The Greatest Gift, My Deepest Regret: Pepe's Final Gift: The Gift of Goodbye

Bye-Bye Spotty [Content Warning]

I wish people would care as much about their children as I do about my pets.

I never even planned to get attached to Spotty. I already had one cat and had no interest in getting another. However, I agreed to hold on to her took her for one of my clients because he was not permitted to have pets while in foster care. That was 2002.



So even though I know that child will come back for her, I do feel in someway I made a promise to a child that I can't keep. I aide a promise to Spotty that I have already broken. So I guess this is goodbye again. And the only thing worse than saying goodbye, is having to no idea what will happen to her. Omg... this is almost too painful to write.

It has been months since I posted the first "ad?" trying to find a home for Spotty. I thought for sure somebody, anybody, would be willing to hold onto to her for a couple of months.

Yest here we are 4 months later, and I have to live with the fact that I am now "that" person. The person who abandons their own children, or leaves an animal behind when the move. I am "that" person.

I have already done the research. There are very few"low kill" shelters in Tennessee. The fact that they even classify them as "low" kill makes me want to throw up. But that's the reality.

I really hate this world.

No one gives a shit about the kids who are already here living in poverty, foster homes, on the streets, or anyway the can to survive. So who gives a shit about a few people who at least have the luxury of a quick painless death rather than having it drained out of them day by day; tear by tear, year after year after year after year.






I don't want to get rid of Spotty. I don't want her euthanized when I feel her little head nuzzled against my neck. She is not sick, she is not, her only crime is belonging to me. What the fuck with this world. we can through puppies into plastic bags and freeze them to death because it is "easier" than "putting them to sleep."

So yeah, there you have it. I fucked up again. How ironic that the one thing I don't have is the only thing people seem to want from me. I can't wait to hear about this one. I am 36 years old. I am not a child. I am not a criminal. I am not cruel. I have no answers for you. I do not have the resources that most people take for granted.

Why must they take the one thing I love-- the one thing that loves me. Does it make it all better for everybody else? dad, I learned my lesson. I have accepted the hand I have been dealt.

I'm not stupid, and I know that I can't blame my mom for this one since I'll be the one to drive her to the shelter tomorrow.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

If I say I'm sorry, would that make it okay for me to keep Spotty? Will someone please tell me what I need to say because I'm not sure what I did.

I'm old enough to know that nobody is coming to save me. I don't even brother to ask but why must an innocent animal who did not ask for this be the ultimate punishment for a sin I don't remember committing.

So where does Spotty go? To the farm with Abby & Ollie during divorce number two and custody battle number 4? Will my father mail me some fake ashes out of the fire place. Will my mommy drive her out to Suffolk County so she can use an assumed name like "Harrison" so I can't locate her? At least I found Pepe. I can only hope that one day I'll find Spotty.

Special message to two "special" people: Mom, I hope some takes Ziggy from you. The same way you took Pepe to that shelter in Suffolk County during the darkest moment of my life. I remember what you said, and what you were told by 3 separate mental health professionals. In fact, they remember too, because they found the your actions to be so far beyond the scope of rational behavior, they documented the entire thing. In fact, once Pepe was located, they kept a copy of the "adoption papers" in my medical records both as a precaution and as relevant family history.

Dad?

Well, whatever. I can't think of anything care enough about to lose-- so enjoy. You win. I surrender. Whatever. I guess you'll tell what I'm supposed to do because that worked so well with my last Landlord.

Why can't I just live a life without empathy? I guess if you don't love anything but yourself, you will never know grief.

Well now I'm really fucked, because I'm not all fond of myself these days. Don't worry, you don't need to call parents, they already know, and they couldn't care less. In fact they'll probably bill you for wasting there time. Besides, unless you went Harvard, Yale or Princeton they don't give a shit what you think. So join the club.

Just remember this: Spotty didn't chose me. I chose her. So here we go again... because apparently there is not a single person I know who is willing to save Spotty.








Actually, that sounds about right. I know exactly how she feels.

Pepe's Final Gift: The Gift of Goodbye


Many years back I had the most vivid nightmare, that 16 years later I can still remember the details of my worst nightmare:


I am standing in a sea of unfamiliar faces. There is violence everywhere. Red. Broken. Bleeding.


I am holding Pepe, and he is broken. Bleeding. Clinging to me, clinging to life. I rush through the crowd looking for safety. There is no way out. Just angry faces in a sea of violence.


In the distance, I see two police officers. I run to them believing they will help me find a way out of the madness. Believing they will bring me to safety. A safe haven. Shelter from the storm. Free from the madness. Free from the violence. Free from this sea of unfamiliar faces so I can get my bleeding, broken, suffering friend the help he needs to make him well. The help we need to be whole again.


When I reach the podium, the men were facing the crowd. They were standing there, backs to me; they just stood there to face to the crowd banging their black, wooden night sticks while on just standing there Beating their night sticks against their palms. I call out but no one listens. No one can hear me above the roar of the crowd. So I tap them on the shoulder, holding Pepe close to my heart— hoping they will instinctively see the love and fear in his yellow gold eyes. Of course, they would rescue us. Yes, they would rescue us and bring us to safety. Free from the violence, free from the madness. Free from this hell and take us somewhere safe. Somewhere far, far away from here. And then they turn. In unison, they turn around to face me, and I look at them. I am horrified. I am horrified because these are not police officers at all. They are clowns. Literally, figuratively, in every way they are simply clowns. Clowns in uniform. In unison. In unanimity. Inhumanity. My worst nightmare. The cops were clowns.


Pepe was “only” a cat, but I made him a promise that I intended to keep. I would give him everything I longed for: keep him safe, keep him fed, make him well, I would give him love. Lots and lots of love. Unconditional love. Always. Until the day my perfect little angel would return to heaven. And I did. And he did. And we did. Alone, together, Pepe gave me strength when I was too weak to care for myself. He could not talk, but he sure tried!


After seventeen years, Pepe died the other day, and my worst nightmare did not come true. I loved him until the very end. Even then he gave me the most perfect and fitting gift. He gave me freedom. He gave me comfort. He gave me hope and he gave me peace.


I know that I can love. I am capable of complete, total, unconditional love. He was like a child. Pure, innocent and completely, totally, unconditionally loved. Yes, I am capable of love. I am capable of complete, total, and unconditional love. Pepe, my precious angel, may you rest in peace… There is a better place for you now. There always was.

Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

Evolution or e-volution

Evolution or e-volution?


Shortly after the World Trade Center 9/11 disaster in New York City, I found myself reflecting on friendships and people I have lost along the way.

I turned inside myself and began journaling on a daily basis to help myself overcome the horror and isolation that comes with such an event— Friends I had gone to school with; productive members of the community... people who had accomplished so many things I had yet to do myself. So different from the I was living at the time.

The feelings were overwhelming and went far beyond fear, solitude, and I began to question my purpose in this life. Had I been just a few miles closer, heading west that day instead of east , I would have driven right into Ground Zero.

Friends circulated e-mails about form,er classmates that were presumed dead. They had families: pregnant wives, children, and all of the things that I believed I would have by the time I reached my 30’s.

I quickly realized how many of my peers had achieved at least some of the goals they set out to accomplish years earlier— and I felt pangs of guilt and sadness seeing how much they were loved, how fondly they were remembered, and how many of them were on their way to achieving great things.


By that time, I was nearing my thirtieth birthday and the list of goals I set for myself seemed hopelessly beyond my reach. Not just beyond my grasp— the future seemed ominous, scary, and it took everything I had to keep myself alive. In the months after the attack, I became increasingly aware of just how disconnected I was from my past.

Before FaceBook, there was classmates.com…. One day I got one of those e-mails that makes you feel as though someone from my past was trying to contact me. I thought long and hard before I responded.

I had a mix of emotions.

I had done everything I possibly could to quietly erase any ties or connections I had to the past. Filling out the online registration for FaceBook; responding to my 20th reunion invitations; afraid to be exposed for being poor.... but then it came tome.... I am not poor, I am merely a rich person without any money.

Because I had never lived with one parent, one house, or one school any longer than a year or two at best, it was not that hard to fade away into a distant memory. I wanted to be forgotten.

The last few weeks of my life have been anything short of living moment to moment... confronted with all the crises I wanted so badly to leave behind.... yet those experiences; my fight or flight instinct carried me through.

Thank you to all who tweeted and chatted... I made it through the storm, and I am glad to know you were there with me.

I am glad to be alive today, and I look forward to attending at least one of the three possible reunions. I hope you are glad to have me.

Cheers to you all, can't wait to see y'all at the Freak Parade!


-edd

My Own Dirty Little Secret

Harry and Louise: Adding Insult to Injury?


(Draft—because I have a welfare appointment I need to prepare for)

My first spring back in New York, we used to joke about J-School: Were they trying to tweak our skills turning us into experts in public journalism or public relations.
I took my first graduate level class in public journalism on the 4th floor at the infamous J-School located inside the cool steel gates separating surrounding Morningside Heights. 116th street from the homeless and the winos’ asking everyone all the passer by's for money just before we walked through the iron gates leading to the Ivory Tower.

The blocks surrounding 116th-120th where only the young and the talented get ready to take their place in society.

We would pass the men living on the streets each day, enter through the solid stone doors that were 12 ft tall, and write about them. With such eloquence you would hardly know they were homeless at all. We exploited them.

Just like Tuskegee exploited the Blacks, and the Army exploits the young and the rudderless, we exploited the sick irony of paying more per credit than they earned in one year on Veterans benefits or disability. We disgust me.

But Karma is a bitch, because less than 2 years later there I was, sleeping in the law school stacks; showering in the indoor pool... gym because I “looked good enough to pass through the gates.” I had that Ivy League pedigree. The would-have-been Harvard Law student—maybe even have had it paid in full had I been a boy or born to a different mother.

What the fuck did they know? That cute little Jewish Girl from Long Island, the one from a "good" family... the Harvard Legacy with the beautiful mother always dripping in jewels and fur from her latest boyfriend or husband—that little girl was me.

I should have been the perfect example of how a power player in the making the benefits from good breeding. No one ever needed to know that beneath it all I worked my ass off to get into College and ultimately get a scholarship into the top ranked program in Sociology and Social Policy to effect change. The fact that I dropped out of high school at 16 could remain my dirty little secret.


And to this day, no one has ever come forward to expose that little truth. Probably because so few people know—Maybe three or four So would I reveal such an embarrassing little detail of my life and risk my reputation on something I should have left behind me over twenty years ago?

Because it matters.

No one needed to know. I can get by well enough on my looks, I speak quite eloquently, and usually appear normal to most, but it is an important little factoid because people constantly judge ME based upon who they think I am – either the girl with the wealthy parents, or a lazy too stupid too get off welfare.


It matters because what appears to be and what is are often two very different things. I am in fact, an Ivy League Alumnus. I did in fact get a full scholarship into the PhD program in Public Policy at a leading University.

I am in fact unable to find employment and live on SSI (Supplemental Security Income) the lowest of the low. I am so far beneath the poverty level (already ridiculous) that I often wonder how I manage to live at all.

So that "legacy," the access I once had to the Ivory tower on the 4th floor we wrote is now gone. Not because they didn't like my work-- they loved it! Solid A in Public Journalism.

Well if I were in New York today, I would most likely be one of the people o the streets. Actually, I would probably be sitting across the street at the Bookstore just so I could stay close to the vast amounts of wisdom and philosophy within the hollowed halls as classes break for the summer. I would be watching people go in and out and be envious that they had the one thing that I don't: access.


So I made it through the very Same J-School where Pat Buchanan refused to speak to his Alma-mater because he once punched someone in the face on the 5th floor. I made it through despite the fact that I often times slept in my car in the middle of winter because I could not afford gas for the commute and eventually lost my apartment. I made it through having no electricity and frozen water pipes.

The question is: can I make it through this? I paid my dues. I deserve a chance. Dammit, I deserve a do-over. I deserve a job. I deserve a little credit.

Will our policy decision be based upon our need for reform or the ability to perform?

We used to joke about all the sell-out Journalist who gave yup on reporting the news and became speech writers for politicians. How their idealism was tarnished and they decided to go into PR.

I am not one of those people. I care enough about the issues to take the time to examine them from all angles-- and I fell that the massive amount of money being spent by agencies that I hold in deep respect launching a counter-attack on the insurance companies and their ad execs will have serve to damage their reputation. I chose to volunteer with these agencies because I believe they are well informed and do a great job to involve the everyday average Americans like myself in the political process.

By spending $750,000 on advertising, these groups now seem to be on the same level as the Insurance Industry and others who exploit the poor and infirm at the mercy of the Healthcare marketplace.

So I take issue with this campaign. Let Rick Scott be heard. Using such tactics will make the good guys no better than the Insurance Companies that exploit us all.

Are these ads showing us: how to reform or how to perform?

The large amount of funds being thrown (public or private) being spent on media fluff, and emotional being spent on media propaganda and 'skittles' on both sides of the healthcare debate.

I am offended by the huge amounts of money being spent on propaganda and skittles by both sides of the healthcare debate. Excessive, exorbitant monies being spent to manipulate the public through misleading ads, expert analyses, media alerts~ this is insulting at best.

Real dollars being used to manipulate the public about real issues: the sick; the poor; the ignorant... We are selling bad data and information to those who need it the most.


Talk about adding insult to injury? I do hope HCAN, HealthJustice and others will reconsider this campaign. I am one foot soldier who is unwilling to participate in this one.


Bottom line is this: we need to stop manipulating images and perceptions about the reality of healthcare, education, and social welfare in the United States. All is not well in America. Not well at all. And I am here to prove it!


Elyssa Durant, Ed.M.
Social Security Recipient
Anytown, United States of America

YOU WOULD NOT UNDERSTAND

You Would Not Understand

New York, New York.The City That Never Sleeps

I miss New York. I miss my wild, brilliant friends plagued by curiosity, insomnia, and creativity.

In the city, I can disappear. I can peruse the streets at 3 am and still find things to do. If not to do, then things to see. I can stand in the middle of Times Square just reading the Live News Feeds in technicolor, or visit the Internet Cafe just across the street from the Hello Kitty store.

But, I'm getting older now, and I'm not so sure I like it anymore...

~retraction 1/7/2010 ~

I can no longer wake up old friends that actually dare to sleep before the sun comes up.

So while you the world sleeps, I write. I digg. I learn, I question, and I write.

~and I Tweet~ 

To Randall, Wendy, Rob, Robert, Christopher Martin, and a few others that got lost along the way; please know that I still grieve for each and every one of you. I mourn the loss of the friendships we once shared. There is an emptiness in my life that memories & photographs could never fill. I don't have them anymore.

But perhaps most of all, I grieve for my self. I grieve for the person I used to be. The person I almost was. The person I believed I would become. The person you left left behind.

To some: Thanks ForGiving.

To others: Good Luck ForGetting

Elyssa // previously known as "LIz"
.

Who knew that loneliness can become a family in its own right? Always there, always familiar. Who would have believed that solitude can become our greatest companion, and that strangers would become our very best friends?I don't think it was ever really about the city, I think it is more about the anonymity. Someplace you can be yourself, and never worry about being judged for being different. I don't fit in here. But to be fair, I don't really fit in anywhere.

Career in Crisis: Career Confusion

ed phoning home ouch
May 18, 2003

now would not be the best time to mention my senior thesis-- or my grad school major, or the fact that i spent the better part life as a volunteer and advocate for children at-risk.. working to give them hope and a second chance at life.

systematically invalidating such bogus, barnum-type feedback that one typically gets from a MBTI type of personality test that is given during high school or in college. i won’t bother to mention the standardization of SAT scores to help our country feel better-- or the fact that the stanford-binet was created for military issue only.

who gives a shit anymore??? if you told a me a fat bearded lady at the circus could decide my fate and tell me what direction i should choose next-- i’d take it! and throw in a fat tip for being smart enough to know that any answer-- no matter how grim, is far better than just wandering aimlessly through life looking back on what might have been-- at THIRTY! AT THIRTY!!!!

after receiving five letters of rejection from jobs that require nothing more than a GED or a high school diploma, i decided to go to the tennessee career center hoping to find a job that will allow me to afford the most basic necessities of life. toothpaste, toilet paper, cat food... i got hooked up with a counselor that afternoon. he has two masters degrees-- one in educational career counseling, and a second in counseling psychology. could this be the guidance counselor i have been asking for since.. well... since... i was old enough to know was in need of guidance?

surely someone else must have recognized i was in need of guidance, but god knows my parents weren't paying attention, and having good genes just doesn't cut it these days. but now more than ever, i realize that having all the smarts in the world won't get you anywhere if you never learned how to apply them.

i am the exact same five year old who needed to win the spelling bee. in college, i was the one to set the curve, not just make it. the one to break the rules, and, break them i did, but there is no glory in being second best, second smartest, second brightest, or second anything.

i wish i could say that after all this time i developed other ego strengths and finally felt okay with who i am, you know.... “just being me,” but i am sad to report that my “condition” (diagnosis) was amazingly accurate and predictable. just like all the doctors said! i wonder if they derive joy out of being right-- if they crack open a bottle of aged liquor in my fathers office and say, “see, we told you so. we told you their was nothing you could do." and so nothing they did.

and by doing nothing, and i do mean nothing-- the illness will just take will its course. and i am now, in fact, nothing. nothing costs nothing (at least to them) and daddy made another fine investment. on the other hand, nothing has drained every hope, fear, security-- every chance-- and every last breath from my body. i might have believed in me. but i know i’m alive because a tear just rolled down the side of my cheek. i am home.

but i still haven’t learned. for some reason with all of my failures i am reminded of in so many ways... me, myself, as i watch them play out every time i shut my eyes or open them. yes- blink.

sometimes i ask myself, how did i get here? how did this happen? what happened to all of the plans i made for myself? where did they go? where did I go? constantly replayed over and over and over again in my mind. i must be FUCK1NG CRAZY!

but at this moment, here, even as i say the words, i am not truly insane, i am merely in pain. what a tragedy that those two words rhyme-- they ruin what could have been a very profound misnomer of the human condition and the labels we hold so dear.

i am the exact same 5 year old who needed to ACE the spelling bee, set the curve, not just make it; break the rules, and, break them i did. there is no glory in being second best. second smartest, second brightest, or second anything. being second sucks. it sucks every god-damned second of the day.

and so my search for mediocrity continues and i wait for it each and every day hoping it will find me beaten and worn from the storm. all of the storms, but dammit, its still there. i still have questions those damn elyssa questions that made all my professors so proud, damn ideas, damn thoughts, damn hope.

my mother still calls me everyday to see if i went to get food stamps to feed myself, fuck her, and her fucking things. fuck diamonds and couture and fuck that life. i was here mom, the whole fucking time. just not pretty enough with out any surgery. not pretty at all, with all those damn scars.

i hope someone out there still loves me. i do actually believe that i deserve love and kindness despite the obvious fact that i am a royal pain in the ass. i refuse to work in burger king. for right now, at least.

so goodnight my dear friends. let's all try to have sweet dreams. pepe awaits, as does alanis, and a pack of smokes that i can already taste.

yes, what could have been, what should have been-- what MIGHT have been if you let me be
m.e.

"When written in chinese, the word Crisis is composed of tvo characters: One represents danger and the other represents opportunity." -JFK

Chapter II: Older & Bolder

I first started posting this blog shortly after my 35th birthday. It was a gift to myself so I could live my life without being too scared that I might be discovered for being a little bit crazy, a little bit lonely, and making a whole lot of noise.

I started by disclosing my deepest secrets, often exposing to my deepest fears. Initially I chose the motto: "Too old to start over, Too young to forget."

Eventually that moniker evolved into something a little more challenging and inspirational, "Too old to start over, Too young to give up."

Now that my 36th birthday is just around the corner (actually, more like an intersection) I plan to spend the last few days I have in this demographic bracket uncovering some the essays I have written that still need a little tweaking, and a whole lot of twacking! So be prepared to find a few typos, a few disconnected thoughts without making an obvious transition. Because I am naming the next phase of my life, you know, the "35 and up" phase, "Chapter II: A Little Bit Older, And a Whole Lot Bolder."

I have enjoyed the feedback I have gotten from so many people from all walks of life who have written in response to something I have written. Women I have never met, from places I do not know.

Women like Joy and Cat who encourage me to keep writing even if they disagree with some of my core values or excessive use of profanity. Women (or men) who have somehow managed to stumble across my writings in one of their many raw forms without realizing that just by contacting me, much of the fear and hesitation I once felt about publishing my collection of personal (and professional) essays have been replaced with a new found sense of pride and accomplishment. Fear and uncertainty have are quickly evolving into confidence and proliferation.

Personally, professionally, and spiritually, I hope to continue "kicking ass and taking names," because at this point in my life, I may actually start doing that a little bit more.

You will notice that I am reclaiming my name and uncovering the many aliases I have used over the years... I am done hiding.

I'm am not perfect, and I will always struggle with my obsession to find just The Write Words, but I'm guessing it is probably good enough. Probably good enough so that most people will won't even notice if I forget to capitalize a proper noun or if I end a sentence with a preposition. So be it.

You may also notice that I am reclaiming my name, and will be using try to cut down on the number of anonymous postings I listed under an alias because I was afraid I would be embarrassed if my work was not well received.

I am ranges from the less obvious accounts I have created to maintain a bit of distance between myself and my classmates, peers, and colleagues, but in addition to "Miss Elyss" or "Lyssie D." I am even willing to admit that I have created so many login accounts and user names to post anonymously, that I have forgotten most of the passwords to access my own content. But I am rather proud of the creativity I demonstrated when I came up with two of my personal favorites, "I.M.Phobic" and "EyePhobic." I never could get into that whole IM thing, webcam or chat rooms! The way I see it, it is bad enough i need to put on clothes and make-up to leave the house-- I'll be damned if I have to put on make-up to send an e-mail!

Yes, they were all me. They are a pert of me, because like so many women-- no... like so many people... I'm a little bit of everything... so for those of you who are listening and even to those of you who just wish I would shut the fuck up already; be careful what you wish for! The more content I create, the easier it becomes to let go... and the more I let go, the more I can heal. The more I can heal, the more I can focus on the academic issues that will always be my first and primary area of interest. However, it seems rather obvious to me now that the only way out is through. So, I will continue to write through the dark and hope that it I can become more present minded rather than being trapped by memories from the past.

To Joy, Cat, TA James, and a few others, thanks so much for the gift. I hope I can make you proud!

The curious can find anything and everything! I often wonder why it is so much easier for others to to get my information about me than it is for me to get about myself!

I'm a digger. To be clear, that is "digger." I never use the "N" word, and I'm way too proud to marry for money.

I'm a digger. I love information. I love to find, I love to collect it, but most of all, I love to use it.

I love to dissect it, analyze it, formulate new questions and ponder the answers. I love the journey of natural inquiry... never knowing where my racing mind will take me, often surprised surprised by the answer, but always, always intrigued by the things I encounter along the way.

So I set out to find the answer to one question, and instead I find myself asking a million more. It keeps me up at night, and allows me to avoid the day.

My life is not unexamined, and my thought patterns may be far from typical, but the things I have learned along the way are by far the most intriguing and most unique. I am not afraid to ask questions, nor am I afraid that I don't have all the answers.

As a digger, I do know that it is the path least taken: the creative, atypical mind; that is riddled with creativity, tangential thoughts and questions that often deliver the most interesting answers. But sometimes, it is the answers that deliver us to the most interesting questions.

We often think that questions drive the inquiry-- at least that's what they tell us in school. To use the "Scientific Method." And of course, to never, ever color outside the lines. But aren't the best discoveries the ones we weren't searching for? The unexpected gift... the non-occasion.

The beauty is in the every day. The challenge is in the unexpected. Call me crazy if you like (and many have) but I can assure you that there will come a day when all of that R.A.M. will come in handy. I am definitely asking the right questions... and maybe one day you will too.

Finding my voice has allowed me to appreciate the silence. The hours between dusk and dawn where the rest of the world sleeps and I dig. I dig and I write. I fill the lonely hours with my innermost thoughts, and my very best friend. So as the rest of the world sleeps soundly, surrounded by loved ones in a sanctuary they call home, I fill myself with books, journals and information. Lots and lots of information.

Who would have thought that loneliness can become a family in it's own right? It is always there and it is always familiar. That solitude can become our greatest companion and that strangers can become our best friends.

I miss New York. I miss Dr. Stu. I miss Jefferey and I miss Todd. I miss my wild, brilliant friends plagued by curiosity, insomnia, and creativity.

Hey boys-- guess what? I'm coming home!

Let's go to hot and crusty at 3 a.m. when everything really is, yes, "hot and crusty!" Lets go the Internet cafe across from the Hello Kitty store and wake up old friends that actually dare to sleep when it is dark out???

WAKE-UP TODD! I've been calling you for hours! I have a joke to I want to tell you!

New York, New York... The "City" that never sleeps?

See I don't think it was ever really about the city, I think it is more about the anonymity. Someplace you can be yourself, and never worry about being judged by your in-bred hillbilly neighbors who are, in all honesty, much more focused on raising hell then raising children... To them, I am "strange." I am "weird." I am "Italian." or "Jewish" or "something!" because I talk really really fast!

You are all wrong: I'm from New York!

So while you sleep, I dig. I learn , I question, and I write. But I do it alone, and I'm starting not to like so much.

So for all of you out there who are insomniacs: "writers," "consultants," "perpetually un and underemployed yet overqualified" computer geeks -- please enjoy my video blog below.

I chose a few songs have keep me company at night. Just loud enough to drown out the drunk couple outside my window having yet another domestic dispute, but low enough so that the neighbors downstairs won't complain. Hopefully, you will know some of the selections that have kept me dancing in the living room into the wee hours of the morning, and can learn something about my favorite word if you are paying attention...

You'll find all of my favorites in one place. So enjoy the trip my friends, it's getting early for some, but late for others, and I've got some shit to do before the world wakes up, because to quote John Cougar (or is it Melloncamp?) I Ain't Even Done With The Night!

http://www.youtube.com/view_play_list?p=04EA65F6BD91E91B

DESCRIPTION: Everything from my favorite word to my favorite website. There's something in there for pretty much every mood-- songs to make you cry, videos to make you laugh. Political ads that make you sick and some that will give you chills-- but at least they make you feel!!! Finding my voice, and hearing those of strangers has given me the strength I needed to move on.

So for so many of you who have contacted me lately, via the web, via your cell phone, or even by way of a nasty website-- stand tall and stand close because much like fear, courage also rubs off on you somehow when you are surrounded by the right people. So a big shout out, and a sincere word of thanks to all of you who have helped to find my voice once again and the courage to say whatever is on my mind... Say it loud, say it proud, just say it!

I will not be ignored and I will not be forgotten. But guess what, Here Comes the Sun. I made it through night and now it's time to go, because that was SO yesterday! Thanks for giving, good luck forgetting!


Elyssa D'Educrat / Elyssa D. Durant
Nashville, Tennessee / New York, New York



http://www.youtube.com/user/elyssadurant