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All You Need Is Love

Friday, August 27th, 2010

My lovely friend Danielle {@leftoflost} is guest posting for me all the way from A Little Left of Lost. Her blog has made me cry on numerous occasions so be sure to get some kleenexes when you head on over.

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As a small child, I listened to classic rock with my father: The Steve Miller Band, ELO, The Beach Boys, Billy Joel, The Beatles, The Eagles, Tom Petty, Aerosmith, The Doors…..you name it, I knew the words. My father had at least 100 records, and I can remember sitting next to him on the floor in front of his stereo, each of us cross-legged, knee-to-knee, singing along. I have vivid memories of watching him
closely, noticing the strain in his vocal chords, catching every pitch, memorizing every word. My three year old mind was fascinated with the rhythm of chords, the strength in lyrics, the magic in words.

As I grew older, my love of music extended to different genres, and I will readily admit that I listen to Sir Mix A Lot followed by Robin Thicke followed by Blue October followed by Frank Sinatra followed by Jill Scott followed by….you get my point. I’ve been seen at concerts of various kinds: Steve Miller, Sarah McLachlan, Norah Jones, Ringo Starr, Aerosmith, Keith Sweat……

Anyone who knows me at all (or has ever once read my blog) knows that I love words- the rhythm, the rhyme, the meaning. I love how some words take shape in my mouth-like ‘capture’-and I’m fascinated by the interpretation people find in words or a string of words. I know thousands of song lyrics, thousands of lines to poems (both mine and others’), and I find meaning in many of these.

I used to analyze song lyrics and lines in poems. I would seek out those words, those lines that spoke to me, or described how I was feeling. I still do it.

For years, I loved the song “All you need is love” by the Beatles. LOVED. It made me smile when Target used it in their commercials last year. My girl has been singing it since she could talk, as I would always sing it to her when she was sick or couldn’t sleep (along with my own made-up words to ‘You are my sunshine’).

For years, I believed that.

I actually believed in those words: All you need is love.

And in a way, I still do. But not like before.

Sometimes, love isn’t enough. Sometimes you give and give and give, and you love with every fiber of your being. You eat, sleep, dream, talk, think, and act LOVE, but it isn’t interpreted that way. Or it is ignored. Or it isn’t what the other person needs. Or maybe it just isn’t what the other person WANTS anymore. Sometimes, it just isn’t enough.

And that hurts. The thought that I’ve been living this life full of love and adoration for another person, only to find that it’s not the same for the person receiving my love-it kills me. It makes me want to shut down, close up shop, protect myself from MYSELF-I shouldn’t love anyone else if this will be the outcome. I can’t bear the hurt again, so why bother enjoying the beautiful pieces?

I try not to let my jaded thoughts control my heart. I try not to allow it to affect my mood, or my ability to trust, or my ability to love others. I’m trying to find new meanings for love, new ways of showing it, new ways of receiving it. I’m trying to incorporate the other things I need…it’s not just love. It’s respect, hope, faith, attention, trust.

This will be an uphill battle, but one I’m ready to fight. I have a little girl who needs to see what it’s like to remain strong, to find strength in times of pain, to love in spite of pain, to be happy in spite of sadness. I have the hopes of finding someone to love, that loves me back with the same intensity, with the same trust, with the same desire. I can’t just let that go because my heart is broken now. I can’t let my little girl think that you curl up on the couch and crumble when you are crushed. I refuse.

I’m finding strength in new song lyrics lately. Different songs are replacing my adoration of that old Beatles song. But the remnants of it still beat fiercely in this chest.

Your email:

 

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Tricks Or Treats

Friday, October 30th, 2009

What a treat being asked to write a guest blog for Eight Days a Week, otherwise known as Vampire Smitten…the day before Halloween.  As my own readers might know, I consider my BlackBerry to be my fifth child, and have even considered dressing him up for Halloween.  But, seeing as I can’t seem to get my real, live children ready every year on time, I decided instead that I would look at the ways that my BlackBerry provides me with tricks, and treats, almost every day of the year.

Some of his tricks:

- The phantom vibration – you know what I  mean – you think you’re getting the buzz of a fresh new message – until you look down and realize your BlackBerry is not on your belt, but is across the room on the kitchen counter. (I like to call these Braxberry-Hicks.  Those of you who have given birth will understand that one.)

- Sending me a buzzing confirmation that an email has come in…only to discover he’s just letting me know my last VERY IMPORTANT email didn’t get sent out.

- Letting me believe I could actually beat my highest score in BrickBreaker. I had FIVE flippin balls left for this one stage alone.

- Pretending to die but popping back to life with just a quick battery re-insertion (like a defibulator for the little guy)

But he also has some treats:

- Sending me an email with the subject line “Wine tonight?” just minutes after a previously scheduled late day meeting has been cancelled.  You already have a sitter or spouse lined up. Score.

- Finding a new application for a new game which will keep you from having to listen to THOSE women at THAT gym class.

- A full battery, Twitter, and a quiet moment at a park while the kids play.

Happy Halloween – and remember – if the chocolate bar is smaller than your BlackBerry, the calories don’t count.

Kathy Buckworth

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My Official Method for Dealing with Tattoos

Wednesday, October 28th, 2009

1. Bring a friend. It totally sucks balls for your friend, make no mistake about that. But it makes it infinitely better for you, and that’s the important bit here. Friend buddy can take pictures, answer random questions that pop into your head, and make wry observations about the other shop patrons.

2. Bring an iPod (or equivalent). One of the worst parts about getting a tattoo, worse than the pain, is the constant buzz/hum of the needle. Drown that shit out.

3. If possible, wear appropriate clothing so as you won’t have to get naked for your tattoo. If you’re getting a back piece, you can where a zip-up hoodie flipped around so it’s open on back. The first time I went, I just had my tits out to the world. Extra fun when they’re doing a photo-shoot for a tattoo magazine.

4. XANAX. I have an official pre-tattoo drug cocktail. It features Xanax (or Ativan) and a prescription amount of Motrin (I buy the OTC stuff and take Rx dose). It still hurts, but you don’t really care. And the Motrin serves as a bit of a muscle relaxer. Take it all about 20 minutes before you’re going to get stabbed inked. It helps. Immensely.

5. Original Vitamin A & D Ointment (not the zinc kind) This is actually like, butt paste for rashy babies or something, but it works fantastically to protect your tender healing skin wounds from the elements.

6. Clothes that you don’t care about. For the close contact with greasy ointment. And possible scabification.

I have nothing to tell you about the itching. It itches itches itches itches itches itches itches.

You just have to decide if it’s worth it.

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On book signings and the glamourous life of published writers

Tuesday, October 27th, 2009

Okay, here goes:

Just back from doing a book event in Florida. The turnout was good, though it’s never as good as the powers-that-be promise it will be, as in pretty please/swear-on-my-mother’s-grave/this-will-be-so-good-for-your-career/last year-10,000 people-showed-up-for-Stephanie Meyer. I’m a veteran of that particular war, plus I don’t write vampire novels, so I know not to be suckered by such promises. I pick and choose. Some of the highlights of my still wet-behind-the-ears book touring days:

The booksigning in Boston to which only one person showed up: My ex-boyfriend from 30 years ago, who’d burned me by hitting on my sister while he and I were still dating. To top it off, he didn’t buy a book! (Don’t worry, I got back at him the next day when I did a radio talk show and told ALL. Just hope his wife was listening.)

The time I was the flashing blue-light special at a K-mart type store called Caldor’s. They kept announcing over the PA system that I could be found in the “jewelry” section. Passing shoppers looked at me like I was a meteor that had crashed through the roof—a possibly radioactive one; not one stopped to get a book signed. My then-husband was my only buffer against abject humiliation. And even he tried to desert me at one point, because, he said, “We need shampoo.” I told him he would need more than shampoo if he moved his butt so much as one inch out of his chair.

The library event in Oklahoma where the “organizer” had gone on vacation and somehow forgotten to tell her co-workers that I was slated to appear. At the last minute said employees cobbled together an “event” with their surly teenage children as shills. (Luckily I’m good with kids – I ended up winning them over. It wasn’t hard – I felt like a surly teen myself).

The booksigning that coincided with a historic blizzard. I was lucky to make it home, much less sell a single book.

The booksigning in Ft. Worth, Indiana – the heart of hoosier country – that coincided with basketball playoffs. Only one person showed up, a guy who wanted my advice on finding an agent for his “true-life” story of having been abducted by aliens.

This is why I no longer do booksignings. Sometimes you have a great turnout, but more often than not you find yourself competing with some sports event or other, the Rod Stewart concert at the arena that night, the Kiwanis Club’s annual fundraiser, parent-teacher night at the local school, or you name it. Weather is a factor, too, not just crappy weather. If it’s a sunny day, who the hell wants to be indoors? With evening events you’re up against dinner hour and also the fact that people who work are tired after a day at the office and would rather watch mindless TV than get in the car and drive to the Barnes & Noble to listen to an author speak.

That being said, I am always happy when I hit pay dirt. I don’t mean as in selling gazillions of books – I leave that to those who write vampire novels – but as in the bright, shiny faces of committed book lovers who also happen to love my books. I had such a crowd at this past weekend’s event. One woman was even in tears after I’d spoken. That one woman alone made the
trip worthwhile.

Oh, and one more thing: I learned from one of the other authors at the event that we weren’t all given the same accommodations. Some were at the posh hotel on the water, others at the Hampton Inn downtown. I was at the posh hotel on the water, so I guess that means I’ve arrived. Either that or I’ve been at this for so long, I get special privileges. Whatever the reason, I was glad for the comfy bed, flat-screen TV, and view of the bay.

Next stop, La Jolla, where another comfy bed awaits me.

Eileen Goudge

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