Anywhere but Phoenix

I think about band names more than I should for a person who can barely carry a tune and butchers chords on guitar. But that would be it. That would be my band name. Anywhere but Phoenix. It seems appropriate. It's mostly true.

I do not like Phoenix. When asked why, I'm quick to answer that it has no soul. But what's that even mean?

This is a cold, cold place that has pockets of community with no connections between them. Drivers aren't defensive--they own the road. The music lacks inspiration. There's even a term for it: Desert Pop. People don't greet others in passing and with my propensity to talk to strangers, I find this problematic. The city is caught in an identity crisis. It's continually expanding but creating the same horizon with each new avenue it adopts.

But the real problem? No, it's not political and has nothing to do with the economy. Not for me, anyway. It's something I can't really explain. I just don't feel like I belong here. So when I say that Phoenix has no soul, what I mean is that I can't find my own here. But maybe I can't see the desert for the sun, so to speak. Because I'm here. And I've signed a contract. And though I may not enjoy the school where I work, I have met some pretty great people there. Even though I feel like I don't belong here, I need to be content with the choices I have made. Besides, the sunsets are beautiful.

Where could I go? Anywhere but Phoenix. Where will I go? I'm just not sure yet.

-Theresa

And listen,

'bout those bitter songs you sing...

We're all so full of opinions about the way things should and shouldn't be. I'm no different.

This much is clear: it shouldn't be this way. I'm doing what I can to make things better. Good.

I thought by the time I was twenty-five I'd have a clear sense of what home is. Instead, like so many other definitions I've created, I'm only able to define by it by what it isn't.

I want to talk about it but more, I want to not have to. I wish there had been people around when--I just wish there were people around. I want friends. People to see and know. No, I need friends. I need people. Who'd have thought the desert was such a cold place?

...They're not helping anything. They won't make you strong.

I'd plan a move but this time, I want to go to something instead of away from another. Maybe I'm just waiting for the universe to push me to something.

-Theresa

Hello Blogger,

My old friend.

Yes, it's been a while. Life got really unmanageable there for a bit. I was, and still am, at a loss for words for what has transpired in the last year--particularly the last seven months. I can say this: it can only get better. I'll do what I can to ensure the truth in that last statement.

Of the things that fill me with sorrow, that I'm not sure I believe in love disturbs me the most.

Motion, motion, motion.

If I can shake this year, then maybe I can shake this feeling.

-Theresa

Love

What a hollow word.

It hasn't rained hard

for the better part of seven months.

She asked if she could go back home and yes, they said, emphatically and over and over and over. But I haven't called her.

Everything I have ever owned got dusty and old.

It's just a story that makes mid-day television because it's too ludicrous for prime-time and don't seem real enough for the news.

It's been a long year but I'm not ready to give up.

And you know, I did just fine without you. Didn't I? Maybe I'm not the person I thought I'd be by now. No, I'm definitely not. But I'm okay with that. I know I've let a lot of people down. Or maybe I'm thinking too much of myself and I didn't really let anyone down. This is just the way things happen sometimes.

Maybe it's time to leave your change behind.

I've changed a lot. If I didn't change, I don't know what would be left of me. All that is left of me is all that I have. And some have chosen to stay and stick it out and see what becomes of it and me. And some have chosen not to. And that's okay. Because sometimes that's the easier choice.

I was never a very good sister. Will weeks in the rain cure me of this? Probably not. I'd need to intend to.

-Theresa

P.S. Road Trip 2011 will still hold its name, though it's more of a four week long journey of planes, trains and automobiles.

The days of the week

Snap. Snap.

Today marks the end of my first year of teaching.

Oh, I should warn you that this is one of those "writing-about-what's-going-on-with-no-real-connections-other-than-in-my-head" posts.

Goal: Be a better teacher next year.
Next steps: Long term plans and centers to be completed over the summer.

Goal: Have a real vacation.
Next steps: Stop worrying about what's going to happen when I get home.

Goal: Road Trip 2011
Next steps: Find someone to drive with.

In terms of Road Trip 2011, the facts are these:

I was going to fly to San Francisco, Seattle and then Detroit. Instead, I will drive to San Francisco with a girl from work, fly to Seattle alone and potentially (hopefully) meet Kensey, and then fly to Detroit on June 23. From there, I would like a road trip.

Potential places to visit:

Kalamazoo and a variety of stops in Michigan
Chicago
Little Rock
Alabama
North Carolina

Potential meaning I know someone and/or have been invited to come. My intention is to spend more time in Kalamazoo than Detroit. At least I have keys to a house there.

There is a very big difference between being wanted, needed and necessary. Unfortunately, I feel I understand the very clear distinction between those adjectives.

Goal: Have friends to drink with by the end of the next year of teaching.
Next steps: ...Dang.

-Theresa

I love my bed.

A Potential Series

At five in the morning, I love my bed. I get in this love bubble where it makes me sad to think about leaving it or a little annoyed if someone disturbs our time together. Even if I didn't have the best night with my bed, I still don't want to leave it. That's how much I love my bed. It's a real, unshakable love.

Let me tell you, people, when I'm not in my bed, I have fantasies about all the lying about I could be doing with my bed. It's just been so good to me. It loves to cuddle. It doesn't tell me I'm wrong. It's especially kind on my fat days. And on the days I really need to sleep in, it muffles the sound of my alarm because I think it loves me too.

Never, not ever, has my bed woken me up before my alarm goes off unless it was something really important like forgetting to blow out a candle or a really icky bug. But you, sir, mistook this love I have for my bed as a joke. No, at five in the morning, nothing is a joke. Except perhaps a text message asking if i m single. That really should have been a joke. As should said text message's mistake follow-up texts and phone calls. Yes, plural. My bed tried to protect me but its grasp only reaches so far. I imagine that there isn't a big network of beds that talk to each other. Although, I imagine if there was, my bed would join that network to tell you or anyone that at five in the morning, do not talk to me. DO NOT POKE THE BEAR.

I love my bed and it loves me too. Especially at five in the morning.

-Theresa

Value

It is alarmingly easy for the things in our lives that hold great value to lose all meaning.

As found as she may be,

she's still lost. I'll spare the internet the details, but we know where my sister is now. I love her very, very much but I've washed my hands clean of this particular situation. Instead of going into those details, I'll go into these:

Things I like about myself that others have told me they don't
(A partial list):

How loud my laugh is
My short, curly hair
How easily amused I am
My excitement over seemingly meaningless things
The amount of cumin I use in my cooking
The color of my glasses
I prefer to be barefoot
My taste in music
Sitting criss cross applesauce
How much I notice
Wanderlust
Singing along to any song I know the words to
Shamelessness around strangers
Wearing dresses

I won't let anyone take that from me.

-Theresa

She's gone.

She's alive, as far as we know, but my little sister is gone.

I think maybe, I'll go for a drive. It's bad form to drive and cry at the same time.

Broken

I am part of a broken family. No, not in the conventional sense. We're all still around. My mom and dad, they love each other and they love us. We don't hit or say things we don't mean. At least not anymore. But we are broken.

Consider, for a moment, the dishes off which you may or may not enjoy your meals.

This is a complete set. However, through time, it has deteriorated. It is chipped, glued together and cracked. These things happen when you put dishes in the hands of a child or in a microwave and just through general wear. You just can't bear to throw it away because it's been around for so long. But it still holds your meals. This set is not one you would purchase new or even used. But you might consider donating it. Hey, all the pieces are there. There's even this one extra that doesn't quite fit but it stacks just fine for a while. Until it doesn't. Until it scratches that dish it's sitting on so badly that the ceramic finish isn't enough to hold it all together. So that dish falls apart completely. And the rest wish to follow suit.

Oh, but not these dishes. No. They may fall apart, this much is true. But they will hide it and hold themselves together. These dishes of undetermined color and origin, they survive. These dishes, the cockroaches of the culinary world, just won't let go. They are a constant. Cracks and chips and all.

The thing about dishes, at least ones that are not made of plastic, is that they tend to break. So it really makes complete sense that the dish ran away with the spoon. The spoon, it bends. But there's no snapping that spoon. It does not need to be put back together. That dish can rely on that spoon as much as it wants to and that spoon doesn't mind. And they can share all their meals together. There's probably a cat playing the fiddle somewhere.

But this dish? This dish separated herself from the rest. She didn't have a spoon to run away with but she ran anyway. Silly dish. The lines and cracks remain. It's a dish you eat off of with your hands, if you eat off of it at all. It's just one broken dish. Part of a whole no one can find anymore. This dish sits in the sink, waiting to be washed. Waiting for a spoon to ask her to run away. Waiting to be needed. Just waiting.