!) Miss South America was a film student when she was in college, so she insisted that we see the movie Juno, which, by the way, is amazing.
While waiting for the movie to start we talked about how she got her dream job as a Mac Specialist at the Apple store downtown, but shortly after the confirmation she received an e-mail retracting the job offer because her work visa ends in March and they require a longer commitment. It made me think about where I regrettably stand in internship land (at the bottom of the septic tank) but that the opportunities surrounding me are vast. That if I don’t get the exact one I want, the chances of finding something else are still significant, whereas here is this girl who has flown all the way to California in order to immerse herself in a profession that she’s wanted to be a part of for the greater part of her entire life, was accepted into her dream world and then rejected because she’s not a citizen. That’s more than a no, you suck at interviewing, try again somewhere else; that’s a no, you can’t have a job here. Period. Ever. Unless you marry some American guy.
What’s worse is that that’s not even the part that humbled me. The part that made me want to start crying and hug her with my cold and unaffectionate American arms is when she told me that she suffers from a very debilitating disease, and because of that disease, was practically bedridden for two years of her life. When the doctor that had been monitoring her case from the beginning told her she couldn’t possibly do anything for her anymore, Miss South America decided that it was time to seize any opportunity to enjoy life that presented itself, and that’s what backed her decision to see her current holistic doctor and try her luck in the States. Now she drinks her holistic teas and works as often as she can, even though it takes her two to three days to fully recuperate after two five hour shifts, and it seems to be working out well for her so far. She told me the reason she confided in me about her condition was because she feels like we were meant to be friends, and she doesn’t want to lie to someone she thinks may be such a big part of her life in the long run.
Do you want to hug your monitor and cry yet? Because I do. Before this information, I felt like Miss South America’s optimism was really overwhelming. I mean, nobody in San Francisco is that optimistic. We have earthquakes and tons of homeless people and terrible weather and ridiculous living costs and no parking, so it’s a little hard to shoot rainbows out of our asses. A lot of tourists are surprised that we’re not the fun-loving, beach-dwelling, surfer, sunshiney, happy-go-lucky people that they had in mind (for that kind of experience you definitely want to go to Southern California), but Miss South America seems largely unaffected by this. Instead she says “goodmorning!” like sugar is dripping from her teeth and laughs about walking to work in the rain without an umbrella and acts like being sad is just so two years ago. And now that I know she is projecting this unexplainable niceness while constantly dealing with weakness, pain and unbearable fatigue on top of the scum-filled city, I feel like such a pile of trash for ever complaining about anything.
Before we did the whole hug thing again and said goodbye after our movie date, she said something that I think will probably stay with me for the rest of my life, and that is that pity and compassion are two very different things. She hates pity because to her it’s superficial. Someone can feel sorry for someone else’s situation, but it’s fleeting. Often there is no effort or desire to understand it. Compassion involves action, because compassionate people want to fix the situation because of how much they care, even if the only thing they can do to alleviate any stress for the person in question is to act as though nothing is wrong, though they’ll never forget what they know, and will somehow, someway, be forever changed by it. Miss South America says she feels very strongly that I am a compassionate person, and that that sort of detection is very rare for her.
I’m beyond thankful for this assumption, and am rendered almost speechless by it because so much of me feels like I don’t deserve it. I’ve been told repeatedly for the last two years by someone I care(d) for very deeply that I have serious issues. That I’m whiney and needy and annoying and crazy. My defense has always been that I’m just really passionate about the things that I love, and is that really such a bad thing? Isn’t it honest and raw and commendable? Howard Hughes said, “Passion will make you crazy, but is there any other way to live?” and I’ve surrendered myself to this quote and even, on occasion, used it to defend my actions because I simply can’t control the way that I am, the way that I think, the way so much of me is defined by my intense devotion to the things and people that I care for. And now someone I barely know has recognized that about me, and that recognition and approval almost justifies all of my uncontrollable passion-fueled actions and words that until now I’ve come so close to hating.
Funny how an almost complete stranger can right your way of thinking after someone you thought you knew inside and out managed to bend it all out of shape.