it seems our shadows are wearing us

the story continues at os_lunatum, beginning on 24 July 2006.

i moved into a new apartment: the Bandits' Cave. i am now prepared to be in the same city for a year.
we have a lot of big, big windows. lots of light. it's very noisy, though. nothing an oscillating fan & a stereo can't help.
we built shelves out of milk crates & i'm dumpstering a desk tonight.

i got rid of nearly a third of my music collection. gave those cds one last 30-second-per-track listen, just to make sure they're really no longer useful to me. it was strange to remember how much meaning i used to find in bands like Orgy or Stabbing Westward - it fed my teen angst, surely. these days i wouldn't dare buy a cd that opened with such trite self-deprecating phrases as "i'm such an asshole," or contained entire songs written about wanting to kick a fellow musician's ass. i have to wonder, though: were these bands of late-twentysomethings immature and thus able to truly relate to our rage, or were the industry's cool-hunters already one step ahead of our pseudo-rebellious needs?

i also got rid of any punk band that sang about punk. this means you, Blanks 77.
and any soundtrack i bought just for one or two songs. especially from the kevin smith movies.
into the free box went everything i ever bought because i thought i should listen to it even though i didn't necessarily like it a lot. see: the Queers, Hole's first record, Yo-La-Tengo, Primus.
Insane Clown Posse finally went...well, except for The Great Milenko, my one guilty pleasure. Ah, to be 16!
i had to keep Coal Chamber & Ugly Kid Joe for nostalgic value, though.
looks like i've finally learned how to have good taste in music...

it was very theraputic to organize my zines & books and finally put them on shelves, too.

in any case: i won't have much internet access until i purchase a laptop. if i owe you an email, you will probably receive a postcard instead, or even...*gasp!* a phone call.

Yesterday, at work, I suggested that we start carrying some of my favorite sequential art: Dinosaur Comics. The boss was all, "all right! Get me some info!" So I sent off a few business emails and now we're gonna get Dinosaur Comics!

I love it when people listen to me! It's like I'm starting to be...part of the team.

My job-related morale has improved quite a bit now that I'm more familiar with my surroundings & have cut my teeth on the world of superhero comics. Seems I've passed Test One as I no longer feel constantly nervous with the need to impress my coworkers. It might be as late as October when I can start doing what I was actually hired to do--working on the website--but slinging comics isn't too terrible now that I've gotten to know some of the regulars. Yeah...I could do this for the next year.

Wow. I often forget that Chicago is a HUGE city and lots of people live here.

Like, Chris Connelly totally works at Reckless Records. I shop there ALL THE TIME!

One girl, after browsing and halfheartedly mocking the vast array of Accoutrements (read: disposable culture) we sell, brought a sheet of pirate-skull stickers up to my register. Digging deep into her purse for the requisite $3.22, she was telling me, "I don't know why I'm buying this. I don't need these. I don't really want them. I don't know where I'm even going to put them! But, I just feel like I should buy something!"

And then:

Just before we closed, a little girl wearing a messenger bag came into the store and asked me if I wanted to buy any candy. I said no thanks, I don't have any extra money until I get paid on Wednesday. "Well would you like to make a donation?" After I reiterated that I was completely broke, she asked permission to ask other people in the store, and I said yes. While she was making her rounds, my coworker explained to me that she's often in here asking for "donations," and he's observed an older gentleman (her father?) waiting outside for her. Apparently he sends her into a lot of stores in the area and then collects the money from her. He didn't know any more details, but it was enough to make me somewhat concerned. As she left, holding a cell phone that looked almost pretend against her small head, I asked, "Sweetie, what are you collecting donations for?" "Myself!" she responded matter-of-factly. "Oh-h-h...," I stumbled over my words, "Well, you come back in on Wednesday and I'll see what I can do." An older gentleman was waiting outside for her, shiftily peering into our windows.

I don't know what the hell I was talking about. Do what? If her dad's using her in order to hustle money at age 5, I feel like there should be something one could do about that. Of course, I've no proof at all, just a story. That doesn't stop me from questioning the possibilities. It could be totally legit, for all I know. Still, I hate the not knowing.

Sigh. I was supposed to be working in an office by now.

I need more songs like this:

The Specials - "Little Bitch"
The Dandy Warhols - "Bohemian Like You"

Siouxie & the Banshees - "Happy House"
Mindless Self Indulgence - "Bitches"

The second songs contain somewhat reworked bits from the first--not exact samples, per se, but similar melodies. (ie, "Bohemian Like You" use the same guitar riff as "Little Bitch," in a different key.)

I'd like all the songs to be from the same respective genres/time periods: Post Modern vs. Post Punk.
But then I'd have to exclude such gems as:

The Rolling Stones - "Sympathy for the Devil"
The Transplants - "Diamonds & Guns"

Iggy & the Stooges - "Search & Destroy"
Utah Saints - "Techknowledgy"

Hrm...

Any suggestions?

My period came fifty days after giving birth. My FAM charts looked exactly as the book described: temperature going up and down, up and down, as my hormones regulated and my body prepared for ovulation. It seems that I am now far more in tune with my cycle than I ever thought I could be. I've been practicing Fertility Awareness for nearly four years now, having always understood it from a purely scientific viewpoint. I knew what part of my cycle I was experiencing by looking at my chart and having memorized the basic pattern of fertile phase-ovulation-menstruation. Now, however, I've developed a strong sense of intuition about my cycle, to the point where the physical manifestations are almost secondary. When I woke up this morning, I knew that I would be ovulating in a day's time; I knew this seconds before I recognized the familiar sharp-yet-almost-gaseous abdominal pain on my left side. Only mere seconds before the pain did the thought register, but it is a glaring difference to what I now perceive as a very clumsy, fumbling understanding of my reproductive system pre-baby.

I must say that it is very disconcerting to know that my body is physically capable and ready to become pregnant again, when my mind still gets caught up in the fact that OH MY GOD I HAVE A DAUGHTER. Sometimes I am upset to think that, had I been mothering in the tangible sense, it would've taken much longer for my cycle to get back to normal. Breastfeeding creates a hormonal state which usually postpones ovulation for months after the birth, a neat little evolutionary trick that ensures the mother will be able to nurture her child and regain her strength before becoming pregnant again. How does my body perceive the lack of child? I would almost expect my body to exist in a state of confusion, having spent nine months preparing to bear a child only to have that child removed from the picture. But the worst that happened to me, physically, was that my milk came in a few days after giving birth and my breasts were really sore and I cried a little because I felt relatively useless as a mother. After that, my body quickly returned to "potential-baby-factory" mode.

I have a terrifyingly strong urge to get pregnant again. I understand how completely illogical this is, but in my current state there is little that can dissuade me from romanticizing pregnancy. Oh, sure! I'd love to spend three months eating nothing but crackers, then three months feeling sore and dizzy, then three months feeling restless and laying on my right side each night. But the birth itself...being the most beautiful and empowering experience I've ever had...that would make it worthwhile every time.

Still, I have a steady grasp on reality, mostly. I've made many improvements in my life this year, but I'm still far from creating the ideal home in which to raise a family. The birth and adoption gave me the necessary shove into a level of mental/emotional maturity I think is essential to being a parent; now I just need to figure out the little things, structure my beliefs, maintain stability. I'm taking small steps forward, but the goal of raising a child is still foremost in my mind.

(Tangent: as a feminist [who doesn't particularly like using "the f-word"], I'm recalling the reading of so many horror stories of woman lamenting the shackles of motherhood and complaining that there are so many more fulfilling things to do than havin' babies. The reality of having children feels incredibly purposeful and important to me, but not in such a way that I feel the need to live solely for my children. I'm still so very aware of my individuality--being inextricably connected to my child, but not of her, not owning her. I am interested to see how I deal with these sentiments when I am finally in a position to care for a baby fulltime.)

The madness at the edge of thought is so tempting, especially when WS get all starry-eyed and says, "Let's have another baby." We know this is impossible, but saying it to me is equivalent to my teasing him about impromptu roadtrips & gypsy caravans.

Pregnancy isn't impossible in simply a financial sense, either. Despite my body being capable of carrying a child already, I've developed an aversion to sex that is strongly reminiscent of my virginal teenage fears of even being touched "down there" (as they say). Having given birth, I am fully aware that I am a sexual being, but I don't feel sexy. I think the procreation aspect of sex seems more fulfilling to me at this time than the physical pleasure aspect. I don't mean to say that physical pleasure (and expressions of love, for that matter) are completely invalidated, just that I am now so connected to the idea of procreation that sex-for-pleasure has become a foreign and unfamiliar concept. It's something I'll need to learn how to enjoy again.

This isn't a problem, but it will take time to work through nonetheless. Wandering Star is being just as supportive and understanding as always, and I'm grateful for his patience as I continue to explore my new role of Mother. I have gained a certain amount of confidence in proving that my body is capable of bearing a child, and I find that I'm proud of all the little ways in which I've changed--my widened hips, the few extra pounds I've retained in my thighs, the discoloration of flesh on my stomach, the newfound use of my pelvic muscles. I have to learn this new body, have to merge the contrasting purposes of my sexuality--that of creating & nurturing a new life, and also of giving & receiving pleasure. There is an overwhelming dichotomy in thinking of my breasts as something both attractive and functional for survival, of my vagina as something that can actively give as well as passively receive.

In my mind, I understand these things in excruciatingly simple terms. "I don't want anything to go in," I say, "but I want something to come out." Tortured Artist reminds me of my old desire to be a vessel, conduit for sale. After taking so much of the world in, of course I'd want something to finally come out. The child is my masterpiece.

1. The eL reminds me of the rickety old rollercoasters at Kennywood, an amusement park my family visited once every summer. Mom would make matching outfits for my sister and I--"Kennywood outfits," especially for the occasion. Up on the wooden platforms, I remember the boardwalk in New Jersey. The humid evening sunsets carry the scent of lakewater. When the train comes in, I am entranced by the metallic rhythm of the tracks, clankety-clank. I've been enamored with industrial sounds since childhood, machines creating the perfect endlessly repeating pattern of noise. Sparks fly and the night glows an eerie robot-blue.

2. When you put $20 on a farecard, you get $2 extra. The machine tickers a little message: "BONUS $2 CREDIT." It kind of makes me feel like I've won at slots.

3. At work, we get a 1 hour paid lunch. I like this because it is a way of acknowledging our humanity. It's like, "Hey, if you're going to be sitting in the store for 8+ hours, you'll need to eat something."

4. For some reason, I've had a problem with transposing numbers since I started this new job. When I tell a customer their total, I usually reverse the change amount - $34.63 becomes $34.36. It's odd, because I am often looking directly at the numbers onscreen while reciting, but I still get it wrong. The biggest mistake I made was still only a $3 discrepancy (switching the numbers directly before and after the decimal), but it is quite unsettling, given how attentive I usually am to these sorts of things. I'm also having trouble typing as quickly as I normally do, especially when using the number pad--however, I blame this on the fact that we use Macs at work, and Mac keyboards are always stickier than PCs'.

5. I've noticed more pregnant people now than when I was actually pregnant. It's easy to get overly (read: vicariously) excited for them. Mostly, though, I'm doing well on the postpartum front.

"Paid in full," oh, what a beautiful phrase. Today, all but two of my official debts are paid off. I still owe $a-hefty-sum for the first ultrasound I had last August, and I have one lingering school loan from Pitt that's been plaguing me since 2003. I have more than enough room in my budget to pay these sooner rather than later. (Finally!) Also, certain individuals are deserving of some extremely late checks from me, which will be taken care of next month, but owing money to a friend doesn't scare me as much as owing money to a creditor who sends their lawyers after me if my payments are late.

At my worst (autumn 2005), I had six unruly medical bills, the school loan, no job, and was borrowing money from friends so I wouldn't have to eat out of the dumpster. It's like, I've made progress! Improved my life! And other good stuff! What a wonderful feeling!

Having spent four hours today discussing "The State of Things" with Tortured Artist, I still find that I'm barely able to scratch the surface of articulation... In my previous entry I think I got too dangerously close to my old habit of associating The Man with any aspect of work that annoys me, and accusing innocent unknowns as mindless consumer whores. Obviously, no positive social change is going to come about with this attitude...

I'm fumbling for sensible words, and I find that so many others express the same sentiment: clearly, there is something terribly wrong with the world,...so many wrong things that we can't quite figure it all out. I have an idealized vision of a more community-oriented society, a world in which people don't feel the need to hit their children, don't have to exhaust themselves with crappy jobs, where basic needs can be met and people can have enough time and money left over to pursue happiness.

What is the first step? How can we become community-oriented when so many people can't even greet each other on the streets? When will leaders be selected on their wisdom rather than the amount of money they have? When will we stop going to war? How do we start treating each other like human beings? How do we develop a functioning educational system? a humane prison system focussed on rehabilitation instead of punishment? a fair economic system? When will we start working together?

All of these issues seem inextricably intertwined...where do I start? What can I possibly do to improve life?

This is what I'm thinking about when I'm at work, selling comics and trying to maintain a good mood for eight hours a day. Is it okay to sell action figures to people while others are dying in the war in Iraq? Is it okay for me to get a new tattoo while someone else starves? I'm increasingly bothered by this disparity, and the conclusion I've reached today (and again and again, in the past) is simply this: that we can only take what we're given and try to improve upon it. Keep working towards the ideal, because it can't happen all at once...the change must be gradual lest everything fall apart.

I must accept that what I do is okay. As Erin pointed out in her comment, those people who are working towards social change "don't come with a bar code or a stamp on their foreheads." I can't let my workplace-irritability cause me to pass judgement on people based on their purchases--after all, I'd probably be just as inclined to spend a bit of my disposable income on CDs as they spend theirs on comics and figures. I probably give as much meaning to my photo-prints as others do to coffeetable books of pinup art. I know the values are equally strong, as defined by their respective collector--it's an argument I've often backed up: art is what you make of it.

So, rather than lashing out at what I perceive are injustices, I must quell this angst and frustration and instead channel the energy into something more productive. I am an artist, and while I don't directly make art about many of the issues that bother me, I can still use this talent to support others who devote their entire lives to those particular issues. I'm a photographer, not a farmhand at Animal Sanctuary; I'm a zinester, not a member of the Peace Corps--but, I can send the profits of my art to those organizations as a valid form of support. This is an acceptable compromise for me. With my art, I can bring beauty--which I believe is a necessary part of existence--into the world, and with my money I can help in ways that my body will not. With my words I can inform others of these issues, and encourage empathy. I do exactly what I am capable of--no better or worse than any other individual can choose to do.

With this understanding, I think I am also building the beginnings of a community. As people realize what they are capable of doing, we can begin using our respective abilities together, working towards similar ideals. And this is beautiful. Despite all the problems we can and cannot articulate, I've not lost hope. People are dying and babies are born, people fight while others profess their undying love, millions protest the war; we're doing what we can to get by, to make it better. Air pollution causes breathtaking sunsets...that is what my hope looks like.

It was sunny and humid the day I came home from the hospital--swamplike, as I remembered New Orleans. I was still so dizzy, clutching the iron rail going up the stairs. My eyes couldn't focus, weakened as they were from the hospital's harsh fluourescence--but colors were more vibrant, reminiscent of the way the world used to flare up on the verge of an acid trip so long ago. I remember how incredibly green were our creepers growing up the stairs, how the golden late-afternoon sunlight peaked through the pines. Exhausted from the short walk, I collapsed onto the bed. Almost immediately, the tears came: "she's so beautiful, she's so perfect." Words fail me at the crucial moment, always.

I imagined a different choice, a different life--in which we brought Little Star home to our tiny room in our lackluster apartment. She would've slept between us, "little baby burrito" we called her, wrapped up snugly in hospital blankets. "Babies aren't expensive," Lux had told me, and it was true. My body would produce everything she'd need for food, I could easily sew cloth diapers out of old t-shirts,... oh, but we would have to pay rent soon, someone would have to go back to work, and we weren't ready, weren't ready.

Sun Dove has already sent us a batch of photos. Little Star has a birthmark on her right hand, in the same place that I have a similarly-shaped burn-mark from my angsty teenage years. She has Wandering Star's lips and the pudgy cheeks distinctive of my lineage. She has a lot of cute outfits to wear--a cherry-print dress, monkey footie-pajamas, bright colors and soft fabrics. For some reason this detail speaks loudly to me. I'm glad she has new outfits; we're both glad that she'll never have to ask, "Mommy, are we poor?"

But still, there is the daydream, forefront in my mind these days. A long time ago I had read that many birthmothers will have an inexplicable urge to have another baby, in an effort to replace the one they'd given away. I do have an incredibly strong desire to become pregnant again--it's almost frightning how it dominates my thoughts at times--but, luckily for me, my body still flinches at the mere mention of a sexually-charged touch. I don't want a replacement child, though. It's more like: having a child and giving her up for adoption made me feel ready to have another child and raise her. I know that I must first complete my more concrete goals of finishing my formal education, saving some money, and securing a home...oh, but that's such a long way away, and I am irrationally impatient now.

I've so much to accomplish, yet I feel so lost. Did I do the right thing? Was it wrong to come to Chicago now? What do I do next?


I'm not asking for answers, here. This is merely a display of the way my feelings disintegrate; I have a thought, and it starts to fray at the edges with What-If?s. These days, I can only express myself with a wandering vagueness, vagrant words.

Ten-hour workdays leave me little time for creative endeavors. With a heavy sigh, here we go again...

( the complaint department )

Soon, I'll be safely holed-up in the basement, typing away... but in these mere two weeks my dissatisfaction with work has brought back those old feelings of fear and anger, enhanced now as my brain struggles to make sense of the disparity between my current angst and my post-birth feelings of joy and a certainty of what is truly important in my life.

I've been thinking a lot about The Rest of My Life as a whole, which is probably not the wisest thing to do, as life can only be planned out so far in advance, if at all. One of my goals is to become a librarian, so that I can support myself (and future family) while doing something I really enjoy. The dilemma I've encountered is that many things I enjoy tend to become quite irritating when I am required to do them. This is why I've no desire to be a commercial photographer; one of the joys of artmaking is that I allow myself to follow the creative process however I want. There are no deadlines, no pressures. Could I really be happy if I had to work in the library 9-5 every day?

At times, I've been able to take a zenlike approach to my perception of time: if I am at work, I am at work; I should enjoy my time there until it's over. I am able to allow this push-and-pull sense of control over my time to a certain extent... but I really don't want to allow any external force to determine where I must go and what I must do for 8+ hours out of the day. Some days I want to work in a library, some days I'll want to be in the darkroom, some days I might take my kid to a museum. I have no qualms about the work itself, but I need an element of control over my time, my life. I need the freedom to actively choose what to make of my days.

Perhaps I should consider freelancing. Could this provide me with the financial security I desire while allowing me to work and live at my own pace? Am I responsible enough for this? I have a lot of time to think about these things, and I do still want to finish my formal education, at least. Future plans, as always, sit on the backburner. Stewing.

Just before leaving Pittsburgh, we visited Ma Terre & her new Baby Turtle. I got to hold him for a short while, watching as he practiced moving his facial muscles--random, strangely adult expressions on such a tiny face. Tortured Artist kept asking me if I wanted more time--time for holding the baby, for comparing birth stories with Ma Terre, for solace in a realm of Motherhood like a secret society--but I said I was fine, and there were no tears. Not until this morning, when I realized that under radically different circumstances, Little Star & Baby Turtle would've grown up together.

(Do I stop here, making this an overly mopey entry? I've made every effort to refrain from using my blog as a dumping ground for depression--that got old years ago, in the days of zcyanide...)

Sometimes there is no resolution, though--just a sadness, then a distraction.

Some interesting facts about cremation:

1. Both body and coffin are burned because the human body (being comprised mainly of water) yields a mere tablespoon of ash. The coffin ash is necessary to "bulk up" the remains, in order to offer the bereaved a more substantial memento.

2. Any metal parts that don't burn get thrown into the trash...

3. ...that is, unless you're a photographer with a mortician friend.

( Read more... )

Pittsburgh offered a less-than-savory blend of emotions: discomfort, alienation, and all the rest, accented by a night of much-needed revelry with Thing 2 et al. at a dive called... GOOSKI'S. This bar features an equal mix of fuzzy-haired hipsters and grizzled Tom Waits lookalikes cursed with permanent whiskeyface. For some ungodly reason (possibly the screwdriver) I decided to lift my six year ban on gin and try a Tom Collins. Apparently my 16-year-old self of the Very Bad Experience With Gin was correct in her partial temperance, as I ended up inwardly scowling at the nausea-inducing ginbreath I had for the rest of the night. But still, a good time was had by all, and we totally dominated the jukebox.

Funny how I so easily slipped into the rhythm of the Iron City. I could swear I felt my heartbeat change pace, aligning itself with the beat of my hometown as soon as I saw the first PATransit bus on the highway. At first, I felt as though my entire time in Athens--hell, all of the past year for that matter--was far behind me, a neat little package of Away Time slid into the back of my mind. My second day in town, I felt like I never left, so familiar I am with the bus routes and impromptu roadwork, the smell of rain in the streets. However much Pittsburgh's charcoal-dusted claws reached out to me, staining my cheeks once again, I was still a stranger. My time away was a betrayal; things could never be the same between us.

Visiting my family was awkward enough. Was it wrong for me to even wish for closure? My sister C. said nothing at all to me; my dad only spoke once, to say a friend had called. J. & S. were emotionally distant, giving me dead fish hugs like others give handshakes. M., with whom I've managed to be relatively close, showed me her artwork from this school year. She's quite talented, and is drawing a picture of Little Star as her final project. This really moved me; I could see the effect the events of the past year have had on her, and I was glad she'd turned it into something beautiful.

During a conversation with my aunt, I was told that my family wasn't upset about the adoption after all--"you had to do what you had to do," she said. Rather, they were hurt that I hadn't allowed them to participate in this important event. Apparently, they thought I'd been pushing them away this whole time... funny, I felt the same thing, which was what drove me to Athens.

I don't think I believe that they weren't upset about the adoption. My aunt told me that my dad, as his father's only biological child, was utterly heartbroken that I'd given away his first grandchild, an act which in his mind made it impossible to carry on the family lineage. My mom still wanted to know if I could change my mind at this point, because by her sense of reasoning, if the so-called trailer-trash pregnant teens working parttime customer service can raise their children-by-unplanned-pregnancy, then surely I would make a fine parent. Again, I attempted to explain my reasons for wanting to put off parenting until a more mature time in my life, and again, she deduced that I was being selfish because I "just didn't want a baby."

These things hurt: being told I don't want my daughter, I'm not worthy to call myself a mother, that my daughter isn't a part of the family. Still, I don't argue and I don't apologize.

I explained that I never intended to hurt or offend anyone; that I did what I (still) believe is right; that I went to Athens because I felt too much pressure in Pittsburgh, not because I was running away or pushing away. Although I felt like I needed to go through the pregnancy and birth alone, I made many efforts to encourage my family to participate in Little Star's life.

Should I have expected reconciliation? Mom smiled and nodded through all of this, and I could tell nothing was changing. I thought I was pouring out my heart--all messy on the kitchen table--but when I paused for breath she asked me if my friend (politely waiting outside) wanted to come in. "Mom, I really want us to start working through all this; there's been too much miscommunication over the past year." "Don't you think he'd like a glass of water or something?" Daddy came into the kitchen and noisily began washing the dishes, still saying nothing, though I was glad he could at least bring himself to listen. The six-year-old in me is devastated that he's so disappointed with me, just wants, for once, for her parents to really be proud of something she did, of her own accord, because she wanted to and thought it was good.

Oh. I've made the mistake of writing for a specific person in my audience.

But then, I can't write for possible persons.

My family's house is brimming with nostalgia. Mom finally began unpacking the boxes she brought when we moved to this house in 2001 and packing up my dead grandmother's collections of decorative plates, glass figures, and other art objects. Memories surface everywhere: simple ceramic pieces I found fascinating during my childhood, my mother's collection of figurines and various souvenirs which I was allowed to look at but never touch (thus giving them a mystical quality). Artwork I made in gradeschool shows the evolution of my handwriting, how I went from curvaceous, flowery lettering to the sharp and jutting penmanship of the present; how I deliberately changed my writing, honing its appearance until it became perfect--teaching myself to put lines through my 7's and Z's, connecting t's with h's for efficiency. She's framing photographs now--my grandparents' wedding picture, my siblings' most recent school photos, printouts of the baby pictures I'd emailed to her. I'm starting to see the resemblance.

I finally removed myself completely from that house. Tortured Artist helped me move my remaining boxes from my parents' garage into his car for the trip back to Chicago. I said I would be back to visit later in the summer; my mom said goodbye to me as though I was just going down the street for a few hours. This is really the end--you can't go home again.

It would be easy, now, to give up and disappear for a while, until they are ready to find me. But I think I can maintain contact--enough that we all know each other is alive, not too much that we feel overwhelmed, and hopefully in equal parts so that this time I don't feel like it's solely my obligation to uphold this relationship. I thought my visit would be a soap-opera drama, tears and hugs and forgiveness and understanding all around--but real life isn't like that, that's why it's not on television. This is going to take a lot of work, and it will take a long time. I'm willing to try and make things better. Surely it will be worthwhile.

I will be in Pittsburgh this weekend. My time there is extremely limited, but I would like to get together with ye olde Iron City Punks...YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. I can be reached via cell at 412-512-XXXX while I'm in town. (Please note: this is not my phone; I'm just borrowing it from a friend.)


YA RLY!