Miami 3 is on her way. Patience.

As I've stated before, I don't cry. Not really. As a child, yes, all the time. Near daily at some points. I always loathed it, as far back as I can remember. I'm not entirely sure why, perhaps some gender vision that was muddled to think that it was shameful, but I've always hidden it. When I have cried, it's typically been done once year by an event that is unforgivable. Things will continue to evolve after it, but the person or event that caused it will never really be healed. We can be surrounded by such beauty but it will never be Eden. When I have cried, it's been like shoving a waterfall through a sieve. If you're standing underneath the sieve all you see are little droplets falling down; you're completely unaware of the force beating from the other side. There are as many ways to cry as there are to laugh, though I think generally involve either sobbing or silent agony. I've never sobbed. Never had the falls break the sieve and vocalized despair. Not once. I have no clue what it feels like, though I can imagine from watching enough Baz Lurmann films.

But there's one coming.

It's everything about this past year. The move, the aimless wandering around the end of my degree, the emotion surrounding the Recital, the tectonic shifts in friendships, the barren womb of the countless relationships I didn't have this year or perhaps just the one...It's coming. I'm experiencing it almost every day now, watching an episode of sappy television or listening to a song that ends me. Sometimes I catch it and taper back. Other times, I think that I'm just going to let it out but then quickly retract the reigns, the rebellion and its failure occurring within a split second.

I've been told before that for me to cry is one of the worst things possible. Granted, this was said by a dear friend; I'm not really sure why, but I almost understand it. It's not an ego thing or thinking that I'm better than an other, but it seems as though something would break if it would happen or I just wouldn't be able to stop. I know what this sounds like, but at times I feel as though I'm just passing through, like I don't really belong here. This isn't meant to sound grandiose, but I almost feel as though any human behaviour has simply been assigned so I can pass through unnoticed, undetected, while performing some sort of heavenly case study. A celestial creature riding transit.

I've been feeling oddly drawn to the angel Gabriel lately. Those that know me would never think that divine inspiration would be a presence in my life, and I'm not saying it has in the traditional sense, but it's almost like meeting someone for the first time and knowing them completely, knowing exactly what will make them laugh, draw them in, push them away. This was similar. I never thought anything of seraphim and always loathed the name 'Gabriel' but some time, several months ago, it just clicked into place, batteries meeting, that this was something worth drawing from. What it actually may be is not important, whether it is a calling or merely brain synapses misfiring, completely irrelevant so long as a journey is begun.

I've been almost crying a lot lately.

My-ami: Part 2 - Sarasota

Monday: Belt in loops, I set out for cultural bastion that is Sarasota, Florida. This pretty little town is the host of the second most Caucasian zip code after Anaheim, CA. I'm pretty sure the hotel house keeping staff were in black face, or brown face, seeing as this was Florida. The purpose of this trip was to see this big shot physio/massage therapist/potential quack who'd developed this program of stretching and muscle building that could possibly really help my lurvely physical state. The trip by car between Miami and Sarasota is anywhere between four and a half and five hours. With my father at the wheel, it took just over three and felt like seventeen. Allow me to digress with a parable about my parents' courtship. At the six month mark, my mother was convinced that Father hated his family. Every time he would speak on the phone with them, it was constant yelling. In Hungarian, a language that makes Wookie sound romantic. He took her down to meet his folks and upon arrival, amid the hugging and kissing, was more hostile yelling. Except everyone was smiling. Hungarians, while capable of providing the audio for a foreign Jerry Springer show, are actually very loving people. Still, this didn't help my stress level and by the time we pulled into the immaculate little town (think Victoria/Transcona hybrid), my hairline had receded another quarter inch.


Searching out sustenance, we settled on the most elegant establishment in the surrounding neighborhood: Chilli's. The Palm, this was not. The wait staff appeared to consist of a hostess with an "I hate yanks!" sticker on the back of her pleather writing pad, a very tall, very skinny, very in recovery from meth fellow fellow and Chuck, our waiter, who I'm pretty sure had replaced all of his hemoglobin with steroids. When you have money, it becomes very easy to enjoy the high-falutin' five-star restaurant lifestyle. However, when you didn't start that way, there's this odd comfort in slummin' it. Cut to my aunt demolishing two empanadas. (Side note: do not order ice tea, even sweetened, anywhere below the Mason-Dixon line.)

So then we went to see this non-doctor and I'll spare you all the details but he essentially stretched me and worked me out for about three hours, leaving me feeling rather lab rat-esque. More on him later. That evening we went to the touristy shopping and dining district, which was a series of curved boulevards surrounding one central square. Think art emporiums, beach wear, real estate shops, over-priced bistros and Starbucks. Thank fucking God. We took a stroll to the beach, Aunty, Father and I, and sat down to watch the sunset. Naturally, this was when the only two cute, young gay guys in the county stroll onto the beach, pooka-shell necklaces in place (I know.) and with a demeanor that said "No, we're not together, but we'd totally show a nice, semi-attractive stranger, say from Canada, 'round these parts." Naturally, this was at the precise moment my aunt decided that she wanted to rest her eyes and that my lap would make a natural pillow. American Gigolo, I am thee. What used to be the lovely pastime of gazing at adorable boys has become an exercise in increasing frustration over the years. I should really just shave off what remains of my hair and settle into monk-hood.After this shrinking of my pride and penis, we went and drank lots of champagne sangria (Yes, you read right and yes, it's amazing) and chowed down on unexpectedly delicious Spanish food. This was topped off with Starbucks (Daddy's maiden voyage) and stroll around the boulevards.

Full and (tragic foreshadowing alert) oddly optimistic, we went back to our hotel at which time I checked my e-mail and my life fell apart. Multiple - MULTIPLE - messages awaited me detailing how the things I'd been planning in the next weeks and months were crashing and burning two thousand miles away from me. I kinda lost it, I gotta say. Sitting in a hotel room with my two Hungarian elders (they're loving, but far from sympathetic), having been pummeled by this guy all day, feeling utterly isolated...man alive, I think it was one of the lowest, non-drug-related moments I've experienced. Aunty gave me a Xanax and I slept long and dreamless.

Tuesday: Awaking to a relatively-kick ass breakfast buffet (read: free), we headed off to see the good non-doctor. The previous session would come to be considered a candy-filled, unicorn-riding wonderland by comparison. Kids, he pretty much broke my toes. I've never experienced so much pain in my life. His whole theory was to wake up the long-dead nerves by stretching and manipulating them so he contorted them in all sorts of directions, laughing that in the past he'd gotten carried away and actually torn the skin. After a good chortle, I went into the bathroom and sure enough, zee skin, she was spleet. I certainly don't mean to make light of a very serious situation, so I say this with sincerity, but I kinda felt like a rape victim. I don't really have an explanation other than I just felt violated. I mean, it was good and all and I think that if I actually stick to it, his methods could make a big difference, but still.

Upon completion of another three and a half hour session, we set out for home. During this time, my aunt received about a half a dozen calls on her in-car Bluetooth with the speaker set at "God's Voice" volume from various other Miami socialite housewives, implementing all sorts of endearments ("honey"; "sweetheart"; "darling"; "hot piece of ass") with the exact same nasal, monotonic whine all of which made for very poor napping.

I spent the evening playing rummy with my grandmother and her nurse, finally free of the bickering twosome and then headed to bed, band-aids encircling my toes.

(There have been a couple comments made about the nausea induced by the white-on-black style of mah blog. I was going to change it. Then I thought, "Lick my squirrel, this is my blog!" So, for all you kvetchers, I present two options: 1) Cut and paste into a word document or 2) press 'control' and the '+' sign to enlarge the font. Now quit your bitching, Michael Park! (Je t'aime))

A Graduated Boy

It is over. At long last, done. And it was great. Not perfect. No. It never would be, not in a million years, such is my performance psychology. But I feel pride and, let me tell you, it's been a while since that sentiment has come to call. I received messages all day from people that had to bail at the last moment, but when it came down to it, the people that I loved were there. The oddest group, too. Random friends from my childhood, the quiet lady from work who I talked to twice, dear friends whom I've lived what feels like two lifetimes without. Even my nearest and dearest who couldn't be at the recital itself showed up in a small drove to the reception and we made merry for the rest of the night. When they arrived, it was like something out of (Heaven forgive me for this reference) The Lord of the Rings when that effing scary ghost army appears to back up the troupes. Heroes, they are. In the end, they were as much a part of the experience as the audience. You have to really examine the details to understand life. Love is not just sitting in a dark room listening to someone sing for an hour and a half; it's also driving across down after a 3 hour recording session just to show up for the reception. It's all the same.

Things are just better today. I've felt like this awful adult for the past month, so stressed and sarcastic, with no time for anyone else. Last night, on stage, I was a little kid all of a sudden, growing younger with each passing song that I released from my soul. And now I'm light again. It's the feeling you get in the second just before the e high hits when you know something amazing is going to happen. That feel struck me in the moment before I walked out onto that stage and it's just lived with me ever since. So lovely. This, the day after, feels as though I'm in the throes of it, being in love with everyone and everything. My clothes feel softer, my coffee tastes better. Hmmmm...

My-ami : part 2, coming soon.