Monday, April 05, 2010

Sticks

Today is Easter.
The Easter bunny was a hit.
I got up to greet my late (as in tardy, not dead) soon-to-be-ex-husband to pick up our daughter for Easter festivities at Gramma and Granpa’s.
When they left I cried.
I got in my car and drove to Madera Canyon to pick up sticks.
Seriously. I’m picking up sticks to make biodegradable public art.
I drove the wrong way for about an hour before I realized I was heading back to Tucson.
There were rows and rows of pecan trees.
They’d all been shorn and stacks of glorious sticks lay by the side of the road just beyond
a barbed wire fence.
When I was younger, I would have ignored the fence and taken as many sticks as I wanted.
It felt wrong, being Easter and all.
I finally made it to the gateway of Madera and the Sheriff was turning people back.
Too full.
I asked to use the restroom and was allowed to park in the lower lot.
There in front of me were piles of sticks.
Mesquite sticks
Beautiful sticks.
I took as much as I could muster. I say muster because I haven’t been eating much.
I tend to feel like I’m going to pass out.
An older man that I thought was a forest ranger was watching me.
I said “Are you the ranger?”
He said “Oh, no, no I’m just out enjoying the day.”
I said “I thought I might be in trouble.”
“I’m not collecting kindling. I’m working on an art project.”
He said “Oh, what kind?” (For some reason old people say Oh? a lot.)
I said “I’m building structures out of wood and twine. All biodegradable.
I want to build big structures out in nature or in a busy part of downtown and just leave them there.
I don’t know why, I just feel compelled to do it.”
He thought that was right dandy. He’s a retired architect and his late wife (not tardy) was apparently quite the artist. He helped me load my car with my pile of wood and sticks. I should have photographed him.
I was nervous.
Stupid brain.
We exchange numbers and addresses. He didn’t have any need for email.
I pondered how to send him pictures without email for quite a while when lo and behold, I realized I could mail prints to him.
We both had a good laugh about that one.
He invited me to Easter dinner, but I declined. It probably would have been interesting, but I was anxious to get building.
On the way out I saw a beautiful hawk.
It was sitting by the side of the road.
I pulled over to photograph it just as it took off.
It disappeared. It was gone. Just silence.
I turned on the radio and Little Bird by the eels came on the radio. It was beautiful. And just having seen a hawk disappear. Oh, I don’t know – I’m a line drawer. Here’s another one. I stopped at McDonalds’ for a soda. It was $1.07. That’s all I had in my wallet - $1.07.
Then Lou Reed started singing Jesus on the radio.
“Jesus, help me find my proper place
Jesus, help me find my proper place
Help me in my weakness
'Cos I'm falling out of grace
Jesus
Jesus”
It’s a Velvet Underground song.
It’s a new recording with 5 Guys or something like that.
I’ve been pretty lost lately.
Everything was speaking to me.
But I couldn’t speak to me.
I wanted to build my structure – art - thingy.
I couldn’t figure out where.
I drove all over downtown, by El Tiradito a shrine to a murderer (where I was married incidentally). I was going to ask a friend if I could build it outside her coffee shop, but she wasn’t there.
I drove home deflated.
I signed back onto Facebook.
I hang my head in shame, but I have deleted most all my old friends.
The urgency to build the art thing was prodding me like some weird electrical impulse. I drove to Reid Park. There were three million Hispanic families barbecuing for Easter there.
Nothing felt right.
I made myself stop and eat some sushi.
If I’m going to eat it might as well be worth it.
I came home and unloaded the large pieces of wood.
The trunk is totally full of sticks.
I will find a place to build it.
I will find a place of my own.

Saturday, April 03, 2010

Influential Foofaraw: Forgiveness

Influential Foofaraw: Forgiveness

Forgiveness

You appear to be the bigger person
Extending an olive branch
Let bygones be bygones
The bruises have healed
We can be friends
We can move one
But the truth is your deed will never allow you to be the bigger person.
You will always be a whore whether I forgive you or not.
Yes we can move on
But you are not my friend.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Day One Therapy Assignment

THERAPIST: List what character traits, behaviors and beliefs/interpretations discussed in BORDERLINE PERSONALITY DISORDER DEMYSTIFIED that fit you.

Poorly regulated emotions
Impulsivity
Impaired perception and reasoning
Markedly disturb relationships
Anxiety
Chronic feelings of emptiness
Impulsive behavior that harms me
Suicidal ideation
Self-mutilating
Disassociative symptoms
Depersonalization
Unstable self-image or sense of self
Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment
Feelings of inferiority
Negative therapeutic reactions
Environmental risk factors
Early separation or loss
Trauma
Ineffective parenting
Poor emotional control
Emotional lability
Post-traumatic stress disorder
Mood disorders
Substance use Disorders
Anorexia
Depression
Sleep disorders
Low energy
Low self-esteem
Poor concentration or difficulty making decisions
Feelings of hopelessness
Panic disorders
Partially Narcissistic
Histrionic
Dependent
Paranoia

THERAPIST: List what character traits, behaviors and beliefs/interpretations discussed in BORDERLINE PERSONALITY DISORDER DEMYSTIFIED that don’t fit you.

Hyperactive
Inappropriate intense anger or difficulty controlling anger
Parasuicidal acts
Factitious illness
Hallucinations
Magical thinking
Psychic rigidity
Projection
Bi-polar
Bulimia
ADHD
Inattention
Schizoid
Schizotypal
Antisocial
True Narcissism
OCD

war torn apocalypse

I’m sitting in a war torn apocalypse contemplating the consequences of trying to escape. Shall I remain in its painful comfort or enter the imaginary world of light where bad things are just bad dreams and the rest of life is candy, cakes and ice cream.

Monday, March 08, 2010

Open Letter to Mr. Mercedes Guy

Tammy Allen Strnatka
Tucson, AZ 85711



Monday March 8, 2010

Mr. Mercedes Guy

Please let me thank you for your follow-up call to tell me the position of Service Cashier had been filled. I’m not sure if my resume reflected that I was over-qualified or under-qualified. Either way I sure would have liked to have had the opportunity to talk to you. I have experience in many other professions: Salesperson, Cashier, Manager of a Gallery, Manager of a bar. Not many people are solely represented by their resume. This is a very difficult time with the unemployment rate at 10% in Tucson. I was laid off from a job that focused on retail advertising. Loyalty is word that comes to mind. As an owner of a Mercedes I’m a dedicated fan. Working for a Mercedes dealership would be ideal. Next time please give someone the opportunity to speak with you. You may have hired within. In any case, I would have been an asset, and a loyal team member.

Sincerely,

Tammy Strnatka

Sunday, March 07, 2010

Brilliant Shell

People ask “If you could do anything, anything at all, what would you do?” Now how loaded a question is that? One must have the means to do what they want. One must know what one wants. My knee-jerk response? Travel the world alone hopefully with enough cash to stay some place with a bed and a bath. First off I have child. I cannot abandon her. Dream gone. End of story. (I would have said with my family, husband and daughter but that is in dissolve.)
Second response: learn to play guitar better and sing but not alone, with help. Money? Third response: write with some formal instruction.
Fourth teach: anything art, music, English, to smile, to not take it so seriously - like I do (take it too seriously). To let it happen. Have fun, learn what you need. Learn a good trade that pays well; then do what you want in between. Don’t get married. Fight for what you believe in. Freedom, healthcare, mutual respect and love.
If I could do anything? It’s such a non question. When I think about doing anything I have to do, I shrink. I react like a child with no instructions even though I know how.
What do you want to do? Anything? It’s a silly question. I want to be odd like Warhol and change the face art. I want to say the truth without being punished. I want others to say the truth without being punished.
What’s a job? A piece of shit thing you do to make money to survive. Sometimes you luck into one you like. Some people are paid exorbitant amounts of money for the most obscenely menial task. Wage distribution in this world is worthy of chronic vomiting. That’s not hyperbole! A maid can take home more than a man who was worked 14 hours in a field picking cotton. She $25 an hour, he $25 a day. It’s fucking ridiculous. Money isn’t the wage it’s the game. I hate the game. Worse I hate the game of life itself. What’s it worth? Without being a teacher or a mentor or doing some form of helping another individual it’s pointless.
I hope I’m helping my daughter. I’ve taken’ a bit of a break lately. Not completely, but I’m not feeling like have much to give. What do you give when you have nothing? No one understands how I got here. One minute I’m attending PTA meetings, working fulltime and singing on the weekends. Nothing could be better. Of course I can’t forget the alcohol that contributes to it all. Life’s a party. Little things tear me down along the way. They strip me of my humanity. I become a shell. A brilliant shell. One that performs all the tasks required. One that knows what is right and wrong. One that knows how to advance oneself. One that knows how to encourage others. One that knows to say “you’re right, I’m wrong, I’m sorry” “Oh how silly of me your way is better” “I can’t imagine why I thought to do it that way.” “No, no you’re right.” Suddenly there’s no one there, just a stepford thing. A brilliant shell, because it knows how. It knows the way it’s done what to follow what to say. However, the person I was inside is dead and now I’m plotting my mortal death. I quit drinking. My energy is slipping. My old self who was clearly wrong has become fragile. I see a psychiatrist – meds galore. I see a therapist. People notice I’m needy and shy away. Some make fun of me. Some ignore me. Some come to my aid. (Thank you). Hollow eyed and struggling to do this on my own. I will either die or come back. I cannot say.

suicide

"Suicide is not chosen; it happens
when pain exceeds
resources for coping with pain."

Saturday, February 27, 2010

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Bad Taste

It's not like I have breast cancer, it's just suicidal ideation.

Marriage

Like a used car salesman he said "I do"
She didn't know what hit her 'til his fist withdrew.