I encountered two Facebook posts this morning that have compelled me to write. Which is unusual. Though I regularly glean a lot from my friends' humorous or thoughtful or sometimes incendiary post choices, I don't usually find myself compelled to chime in as a result.
So today is different.
The first piece was an inspirational quote displayed along with a beautiful sort of eastern, yogic-looking visual- the kind I tend to shy away from. Not because they're not deep or meaningful thoughts, but they feel contrived and manipulative in conjunction with said photos or paintings. Like the thought itself isn't fancy enough- you gotta catch the fickle eye with a lovely picture. Well- this thought was, to me, "fancy" enough. It was arresting and very simple. It superceded the visual. And it was posted by a FB acquaintance of mine who, as far as I can tell, NEVER shares these sorts of missives. Somehow, that gave me pause, lent it credence, and caused me to pay attention.
The gyst was this:
"Humans are created to be loved. Things are created to be used. Today we live in a toxic world where things are loved and humans are used."
I may have actually just accidentally quoted verbatim. It's a good one, right? It's a melancholy truism. It's supported roundly not by what we as a society say, but by what we do, how we invest our time and, most importantly, where we put our money.
So that was sad.
The other piece that caught my eye- and kept it- was an article shared by a dear friend about one of my most favorite iconic American actresses, Frances McDormand. Frances is apparently on the verge of releasing a TV mini-series she has starred in, based on an award-winning set of short stories about an aging math teacher living in Maine with her husband.
Here is the NY Times article should you also be a McDormand fan:
Frances
I find the whole thing, tip to toe, to be inspiring. And not just because here is a kick-ass artist who has made what I consider to be incredible artistic choices along the way, but her choices as a human being and a parent speak to her integrity too. She talks about having remained out of the limelight for the past decade or so to enable her and her husband Joel Coen to rear their son in a fairly anonymous fashion. She talks about being turned on by this particular narrative series because it is an accumulation of everyday sadnesses and failures, and not so much a piece that centers around something so extraordinary. I like that she chooses to shine the light on the mundane.
Lastly, (and I'm sure this was the hook of the article, which is why this theme was woven so deeply throughout) is that Frances has chosen not to change her visage or body in any way to make herself look younger, more attractive, or more pleasing to the screen. She is 57 and looks like she's 57. She chooses to wear her wrinkles and grey hairs as a badge of honor. As a gift that adulthood brings along with what she deems the "card catalogue" of experiences these pieces of our aging physical presence should have the capacity to visually relay.
She talks about how she and her husband have had many spirited (I love that word- such a euphemism for argumentative) conversations about this topic over the years. Because of course, at 57, many of her - and his- female friends have had lots of work done. And this bristles Frances.
And this bristles me! Yes-- me. Me- who has sort of slunk surreptitiously into my dermatologist's office a handful of times over the past three years to have small amounts of Botox injected into my forehead. (I hate that one big worry line running down the middle.) Me- who is already secretly planning on the tiny, ever-so-subtle chin and lower facial tuck when I get closer to my 50's. (Of course, being the ever-so-subtle option, is ever-so-subtlely more money, honey.) Me who gets my hair regularly dyed twice to three times a year. Me who has shelled out a pretty penny already over the course of two decades for various creams and facial procedures in an attempt to bring out the "best" me visually I can muster. Who wants wrinkles and acne scars? Who loves blotchy cheeks and coarse little grey hairs around their crown?
Oh sigh sigh sigh to it all. What a complex beast full of hypocrisies am I.
Speaking of, let me get back to the "this bristles me!" part. Yeah- so I draw my lines in the sand, and don't begrudge any woman her particulars on this subject. We all have lines. And many of us do a little or a lot of work on our faces, our bodies, our image in general to try to appear- I believe- continually vital. Because it's not so much that those of us who choose to change our appearance however way we deem fit want to continue to keep small harems of lovers on the side...frothing over our continued gorgeous non-aging selves. (Though for a few minutes there, that was a nice thought...)
No. I think, rather- and I hope I'm not alone in this- the 'work' some of us aging women have done is more about the attempt to remain POWERFUL. Not powerful like running countries or coups or launching thousands of ships, per se, but powerful enough to remain VISIBLE and therefore RELEVANT to the conversation. And it is THIS (dear Frances and all my readership) it is THIS which bristles ME.
It's not the ruined celebrities I can gawk at repeatedly on my TMZ news feed who have gone way too far down the road of surgery who are the problem. It's not the bored housewives looking for a little self-esteem boost at the crux of the issue. Or anyone and everyone in between. It's the Group-Think...the pathetic false message that we've ALL somehow co-created...which tells us over and over again that aging is no good. That youth is to be celebrated and obsessively clung to with every fiber. That there is no beauty in getting older and wiser. And of course, the biggie-- that death is so scary, we won't think about it, talk about it, process it in our larger cultural collective. In fact- perhaps if we stave it off visually, maybe death is not going to even happen to us at all!
It's this insanity which I think speaks to the first Facebook quote I discovered this morning. Where oh where have our values gone? No- Republican Party, I'm not talking about "Family Values." (Wtf does that mean anyway? It's like the word "Wholesome" in commercial speak. Empty.) I'm talking about what is valuable. What is valuable? People- who are made to be loved- should be valuable.
-- let's not forget animals, plants and all life forms in general, but that's for another post entirely--
People, who, along with all other life forms, are made to age along the way, and therefore at least have the opportunity to yes, actually get BETTER as they go...because they hopefully learn HOW to love and that nothing BUT LOVE really matters at all--- These people should be valuable. This is what we should be celebrating. These kind of people. These everyday- trying to get by- trying to simply live in this complex world while somehow maintaining a sane and loving point of view-- people.
Now, I have not yet seen Frances McDormand's new series. Nor have I read the books upon which they are based. But I have an inkling that somewhere in that television piece might exist some work of actual value - everyday art which shines a light on that true chunk of gold which should be valued. And seen. And thought of as vital and relevant to the conversation. I am excited to watch, and grateful for those like Frances, who occasionally have the microphone and who choose to use it elegantly for purposes of truth.
God bless all of us aging souls. (Whatever "God" means to you.) God bless artists and those in all walks of life attempting to stand up against that which is untrue- namely, Youth as mistaken for Timeless Beauty, Age as mistaken for Loss of Value, and Things as mistaken for Objects to Love instead of valuing Life and Love over all.
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
Friday, September 26, 2014
Fire It Up! (or To Failure - Part 2)
There's another verbal tool that my ageless trainer Michael over at the gym has used on me numerous times. Aside from, as of late, training my muscles "to Failure"- a phrase for which I've found much use in my daily life beyond training. He's got another catch phrase which seems equally as universal outside the gym as well as in.
In fact, I've heard him use it from way across the room on other clients many times- me sweating it out on the sadistic abdominal slide machine wringing another few crunches from my sweaty, trembling torso, already feeling as though we've hit "To Failure" about two sets ago. Some other weary brave middle-aged soul will be leg lifting or bench pressing or squatting or balancing on the ball some fifty yards away from me. Michael's urgent baritone will float over the incessant pulsing club mix to land in my ears with precisely these three familiar key syllables:
"Fire it up!"
He says. "Fire it up!" To my fellow sufferer on the other side of the gym. Fire it up! To me and my aching belly muscles. Fire it up, Holly!
Fire. It. Up.
Fire It Up is usually the phrase which emanates from Michael's mouth right at the moment when you (or more precisely- me), the suffering gym client, have thought you've reached your end.
You're done with this set.
You're done with this machine.
You're done for today.
You might be done with this whole "work out" thing forever, because in this particular moment you're starting to entertain the notion that you might actually be done breathing. Or at the very least you're done having your breakfast safely locked INSIDE your stomach.
Done. You think. DONE! I'M DONE!!
And that's when --
"Fire It Up!" Makes its move. And it's weird, because it's an awfully powerful tool. I can't quite put my finger on it, but when Michael barks the FIU, whatever food that was making its way up my esophagus on its way to splurt itself out upon my tight black spandex pants settles right back into my stomach. My lungs which a split second ago were unable to process any more of that essential oxygen/carbon dioxide exchange, suddenly remember how to accordian themselves back to life. And my muscles find some teeny little violently shaky ability to do one... more...two....more...--- three! ..may...be...even..F-O-U-R-- MORE repetitions.
And then I really know what "To Failure" feels like. And you know what? It feels-- AWESOME. Because I did it! Because I fired it up beyond a place where I thought I could. I lit a cauldron from some deep inner place from beneath the bottom of my belly and from there I gathered strength to keep going.
Now. There's some obvious broader life uses for this Fire It Up beyond lifting and stretching and pulling dull grey weighted contraptions over and over again with my muscles. It seems almost didactic to further explain. And yet- somehow- the simple physical act of having my body Fire It Up from somewhere when I thought there simply was no fuel left is so incredibly empowering. It informs the mind. Beyond all those self help books talking about finding your Inner Fire. Or beyond even listening to the most powerful speaker- your favorite band- or reading bone splittingly gorgeous poetry.
It feels oddly more like when I'm singing a song. And it's going really well. Because that song suddenly becomes something that's inside and outside of me at the same time while I realize that as singer and human and creator, I am merely a channel or a vehicle for the song itself to be birthed. Because its not mine and I'm not it and we don't belong to each other, we're just intertwined for a moment. That's life force. Life force firing it up!
********
Recently I've noticed this young woman who's now diligently at work every time I saunter in to the gym. She- like me- is always in the pit with the boys. There's no dewy half hour on the stationary bike for this girl. No few easy bicep pulls on the machines in the corner. No- she's in the middle of it. Pushing it HARD. Heavy weights. Precise motions. Barbells. Spotters. It's impossible not to notice her-- she's beautiful and naturally blonde and beyond toned in a way that for awhile now has seemed otherworldly to me. So much so that I finally asked Michael, after hearing him bark a few "Fire It Ups" her direction last week, What is she training for? She must be training for something specific...
"Yep. Miss World Fitness- 2014." He said.
I swallowed.
"Ah--" I squeaked out. "Well- thank GOD. Because if she wasn't I was just gonna go home and have to shoot myself in the head."
Because I come in here feeling pretty decent about my damn middle-aged self lately. About the 10 pounds less that I now weigh. About the slightly more toned triceps and abdominals and backs of the thighs. I feel a little bit closer to that 20-something body I remember taking so much for granted back in the swing of the lurid psychedelic-hazed 90's. So, then to emerge into my place of Re-Awakening Spirit and to witness this creature of perfection, can sometimes be a bit of a downer. When what you want to do is gaze rather approvingly at your own reflection in the endless walls of gym mirrors and not see Her 20 feet away from you - 6 reps longer, 50 pounds harder, immovable heart shaped ass better, making your small improvements appear crushingly invisible.
So thank god she's working her guts out for SOMETHING. Something actual and specific and real. Not just to make me feel inferior.
Funny thing is- once I found that out about Her, rather than making me feel worse about myself, the opposite thing happened. She became yet another source of gym inspiration for me. As I started to quietly pay a bit more attention to Her workout, and to Michael's coaching of Her, I realized that there wasn't actually THAT much of a difference between us. Well-- at least not on paper.
She too is constantly being reminded to Fire It Up! ( Of course, she has more opportunity to hear that seeing as Michael informed me she's there three times a DAY for a few HOURS at a time, and I'm excited to make it to the gym three times a week for 45 minutes, if that.) She, like me, also scrunches her adorable little freckle-sprayed nose up into a crazy inverted slinky shape when, like me, she's close To Failure on her leg lifts. She, like me, is also concentrating like the world depended on it when balancing 75 pounds on her back while doing set after set of perfect leg squats. (I do quite imperfect squats with no barbells balanced atop my not-so perfectly toned shoulders, just for the record. Nor leg lunges. Not yet.)
In other words, though, I've seen Her a lot lately, and, like me- this girl has purpose and goals and this girl SWEATS for them.
******
As some of my readership may know, I am about to birth a new album out into the world. An album that has taken me the better part of two years to get close to finished. This record is certainly not the end-all, be-all....it is not anywhere near the "Pretenders-like" set of songs I am forced to tout it as, for promotional PR purposes. But I am proud of it. It is a band record, with a clean, early 80's sound and it has kick-ass drums and bass lines and my voice, alongside the usual soulful tonality, sounds sassy and angry here and there. To date, I don't think I've been able to successfully accomplish that very alive, thriving piece of my personality in any of my previous recordings.
Plus, I produced this one. Alongside my two engineers who each recorded and mixed about half of the material- I helmed this ship. A first for the Holly.
So it's a big deal for me.
And I'm now desperately in need of a little portable Trainer Michael on my shoulder at many points in my day outside of the gym. I'm so in need of a more consistent "Fire It UP!" in my ear over and over. A reminder that at those (way too frequent) times I feel I've hit sort of rock bottom in terms of having no energy to promote....no mo' mojo to keep doing the parts of record making that I so don't love, namely the promoting of the thing... that's when I need my Michael.
That's when I need my sweaty torso to just screw courage to the sticking point and tell my brain how to make that fucking phone call to the club booker. Rehearse that song one more time. Call that guitar player again. Schedule that rehearsal. Compose that mass email to send to all your fans telling them when and where... Edit that web page. Tweet that tweet. Record that new demo. Promote that FB page post.
And by the way, go to the grocery store because we're out of toilet paper and you better put the potatoes in NOW or dinner won't be until 8:30 and you have to make Back To School Night and don't forget Truman needs to finish that last worksheet for tutoring tomorrow and you need to help Josephine find that book that she thinks she left at her friend's house and the dogs haven't been walked since yesterday afternoon and the kitchen's a mess.... and on and on and so on and....
FIRE.
IT.
UP.
My new mantra. I hope maybe yours too. It is true that in the grand scheme of things- in the Big Picture, as it were....my therapist is constantly reminding me "There's nothing to do. There's nowhere to go." Meaning, stop driving yourself crazy with the consistent neurotic voice on repeat that you're never doing enough or being enough or good enough, blah blah.
But. Some things ARE actually worth doing. Even if they're not huge things like starting companies and launching charities and birthing babies and winning awards and changing the world.
Maybe these little things that bring us To Failure.... that challenge the very notion of our own capacity and what we're capable of...THESE are the things that are worth doing. To whatever end. God knows I am NEVER EVER EVER EVER going to be running for anything like Miss World Fitness 2014. Holy Shit. Nor am I ever going to run for the Senate, most likely. I'd be shocked if I made it to some sort of local PTA position....
But what I will continue to strive to do- as I try over and over again to Fire It Up from the deepest core of myself- is to challenge my own sense of the possible.
Maybe right now I don't exactly believe I could ever be as influential or life affirming with my music as the likes of the greats like Chrissie Hynde, or Cyndi Lauper, or Martha or Patti or Annie or any of the powerful rock divas of our era.
But then again, what do I know? A few months ago, I couldn't conceive of being anywhere near a size 6 again.
And I've only just begun to bench press.
Fire it up, Hol. Let's GO
In fact, I've heard him use it from way across the room on other clients many times- me sweating it out on the sadistic abdominal slide machine wringing another few crunches from my sweaty, trembling torso, already feeling as though we've hit "To Failure" about two sets ago. Some other weary brave middle-aged soul will be leg lifting or bench pressing or squatting or balancing on the ball some fifty yards away from me. Michael's urgent baritone will float over the incessant pulsing club mix to land in my ears with precisely these three familiar key syllables:
"Fire it up!"
He says. "Fire it up!" To my fellow sufferer on the other side of the gym. Fire it up! To me and my aching belly muscles. Fire it up, Holly!
Fire. It. Up.
Fire It Up is usually the phrase which emanates from Michael's mouth right at the moment when you (or more precisely- me), the suffering gym client, have thought you've reached your end.
You're done with this set.
You're done with this machine.
You're done for today.
You might be done with this whole "work out" thing forever, because in this particular moment you're starting to entertain the notion that you might actually be done breathing. Or at the very least you're done having your breakfast safely locked INSIDE your stomach.
Done. You think. DONE! I'M DONE!!
And that's when --
"Fire It Up!" Makes its move. And it's weird, because it's an awfully powerful tool. I can't quite put my finger on it, but when Michael barks the FIU, whatever food that was making its way up my esophagus on its way to splurt itself out upon my tight black spandex pants settles right back into my stomach. My lungs which a split second ago were unable to process any more of that essential oxygen/carbon dioxide exchange, suddenly remember how to accordian themselves back to life. And my muscles find some teeny little violently shaky ability to do one... more...two....more...--- three! ..may...be...even..F-O-U-R-- MORE repetitions.
And then I really know what "To Failure" feels like. And you know what? It feels-- AWESOME. Because I did it! Because I fired it up beyond a place where I thought I could. I lit a cauldron from some deep inner place from beneath the bottom of my belly and from there I gathered strength to keep going.
Now. There's some obvious broader life uses for this Fire It Up beyond lifting and stretching and pulling dull grey weighted contraptions over and over again with my muscles. It seems almost didactic to further explain. And yet- somehow- the simple physical act of having my body Fire It Up from somewhere when I thought there simply was no fuel left is so incredibly empowering. It informs the mind. Beyond all those self help books talking about finding your Inner Fire. Or beyond even listening to the most powerful speaker- your favorite band- or reading bone splittingly gorgeous poetry.
It feels oddly more like when I'm singing a song. And it's going really well. Because that song suddenly becomes something that's inside and outside of me at the same time while I realize that as singer and human and creator, I am merely a channel or a vehicle for the song itself to be birthed. Because its not mine and I'm not it and we don't belong to each other, we're just intertwined for a moment. That's life force. Life force firing it up!
********
Recently I've noticed this young woman who's now diligently at work every time I saunter in to the gym. She- like me- is always in the pit with the boys. There's no dewy half hour on the stationary bike for this girl. No few easy bicep pulls on the machines in the corner. No- she's in the middle of it. Pushing it HARD. Heavy weights. Precise motions. Barbells. Spotters. It's impossible not to notice her-- she's beautiful and naturally blonde and beyond toned in a way that for awhile now has seemed otherworldly to me. So much so that I finally asked Michael, after hearing him bark a few "Fire It Ups" her direction last week, What is she training for? She must be training for something specific...
"Yep. Miss World Fitness- 2014." He said.
I swallowed.
"Ah--" I squeaked out. "Well- thank GOD. Because if she wasn't I was just gonna go home and have to shoot myself in the head."
Because I come in here feeling pretty decent about my damn middle-aged self lately. About the 10 pounds less that I now weigh. About the slightly more toned triceps and abdominals and backs of the thighs. I feel a little bit closer to that 20-something body I remember taking so much for granted back in the swing of the lurid psychedelic-hazed 90's. So, then to emerge into my place of Re-Awakening Spirit and to witness this creature of perfection, can sometimes be a bit of a downer. When what you want to do is gaze rather approvingly at your own reflection in the endless walls of gym mirrors and not see Her 20 feet away from you - 6 reps longer, 50 pounds harder, immovable heart shaped ass better, making your small improvements appear crushingly invisible.
So thank god she's working her guts out for SOMETHING. Something actual and specific and real. Not just to make me feel inferior.
Funny thing is- once I found that out about Her, rather than making me feel worse about myself, the opposite thing happened. She became yet another source of gym inspiration for me. As I started to quietly pay a bit more attention to Her workout, and to Michael's coaching of Her, I realized that there wasn't actually THAT much of a difference between us. Well-- at least not on paper.
She too is constantly being reminded to Fire It Up! ( Of course, she has more opportunity to hear that seeing as Michael informed me she's there three times a DAY for a few HOURS at a time, and I'm excited to make it to the gym three times a week for 45 minutes, if that.) She, like me, also scrunches her adorable little freckle-sprayed nose up into a crazy inverted slinky shape when, like me, she's close To Failure on her leg lifts. She, like me, is also concentrating like the world depended on it when balancing 75 pounds on her back while doing set after set of perfect leg squats. (I do quite imperfect squats with no barbells balanced atop my not-so perfectly toned shoulders, just for the record. Nor leg lunges. Not yet.)
In other words, though, I've seen Her a lot lately, and, like me- this girl has purpose and goals and this girl SWEATS for them.
******
As some of my readership may know, I am about to birth a new album out into the world. An album that has taken me the better part of two years to get close to finished. This record is certainly not the end-all, be-all....it is not anywhere near the "Pretenders-like" set of songs I am forced to tout it as, for promotional PR purposes. But I am proud of it. It is a band record, with a clean, early 80's sound and it has kick-ass drums and bass lines and my voice, alongside the usual soulful tonality, sounds sassy and angry here and there. To date, I don't think I've been able to successfully accomplish that very alive, thriving piece of my personality in any of my previous recordings.
Plus, I produced this one. Alongside my two engineers who each recorded and mixed about half of the material- I helmed this ship. A first for the Holly.
So it's a big deal for me.
And I'm now desperately in need of a little portable Trainer Michael on my shoulder at many points in my day outside of the gym. I'm so in need of a more consistent "Fire It UP!" in my ear over and over. A reminder that at those (way too frequent) times I feel I've hit sort of rock bottom in terms of having no energy to promote....no mo' mojo to keep doing the parts of record making that I so don't love, namely the promoting of the thing... that's when I need my Michael.
That's when I need my sweaty torso to just screw courage to the sticking point and tell my brain how to make that fucking phone call to the club booker. Rehearse that song one more time. Call that guitar player again. Schedule that rehearsal. Compose that mass email to send to all your fans telling them when and where... Edit that web page. Tweet that tweet. Record that new demo. Promote that FB page post.
And by the way, go to the grocery store because we're out of toilet paper and you better put the potatoes in NOW or dinner won't be until 8:30 and you have to make Back To School Night and don't forget Truman needs to finish that last worksheet for tutoring tomorrow and you need to help Josephine find that book that she thinks she left at her friend's house and the dogs haven't been walked since yesterday afternoon and the kitchen's a mess.... and on and on and so on and....
FIRE.
IT.
UP.
My new mantra. I hope maybe yours too. It is true that in the grand scheme of things- in the Big Picture, as it were....my therapist is constantly reminding me "There's nothing to do. There's nowhere to go." Meaning, stop driving yourself crazy with the consistent neurotic voice on repeat that you're never doing enough or being enough or good enough, blah blah.
But. Some things ARE actually worth doing. Even if they're not huge things like starting companies and launching charities and birthing babies and winning awards and changing the world.
Maybe these little things that bring us To Failure.... that challenge the very notion of our own capacity and what we're capable of...THESE are the things that are worth doing. To whatever end. God knows I am NEVER EVER EVER EVER going to be running for anything like Miss World Fitness 2014. Holy Shit. Nor am I ever going to run for the Senate, most likely. I'd be shocked if I made it to some sort of local PTA position....
But what I will continue to strive to do- as I try over and over again to Fire It Up from the deepest core of myself- is to challenge my own sense of the possible.
Maybe right now I don't exactly believe I could ever be as influential or life affirming with my music as the likes of the greats like Chrissie Hynde, or Cyndi Lauper, or Martha or Patti or Annie or any of the powerful rock divas of our era.
But then again, what do I know? A few months ago, I couldn't conceive of being anywhere near a size 6 again.
And I've only just begun to bench press.
Fire it up, Hol. Let's GO
Thursday, September 25, 2014
To Failure - Part 1
I thought all I wanted to do was drop 10 pounds. Maybe 12.
After all, I could not even begin to fathom how these loathsome things had crept upon my frame in the last 8 or 9 months. And yet- they apparently had-- if I was to trust something as lame and catty as my SCALE. Well, and to be honest- my pants. My pants never had appeared to have it in for me, as did my fatuous bathroom scale, and so I did tend to believe them more readily. And my pants were very clear on the matter of me having gained weight. They obviously didn't like me anymore. They did not make me feel hot and sexy as they had at times in our mutual past- rather they chose to sort of splat themselves upon me, sharply cutting in and awkwardly jutting out in weird places they never had before. Groaning and seam splitting as I walked down the stairs. Or god forbid, chose to sit down in a chair. They were not happy at all, the pants.
See, it was roughly early April. And after finally listening to my miserable pants, and having stepped on a scale for the first time in 8 or 9 months, I had just finished the following two weeks in raging denial. First, I forced my doctor's hand into giving me a test not only for low Thyroid (which can cause lethargy, depression, inexplicable weight gain...etc) but I made her write a scrip for the holiest of Thyroid issues. She had me tested for Hashimoto's disease. Which is basically a rare autoimmune disorder that causes your body to attack the thyroid and therefore deplete itself of its ability to produce hormones in balance. See I was CONVINCED this twelve-ish pounds that had (so suddenly!) appeared upon my body had to be some sort of hormone disorder throwing my metabolism all out of whack. Because god knows, I wasn't doing anything differently. (So I thought. ) I wasn't OVEREATING. (So I decided.) Hells bells, I wasn't even DRINKING any more than usual! (So I convinced myself.)
Well the truth will set you free, as my third Thyroid and first and only Hashimoto's blood tests eventually did for me. They stated most factually and inarguably that I did not have anything close to a Thyroid issue. In fact, exactly the opposite was true. My numbers were GREAT. Staggeringly AMAZING. I was exactly where I needed to be Thyroid wise. Sigh.
So, next, I turned my laser vision on to GLUTEN. My next step in the drop-those-12-pounds-that-god-knows-how-they-landed-upon-me-in-the-first-place campaign. Now, I had already started cutting out gluten in my diet- because that's one thing that almost all healthcare professionals agree will help mitigate Thyroid symptoms. So having already cut some of my very favorite foods from my diet successfully for a few weeks since I had been convinced I was Hypo-thyroid, I decided to sally forth. Seeing as I liked some of the other results. No, I had not lost any weight per se, but that surely was to occur anytime soon-- as everyone told me it would. Oh my god- said my friends. Said the paid info-mercials. Said anyone anywhere I perused about the internet vis a vis gluten intolerance. Stop eating gluten and the pounds will just MELT off!! (btw- any one who tells you pounds will "melt" off your frame- you need to stop speaking to immediately. Thay ain't no sech thang baybee.)
Course, the pounds did not MELT off. In fact, in those first weeks after discovering I had no Thyroid issues, and yet staying religiously off gluten- I actually GAINED a few pounds. I was now up to a whopping 15 I wanted to viciously carve off my thighs and butt and upper arms and stomach. Looking back now I can see that though avoiding gluten is very much still a good thing for my body, substituting high fat or sugar for the gluten is not. (Sure- I'll have THREE hot dogs since I'm not eating any buns! For heaven sake- yes! Bring on that huge ice cream sundae since I had not one teeny inkling of bread or pasta or beer today. In fact, let's throw in some chocolate sauce AND whipped cream! No gluten in either of those!)
It had been two months since I had seriously started "dieting" and thinking every day about the scale and the unhappy pants. I hadn't lost a thing. I'd gained three pounds. I was as unhappy and discouraged and pudgy as ever- still avoiding a large portion of my closet. Still hoping and praying that maybe there was something just plain wrong with my chemistry because this had never happened to me before. Up until now, I had basically enjoyed life as a thin, relatively in-shape human with a brisk metabolism and a spotty, though overall healthy exercise ethic. Anytime I'd gained a little. certainly in my twenties I just went running a couple more times than usual that week and bing! All gone! In my thirties, I went on a serious diet and serious training program and lost the baby weight from number two in about six weeks total. And wasn't I still going to the gym now? And back on a different, but still "serious" diet? Avoiding so many delicious foody foods and not eating Gluten at ALL?
There was a lot of blubbering to my husband about all this nonsense. There was a lot of feeling incredibly sorry for myself. And more to the point, there was a lot of hyper-extending this inability to lose weight into a bigger picture. I was throwing this frustration into the big net that threatens occasionally to scoop up my entire life and psyche into it. This big net is called something like "Holly Is Powerless To Do Anything."
My dear husband listened to my blubbering. Again and again. Held my hand. Told me he understood and he loved me. And then he said- Hol. You need to get off your butt now. You need to call Michael.
Michael was my trainer at our local gym back in early '08 when I had hit this similar wall (though not nearly in such a biblical way.) Michael helped bring me back to myself in February of 2008 by teaching me how to truly and actually DIET for the first time. Meaning- no gimmicks. No short cuts or pills or juicing or only eating avocados and lemon ....just dieting. Counting calories. And working out every day. So it was math back then. Less (and better) calories in. More calories out. Math. Every day. That's it. That's all there is in the whole Weight Loss Conundrum. I'd learned it before - and it had worked for me- and I was to learn it again.
Though this time felt different. This time felt bigger. More monumental- more endemic of my life as a whole. I think as I picked up the phone - finally - that pathetic day after the encouraging pat on the back from Jeff and the ensuing two more hours of gnarly mucus-producing self pity in which I engaged.....I think I knew that Michael was going to be my ticket not just to losing some weight this time around, but to something a little bigger. Something that involved other areas of my life-- like feeling useful and hopeful. Like feeling I had anything left to offer at all.
Little did I know that was going to come from a crap load of new horrible stomach crunch routines, agonizing leg squats, and humiliating giant leap lunges across the gym floor. For days and days to come.
*********
So that's how it all began. This time around. Early May- I'm back in the gym I'd still been going to sporadically for six years since my initial successful diet. My old pal Michael--who does not age one day, not one minute, of his perfectly fueled and hydrated, continually physically engaged life-- next to me at the machines. Only this time, instead of talking about numbers -- instead of diligently counting my reps to equal up to three perfect sets in tandem on each machine- each side of my body....there's different language here.
And that phrase, as Michael keeps trying it on me over and over again- that phrase is "To Failure."
To exercise To Failure means- he encourages me not to count reps. He encourages me instead to get my form perfectly perfect on each exercise-- to be anally diligent about this-- because we are targeting the exact areas I would like to take a machete to. And apparently in order to see results in these areas in some way that doesn't involve a lot of blood and tissue loss with sharp knives, one must be incredibly diligent about the form. AND in order to see results fastest- one must bring one's body "to Failure." (I could wax layman-like about how the targeted stress on your muscle causes some sort of acidic break-down that can be repaired with eating high protein and which causes your muscle to thereby SUCK the surrounding fat from itself in order to replenish... causing something which may look a little bit like melting fat off your body thereby exposing the lean six pack underneath. yadda yadda. But I'm not sure I really understand it.)
So some sets of excruciating leg lifts on the abs balancer produce 16 or 18 reps (generally the first in the set.) Whereas others produce 6. I found I could leg press at 80 pounds - after having done three nauseating sets of squats- 40 on my first set. And barely make 15 by my third. So the math became different.
Instead, it all became about pain, really. Good old fashioned positive pain. Weary, luggy. grey ache kind of pain- not searing- tear your liver out of position sort of pain. ( To be clear. ) I would leave these first few sessions barely able to stumble the three blocks home from the gym. Not because I had torn or dislocated anything. But because I had worked my body "to failure" for the first time ever. Because I REALLY wanted this. And I was really willing to do whatever it took to get there.
The first month or so of this kind of training brought about a lot of naps in my life. A lot of waking up in the morning to aches in muscles I had forgotten I had. A lot of counting calories and saying no to the bacon the rest of my family hungrily chomped in the morning. Endless lunches with salads and low calorie soups. Guiltily pouring only 1 glass of wine for myself at night (because why oh why could I just not forgo it entirely! Well- that's a whole different blog post.) And then of course the first hideous five weeks of LOSING NOTHING. Kicking myself in the ass three to four times a week and seeing no difference on that mother effing son of a birch tree scale. (Because I was building muscle alongside dropping little bits of fat, so the actual weight differential was nil.)
But then came the beautiful morning when I finally stepped on the scale to realize that TWO whole pounds were gone. And then in another couple days it was THREE. Undeniable. I had already started to feel a little different in my clothing. My pants were definitely less upset with me. I was entertaining the notion of trying on some pieces that had been tucked away in my closet for months- perhaps never to be seen again.
But most importantly- I was ecstatic and totally encouraged. I was riding gorgeous gold tipped waves of endorphins because I had proven to myself that I could DO something. Which may sound really odd and a little sad to some of you more accomplished, Type A, sturdier souls who were born into this world and kinda figured it out pretty quickly. It might seem sort of pathetic and small that a woman of my age, who has found herself living quite a cush life and is quite grateful for the lovely challenge of being able to parent two souls, and lucky to be able to diddle around on instruments and sing ditties for a (paltry) living... would find such solace, would take such pride in the "melting away" of a couple of pounds off of her body.
But thems the facts. These first few pounds gone were so huge for me. So empowering and grounding, that the rest of the initial 10 pounds that I've lost so far, felt like they came off in no time at all after that. Bringing my muscles to failure- as much or as little as I could do relatively consistently a few times a week- in a few months changed my body. Not so much that I'm anywhere near being in the running for Fitness Queen of California 2014, but enough that I saw a different me that brought to mind (and closet!) the lithe, ready-for-anything girl I felt like in younger days. And so changed my outlook.
Now I won't pretend that it's all been wine and roses for me since then. Hardly. I'm a complicated human, living in complicated times, with a complicated set of terms I'm constantly trying to negotiate with myself here. But. 2014 has brought for me the knowledge and self-satisfaction of having done at least one thing that's visibly, measureably made a difference. Which means maybe I'm not such a huge fuck up after all. Maybe when I really really put my mind to it-- when I'm willing to ride the ride "To Failure" there's actually success at the end of it somewhere.
But that's for Part 2.
(Thanks for being my readers. I am so fond of you all for taking the time out of your busy lives to engage in me gazing at life through the lens of my belly button. I promise the second part soon.)
x
After all, I could not even begin to fathom how these loathsome things had crept upon my frame in the last 8 or 9 months. And yet- they apparently had-- if I was to trust something as lame and catty as my SCALE. Well, and to be honest- my pants. My pants never had appeared to have it in for me, as did my fatuous bathroom scale, and so I did tend to believe them more readily. And my pants were very clear on the matter of me having gained weight. They obviously didn't like me anymore. They did not make me feel hot and sexy as they had at times in our mutual past- rather they chose to sort of splat themselves upon me, sharply cutting in and awkwardly jutting out in weird places they never had before. Groaning and seam splitting as I walked down the stairs. Or god forbid, chose to sit down in a chair. They were not happy at all, the pants.
See, it was roughly early April. And after finally listening to my miserable pants, and having stepped on a scale for the first time in 8 or 9 months, I had just finished the following two weeks in raging denial. First, I forced my doctor's hand into giving me a test not only for low Thyroid (which can cause lethargy, depression, inexplicable weight gain...etc) but I made her write a scrip for the holiest of Thyroid issues. She had me tested for Hashimoto's disease. Which is basically a rare autoimmune disorder that causes your body to attack the thyroid and therefore deplete itself of its ability to produce hormones in balance. See I was CONVINCED this twelve-ish pounds that had (so suddenly!) appeared upon my body had to be some sort of hormone disorder throwing my metabolism all out of whack. Because god knows, I wasn't doing anything differently. (So I thought. ) I wasn't OVEREATING. (So I decided.) Hells bells, I wasn't even DRINKING any more than usual! (So I convinced myself.)
Well the truth will set you free, as my third Thyroid and first and only Hashimoto's blood tests eventually did for me. They stated most factually and inarguably that I did not have anything close to a Thyroid issue. In fact, exactly the opposite was true. My numbers were GREAT. Staggeringly AMAZING. I was exactly where I needed to be Thyroid wise. Sigh.
So, next, I turned my laser vision on to GLUTEN. My next step in the drop-those-12-pounds-that-god-knows-how-they-landed-upon-me-in-the-first-place campaign. Now, I had already started cutting out gluten in my diet- because that's one thing that almost all healthcare professionals agree will help mitigate Thyroid symptoms. So having already cut some of my very favorite foods from my diet successfully for a few weeks since I had been convinced I was Hypo-thyroid, I decided to sally forth. Seeing as I liked some of the other results. No, I had not lost any weight per se, but that surely was to occur anytime soon-- as everyone told me it would. Oh my god- said my friends. Said the paid info-mercials. Said anyone anywhere I perused about the internet vis a vis gluten intolerance. Stop eating gluten and the pounds will just MELT off!! (btw- any one who tells you pounds will "melt" off your frame- you need to stop speaking to immediately. Thay ain't no sech thang baybee.)
Course, the pounds did not MELT off. In fact, in those first weeks after discovering I had no Thyroid issues, and yet staying religiously off gluten- I actually GAINED a few pounds. I was now up to a whopping 15 I wanted to viciously carve off my thighs and butt and upper arms and stomach. Looking back now I can see that though avoiding gluten is very much still a good thing for my body, substituting high fat or sugar for the gluten is not. (Sure- I'll have THREE hot dogs since I'm not eating any buns! For heaven sake- yes! Bring on that huge ice cream sundae since I had not one teeny inkling of bread or pasta or beer today. In fact, let's throw in some chocolate sauce AND whipped cream! No gluten in either of those!)
It had been two months since I had seriously started "dieting" and thinking every day about the scale and the unhappy pants. I hadn't lost a thing. I'd gained three pounds. I was as unhappy and discouraged and pudgy as ever- still avoiding a large portion of my closet. Still hoping and praying that maybe there was something just plain wrong with my chemistry because this had never happened to me before. Up until now, I had basically enjoyed life as a thin, relatively in-shape human with a brisk metabolism and a spotty, though overall healthy exercise ethic. Anytime I'd gained a little. certainly in my twenties I just went running a couple more times than usual that week and bing! All gone! In my thirties, I went on a serious diet and serious training program and lost the baby weight from number two in about six weeks total. And wasn't I still going to the gym now? And back on a different, but still "serious" diet? Avoiding so many delicious foody foods and not eating Gluten at ALL?
There was a lot of blubbering to my husband about all this nonsense. There was a lot of feeling incredibly sorry for myself. And more to the point, there was a lot of hyper-extending this inability to lose weight into a bigger picture. I was throwing this frustration into the big net that threatens occasionally to scoop up my entire life and psyche into it. This big net is called something like "Holly Is Powerless To Do Anything."
My dear husband listened to my blubbering. Again and again. Held my hand. Told me he understood and he loved me. And then he said- Hol. You need to get off your butt now. You need to call Michael.
Michael was my trainer at our local gym back in early '08 when I had hit this similar wall (though not nearly in such a biblical way.) Michael helped bring me back to myself in February of 2008 by teaching me how to truly and actually DIET for the first time. Meaning- no gimmicks. No short cuts or pills or juicing or only eating avocados and lemon ....just dieting. Counting calories. And working out every day. So it was math back then. Less (and better) calories in. More calories out. Math. Every day. That's it. That's all there is in the whole Weight Loss Conundrum. I'd learned it before - and it had worked for me- and I was to learn it again.
Though this time felt different. This time felt bigger. More monumental- more endemic of my life as a whole. I think as I picked up the phone - finally - that pathetic day after the encouraging pat on the back from Jeff and the ensuing two more hours of gnarly mucus-producing self pity in which I engaged.....I think I knew that Michael was going to be my ticket not just to losing some weight this time around, but to something a little bigger. Something that involved other areas of my life-- like feeling useful and hopeful. Like feeling I had anything left to offer at all.
Little did I know that was going to come from a crap load of new horrible stomach crunch routines, agonizing leg squats, and humiliating giant leap lunges across the gym floor. For days and days to come.
*********
So that's how it all began. This time around. Early May- I'm back in the gym I'd still been going to sporadically for six years since my initial successful diet. My old pal Michael--who does not age one day, not one minute, of his perfectly fueled and hydrated, continually physically engaged life-- next to me at the machines. Only this time, instead of talking about numbers -- instead of diligently counting my reps to equal up to three perfect sets in tandem on each machine- each side of my body....there's different language here.
And that phrase, as Michael keeps trying it on me over and over again- that phrase is "To Failure."
To exercise To Failure means- he encourages me not to count reps. He encourages me instead to get my form perfectly perfect on each exercise-- to be anally diligent about this-- because we are targeting the exact areas I would like to take a machete to. And apparently in order to see results in these areas in some way that doesn't involve a lot of blood and tissue loss with sharp knives, one must be incredibly diligent about the form. AND in order to see results fastest- one must bring one's body "to Failure." (I could wax layman-like about how the targeted stress on your muscle causes some sort of acidic break-down that can be repaired with eating high protein and which causes your muscle to thereby SUCK the surrounding fat from itself in order to replenish... causing something which may look a little bit like melting fat off your body thereby exposing the lean six pack underneath. yadda yadda. But I'm not sure I really understand it.)
So some sets of excruciating leg lifts on the abs balancer produce 16 or 18 reps (generally the first in the set.) Whereas others produce 6. I found I could leg press at 80 pounds - after having done three nauseating sets of squats- 40 on my first set. And barely make 15 by my third. So the math became different.
Instead, it all became about pain, really. Good old fashioned positive pain. Weary, luggy. grey ache kind of pain- not searing- tear your liver out of position sort of pain. ( To be clear. ) I would leave these first few sessions barely able to stumble the three blocks home from the gym. Not because I had torn or dislocated anything. But because I had worked my body "to failure" for the first time ever. Because I REALLY wanted this. And I was really willing to do whatever it took to get there.
The first month or so of this kind of training brought about a lot of naps in my life. A lot of waking up in the morning to aches in muscles I had forgotten I had. A lot of counting calories and saying no to the bacon the rest of my family hungrily chomped in the morning. Endless lunches with salads and low calorie soups. Guiltily pouring only 1 glass of wine for myself at night (because why oh why could I just not forgo it entirely! Well- that's a whole different blog post.) And then of course the first hideous five weeks of LOSING NOTHING. Kicking myself in the ass three to four times a week and seeing no difference on that mother effing son of a birch tree scale. (Because I was building muscle alongside dropping little bits of fat, so the actual weight differential was nil.)
But then came the beautiful morning when I finally stepped on the scale to realize that TWO whole pounds were gone. And then in another couple days it was THREE. Undeniable. I had already started to feel a little different in my clothing. My pants were definitely less upset with me. I was entertaining the notion of trying on some pieces that had been tucked away in my closet for months- perhaps never to be seen again.
But most importantly- I was ecstatic and totally encouraged. I was riding gorgeous gold tipped waves of endorphins because I had proven to myself that I could DO something. Which may sound really odd and a little sad to some of you more accomplished, Type A, sturdier souls who were born into this world and kinda figured it out pretty quickly. It might seem sort of pathetic and small that a woman of my age, who has found herself living quite a cush life and is quite grateful for the lovely challenge of being able to parent two souls, and lucky to be able to diddle around on instruments and sing ditties for a (paltry) living... would find such solace, would take such pride in the "melting away" of a couple of pounds off of her body.
But thems the facts. These first few pounds gone were so huge for me. So empowering and grounding, that the rest of the initial 10 pounds that I've lost so far, felt like they came off in no time at all after that. Bringing my muscles to failure- as much or as little as I could do relatively consistently a few times a week- in a few months changed my body. Not so much that I'm anywhere near being in the running for Fitness Queen of California 2014, but enough that I saw a different me that brought to mind (and closet!) the lithe, ready-for-anything girl I felt like in younger days. And so changed my outlook.
Now I won't pretend that it's all been wine and roses for me since then. Hardly. I'm a complicated human, living in complicated times, with a complicated set of terms I'm constantly trying to negotiate with myself here. But. 2014 has brought for me the knowledge and self-satisfaction of having done at least one thing that's visibly, measureably made a difference. Which means maybe I'm not such a huge fuck up after all. Maybe when I really really put my mind to it-- when I'm willing to ride the ride "To Failure" there's actually success at the end of it somewhere.
But that's for Part 2.
(Thanks for being my readers. I am so fond of you all for taking the time out of your busy lives to engage in me gazing at life through the lens of my belly button. I promise the second part soon.)
x
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Only The Lonely Can Play
Oh the 80's-- The illustrious 80's. That decade of overly sincere movie rock anthems, acid wash, and Gordon Gekko greed. I became a teenager in the 80's. I lost my virginity in the 80's. I got drunk and stoned for the first time in the 80's. I wrote my first song. First appeared on stage. Met and dated my (eventual) husband, moved to California, got my first job, cultivated my first big dreams, made some of my first biggest mistakes, and got really passionate about life in the 80's. I also for the first time became equally depressed in the 80's. The 1980's was my decade to begin myself.
And so it's really been no huge surprise that after writing and recording four albums, each one honoring different musical influences and musical memories of my childhood, I would land back on about -- 1981. This most recent rock project I've been swimming around in for well over 18 months now (the longest it has taken me to complete a record) sits squarely in the Cars/Pretenders/Tom Petty sound bin ranging between about 1979 through 1982. And now as of very recently- I've had to add another name to that list since I've realized she's clearly another early 80's influence of mine: The Motels. Or, more specifically, Martha Davis and her Motels.
I've been lucky. These last few months I've gotten to work with a handful of the musicians who make up the latest incarnation of her band. Martha and The Motels are still very much writing and recording. She is still kicking at the ripe old age of 60 something-- hip, happening grandmother that she is. Her lead guitarist and two of her drummers have been working with me on the second half of this molasses-moving record of mine. And I certainly tip my hat to these men. Because without them in my current musical world, I don't think I would have landed so heavily upon how much Martha Davis and her music now resonate to me- and this particular project of mine.
The thing is this. While immersing myself in Motels material I'd only been vaguely hip to back in my early teens, I began to listen in a different way. As the light bulb got turned on inside of me for Chrissie Hynde and Patti Smith rather late in the game, so it illuminated for Martha as well. At the behest of my newest musician peers, I dug deep into what YouTube had to offer and got to experience in all its grainy detail many key moments from old live Motels shows. Martha slightly drunk and drugged, cigarette dangling from her lip..sometimes guitar in hand..sometimes whiskey glass- pouting and crooning her sultry, boozy melodies atop her band's gloriously sloshy synth pads and melancholy guitar lines.
Suddenly I discovered another famed kindred spirit in my sand box. And I sprouted a wee bit of a crush on the sloppy-haired, red-lipped, silken-bloused powerful rock n roll harlot queen that Martha embodied on her stage. I started to understand that this was yet another influential diva for me to dive into. I studied the way her mouth wrapped around her words. Like watching Chrissie navigate her sassy way onstage through the veil of her raven bangs, I was immediately struck by Martha's blousy way of holding everything- barely- together onstage and how vulnerable and beautiful and tawdry it all looked. How fucking hard core rock and roll.
So needless to say, when my co-producer/engineer Kevin (Martha's ex-drummer) invited me to see the Motels headlining the auspicious 50th Anniversary of the Whiskey A Go Go, I was thrilled. Thrilled like I should have been as a teenager to go see my idols in person- which as a teenager, I didn't do.
Perhaps making up for lost time, I am just now truly cultivating the deepest wounded teenage punk Holly in her 40's. The Holly who should have slipped out more often in the middle of the night to go see local punk rock bands at Chicago's Cubby Bear. The Holly who perhaps would have been better off spending less time cultivating her 4.0 GPA in high school, and more time cultivating her power chords on the electric guitar.
Anyway. No time like the present- as Martha Davis was to remind me late night Sunday in mid January 2014, at The Whiskey. No time like now. To be here and present and working any old yearning teenage version of myself, or wise old crone, or sultry mid twenties version. No time like now to bring them all to bear in one big swell of a musical presentation replete with dusky pink and blue stage lighting. And of course, since it was the Whiskey, and this was the Motels, after all-- lots and lots of smoke machines.
But I'm jumping ahead.
Because the night began for me by picking up my pal Kevin, and driving through eerily empty Sunday night streets on our way to the Sunset Strip. After digging valid CA ID out of my wallet (really?) and getting branded on BOTH hands with the nearly indelible, lasts-you-a-week, club stamps (again- really?) we saunter in. Brief look around the first floor indicates that one of the various opener bands is still roundly in mid set, so we make our way up the smokily lit stairwell toward the backstage entrance door.
I am struck right away by two things. Number one, remembering that the last time I was in this joint, George Bush the First was most likely president. And number two, how little had changed since that time. The decor looked literally the same- and surprisingly well-preserved. Not so the overly tanned and wrinkly retired strippers who mingled with the lusty Jagermeister girls clad in their metal studded Playboy bunny negligees. Grizzled rock stars with more tattoo than skin had arms slung in equal amounts around both these types of women. There was a lot of high fiving and fist pumping. Hey Man-ing and tossing back shots of amber liquid. It was almost like the 90's and following decade of Naught was a mere flimsy dream, and we were all back here safe and sound somewhere around 1987- before the music industry was brought to its knees by the internet.
I am immediately and dizzingly filled with nostalgia and am in desperate need of an alcoholic beverage. Luckily, that is not far away, for Kevin and I are now headed up the smaller, dingier set of stairs to the Motels' green room where beer, wine and liquor of all sorts lays casually about on every small table, guitar case and faded velveteen armchair. Here, my friends, is where the Flag of the United States of Cigarettes still flies proudly. Backstage in an aging rock star's green room- the air may be ripe with sprayable freshener, but smoke still pours from the mouths of most every soul in the place. I hug the wall a bit- clutching my newest friend in the form of a plastic wine glass filled to the brim with some Californian red Cuvee, vintage nineteen who cares.
I sort of don't want to catch anyone's eye- preferring to take in the scene as a whole like the proverbial fly on the wall. A casual observer. Martha is holding court in the corner over there- clad in a long black coat looking thing...some sort of a silk purplish scarf around her neck, black bowler on her head. (I own a bowler! Love that thing... ) I can't really tell what she's talking about but she has the air of a warm matronly presence mixed with a little cougar. Her hair is still dyed jet black, her eye makeup and false lashes still gilding her face...though I do notice Martha's skin moves a bit like fine tissue paper- especially around her eyes and mouth when she offers up her engaging smiles. She reminds me of the sexier rock version of what my own grandmother looked like in her late 50's.
My reverie breaks, and after a briefly awkward interaction between myself and some notorious early 90's porn star, a guy in a headset lifts his finger and those of us not in the band whisk ourselves back down the dingy fluorescent lit stairwell to the second story of the Whisky. Which is now packed with even more tattooed and aging rocker couples. So we go further downstairs- try to squeeze into a slot at the back of the mass of folks who make up the mosh pit on the dance floor. The drummer's lovely artist girlfriend who looks (as all drummer's girlfriends should) like an ex-super model appearing effortlessly beautiful in nothing more than a raggedy Tshirt, jeans and dusty suede boots...she has wisely brought earplugs for all those in her immediate vicinity. I stuff these little waxy globules in my ears and though I know it's the right thing to do, still feel a wee bit curmudgeonly.
The band makes their way onstage after a sweet but lumpy introduction by (also beautifully preserved) Rosanna Arquette and another brunette writer/ actress clad in her rockery best whom I feel I should recognize but don't.... I am shooed away repeatedly by brawny nightclub bouncers who are apparently trying to maintain a little pathway in the back of the audience for the cameras that will be moving through the crowd, filming the event. Desperately trying to find a spot where I can place my five foot eleven inch frame and not be continually poked in the back by another testosterone enhanced human being in a tank top, I make my way back to the first floor bar. Ah. Space back here. Can't see so well, but that's ok. It's the Whiskey after all- not the Forum.
The lights come up, the smoke starts whirling, and boom- Martha's on. Band is rolling. Keyboard guy intently plunking his array of jazz-esque 4ths and 7ths. The lead guitar player begins a repeatedly impressive headbanging in time to his own fierce and precise licks. Drummer is hitting those skins HARD. Martha's old sax guy is on stage too- already in full swing. You'd never know he wasn't a contemporary of the rest of the band- his energy is high and strong. The bass player has a perfect greasy slink to his demeanor. Slightly apart and yet totally connected at the same time. The band is rocking. They sound great.
And then she starts singing. And it's like- for the second time tonight- I am fully transported back to the 80's. If I close my eyes, I swear I would be back here in '80 or '81- years before I actually made my trek out west- attending an early Motels gig in support of their first record. Martha's voice sounds amazingly the same. Same pout and lilt. Same throaty gush to it. Unlike many of her contemporaries, say Joni Mitchell or Sinead O'Connor, whose voices have dropped significantly since their early heydays, Martha Davis' voice sounds almost better than it did when she first began.
But then opening my eyes is really even more fun. Because throughout the show I am visually reminded that here is a woman who has kept significant parts of herself going strong- strong enough to strut them around on stage like this. But it is also hard to keep completely at bay the fact that she is in her mid SIXTIES. Her body is mostly covered by a scarf and coat. Her face softened by her black bowler hat. At some point in the show, a young man in the audience (obviously a friend) yells at Martha to "Take off yer top!" She chortles, "Honey- do you know this is my birthday? And more importantly- do you know WHAT birthday this is?"
What is undeniable is that regardless of her age- Martha Davis is a rock star. Timeless and true, balls to the wall, guts out there in her voice, her vulnerability and power raging simultaneously. She was Woman Incarnate for these moments. Whether strumming madly on her Gibson, or reaching out her arms into the smoky air hovering above us, her audience, Martha was continually inviting you into her world. Full of steamy one night stands. Of lusty longing and pathetic moping, she was beckoning you to join like a friend and a lover. Reminding you that we're all merely players in a game rigged against us. We all have desires that are unmet. We all sit at home alone on Saturday nights. And that this set of lonely dreams and burning passions aren't the stuff of shame-- No. This is the stuff of intense expression and showmanship and LIFE.
Martha and her gorgeous aubergine voice throbbing like a ripe bruise, reminded me again how to BRING IT. And that if you're not- what the heck are you doing up on the stage? No room for guilt or apology. No need to ask for permission, which you can only give to yourself anyway. Martha's performance and complete presence for every second of it reminded me that in order to truly honor the forces that work in your favor, enabling you to get up there as an artist, one must be also willing to inhabit it fully and completely. Regardless of your age. Your sex. Your looks. Your talent. And all the particulars you may celebrate about yourself or tend to want to hide away. You bring it all. And that way each moment becomes transportational for the audience as well as the artist. This is community. This is art. This is music.
Later on after the show was over. After the second standing ovation finally brought "Only the Lonely" to our ravenous ears-- Kevin and I wearily climbed the stairs yet one more time to see the guys and say congratulations to Martha. She enveloped him in her arms- high on the drug of the set. A bit steamy from the stage lights. Kevin told me he's been to her 17 acre ranch in Oregon and she's cooked him and the other band members a huge turkey dinner. You could see that in the way she hugged him- a little bit like a son, a little like a friend. But also- there was something else in her embrace. This band of young men that surround her now- as they did back when she was a younger woman- are a mark of her persona. She needs the beautiful boys around her as any aging siren would. They keep her vivacious and young.
And then her attention was turned to me. The truly lone stranger in the green room that night. Known only vaguely by a handful of associate musicians-- Martha turned toward me as Kevin made our brief introduction. "Martha- this is my friend Holly. I'm working on her album." And I looked at her fully enrapt and with nothing much else to say - uttered my sincerest "Thank you so much Martha. Just-- thank you for tonight. It was spectacular. You were amazing." She gathered my face in her hands and planted an enormous fleshy kiss on my lips. If it had been a graphic novel there would have been an "Mmmwah!" in big red and white print in the corner of the frame. I don't know how drunk she might have been- but I didn't care. I myself was not really anywhere near 100% sober. It was a sweet sort of innocent moment. Iconic Grandmama Rocker Bear kisses lesser known, but no lesser warm and furry younger Mama Bear...acknowledging their kindred path. Even if blithely fueled by red wine and bourbon.
I drove back to the westside of Los Angeles that night riding on a weirdly blissful cloud of calm. Again- like a teenager would having just spent backstage moments with his or her idol. Martha has only recently become one of my deepest muses- though in truth- as mentioned before I have only recently truly become awash in my true teenage rock fan self.
Days passed as I spent more and more time gleefully alone in my little office- hours on the guitar. Bits and pieces of songs swirling around in my head. Some of them actually clung to the edges and are now recorded Garage Band demos. Fodder for the next session with Kevin and those Motels members Martha and I share.
I have her truly to thank for the inspiration. And for the cheap red wine. And glorious night of witnessing a flesh and blood Diva of the Rock and Roll Stage. Would that I be worthy for passage of the baton....
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Post Post Post Modern Art.
Definition
of Curate:
1.
select, organize, and look after the items in (a collection or exhibition)
2.
select, organize, and present (online content, merchandise, information, etc.),
typically using professional or expert knowledge:
Now I
know next to nothing about the art world. Nor that of rare books. But I do know
that back before perhaps the late Naught years, as far as I knew the word “curator” was
essentially utilized in these fields of artistic expression, and required a
certain sense of professionalism- certainly expertise- in order to be attached
to an individual.
Then the
invisible forces of Colloquialism landed upon this little word and began
adopting and co-opting this notion of “curation” in other arenas. Suddenly, my hipstery upper middle
class Westside white world was filled with curators.
The local
wine stores weren’t stocked with wines from knowledgable owners any longer- they became
curated. Book stores,
sandwich shops, cafes, gift shops, high-end bakeries…the pot dealership down the
way—suddenly all run by curators.
Not only the high-end clothing boutiques, but my favorite thrift shops
and consignment stores were helmed by them. Indeed, I myself was referred to as
the ‘curator’ of my own in-house part time vintage clothing business by friends
and customers.
Somehow,
the use of this term never really bothered me back then. Just another slippery little
redefinition being bandied about.
Until
recently when I caught a short NPR news commentary on the radio and heard ”Curate”
oh-so-appropriately attached to a whole different realm of human
interaction- social media.
The brief
news piece involved some sort of German study on Facebook and Facebook
users. Age ranges, amount of time
aboard, type of interactions, and emotional responses to these interactions,
etc.
First of
all, turns out- not surprisingly for those of us with teen and pre-teen kids -
Facebook is sooo not happening for the youngsters. Less and less Millennials are signing up for and/or using
FB. They find the SM format increasingly unappealing, and tend to gravitate
more toward Twitter, Instagram or Snapchat where info is more terse, more
easily digestable, and at times immediately disposable. AFAIK. Lol.
Secondly,
(and I digress a bit from topic to illustrate what I found to be an intuitive
point) --for those of us old Crusties who climb aboard Facebook quite often-
there are two types of interactions as laid out by this German study: Interactive users are ‘liking,’ commenting,
posting their own status, sharing files, etc. This type of interaction tends to make the user feel more
connected. Happy. Plugged in. Whereas the other type of
interaction- the lurker- just browses. Behaving
more like a wallflower observer at the dance, this type of user browses through
others’ vacation photos, family/friend events, reads strings of comments
without adding voice to the melee, and can feel increasingly depressed or
disconnected as a result.
As
someone who’s used Facebook in both ways, and has experienced both sets of resultant
feelings, I find this information to be, if not revelatory, than certainly
validating.
But back
to the curation of it all.
Perhaps
it was Terry Gross, perhaps Ann Litt- I cannot now recall who presented this
story, but she began discussing the pressure we all perhaps feel in this
world of social media to sort of “curate” our LIVES, as it were. Wherever photos of one exists--quotes,
comments, reviews, etc etc- the need to
“select, organize and look after the items” falls upon us all.
We are
now all curators. Curators of the
presentation of our own lives and selves as we appear on the internet.
Now for
me, this curation is not a new thing at all. Back in 2000 when I was just finishing up my first album, to
be released and promoted by me and for me- my first truly independent musical
work- I immediately procured the rights to hollylong.com. I was connecting to as many online
music sites as I could find to throw my work out there into the cloudy
atmosphere (before there was a Cloud.) At the behest of some other indie music
friends, I was one of the first people I knew to start up a Myspace page. And then subsequently a Facebook page,
Reverbnation page.. blah blah.
It was
very clear that the old pillars of the music industry were crumbling- giving
way to the brave new world that was online promotion. If you wanted to survive
at ALL as a musician trying to break your music to the world, you needed to
interact with the online community.
You needed to be present and active and continue to show up. That’s still true. As the years have gone by, and I’ve
piled up a few more albums in my arsenal, I’ve found myself muddling through
Twitter and You Tube and Google Plus and Ilike, trying to discover the magic
balance between what feels authentic to display vs. the gaping maw of
insatiable hunger our impersonal communal internet is made of…
To be
honest, somewhere back in 2010, immediately after promoting album number 4, I
just sort of stopped. I dropped
the ball on curating the fascinating, up-to-the-minute, ever-evolving life of
the artist Holly Long. I never
stopped being the artist, I just got weary of curating her.
So now it
seems- this task appears to be much more of a universal online thing. Since the maturation of Facebook, and
the enormity of usership has found us all thriving on the connections we have
with one another. Which seems like a good thing, right? And yet somehow this reality of each
one of us having to become personal curators fills me with an eerie sense of
dread.
OK. So we must consider the source
here. I am one of the grumbly
troglodytes who went kicking and screaming into my iphone’s IOS 7
transformation last year. Which I
still resent. I currently use my dusty oversized paper desk calendar year after
year. Despite the mounting number of coffee rings and unidentifiable stains
which accumulate as the year progresses, this large lo-tech device continues to
prove itself invaluable in keeping me organized. I like books made of paper. I
wear clothing made in the 80’s. I
listen to a lot of old LP’s and find myself explaining to friends in a mealymouthed
manner over and over again that I am the last person to ask about hip new
music.
So it
would stand to reason that I have a little chip on my shoulder when it comes to
progress. I am a chick who digs
her vintage. And who feels the
need to wallow around in those past energies and past sets of feelings as if
this particular present plane of existence isn’t nearly as vibrant or rich with
life.
However,
I think it’s not so much that I don’t want to move forward or feel as though I
and the rest of “us” and “the world” are progressing….I’m just very skeptical
that what we deem “progress” really is “progress” all the time. And so I’m a wee bit scared.
Alright. I said it. I’m scared.
It’s slightly scary to think that we humans feel the compulsive need to
curate bits and pieces of our lives in order to present the most attractive,
engaged, happy, plugged-in sort of versions of ourselves all the time. Something about that seems false, and therefore not healthy. Not good for us. Not wholesome. You know- like filler, but something that never really properly fills.
Now, I’m all
for waving the flag when you’ve got it.
But I must say- I really don’t always have the flag. In fact, much of the time I don’t. I am
not a consistently curated piece of work which revolves around an interesting gravitational
theme. I am authentically filled with bumps and
jags and inconsistencies.
I find
life to be a rich nuanced concoction of crazy beautiful coincidences mixed with
dully mundane buckets of melancholy.
Atop rickety structures of social mores and attempts to do right and be
present and make small differences in a good way. I am not hitting the marks so much of the time. I am just putting one foot in front of
the other and trying as an artist not to feel completely invisible, and trying
as a person to make the most out of my relationships and trying as a human
being to be as conscious as possible so I can leave this place ever so slightly
better than I found it.
And I’m
unclear as to how the incessant curating is going to actually bring what my
shrink and I have come to believe I’m looking for out of life: “Good feelings that last.” In fact, if anything- I think all the manic attention toward building and maintaining online persona does the opposite. Good feelings that don't last. And/or worse- Empty feelings that do.
As I type
this, my gaze is averted over to the right hand side of my screen where an
additional open online window has some sort of movable American Apparel ad
running across the top. Cute white
20 something girl with long hair and nothing on except black fingerless gloves—which
is the apparel-du-jour they are apparently advertising. There’s four pictures of her in these
gloves moving at rapid speed from right to left across the top of my screen in
what would perhaps be a continual day and night stream were I to keep that
window open.
I suppose
that’s a lovely image to end this here rant.
The ongoing stream of information never
stops. Will never stop. And our need to engage in it has now
become primal, as the online world has become so endemic of who we are as
people in any one of our present-day worldwide cultures. In this complex world where “survival”
has outgrown merely food and clothing for most of us lucky ones…we must appear
online in some way in order to feel here and present.
Which
requires the continual growth of new muscles of curation. Ever expanding new skillz.
I am left
here to wonder, however, at the outcome of all our meticulous curating. These online people we become and
present ourselves as day in and day out- are they to become the real ones,
while our actual human forms fade away in presence as the mere place holders?
God
knows, my real form is so much less appealing in many ways than the virtual
me-- more vulnerable and unpredictable, less easy to package in some tidy box
of quirky adjectives…
*******
Speaking
of. I’m off to wash it. This body of mine still clad in PJs
with only two cups of coffee, half a fried egg and a Granny Smith apple fueling
it for breakfast.
…Left
side of my cheek very slightly swollen from yesterday afternoon when, while in a writing session, I inadvertently rammed my face
into the electric tele I was attempting to sling up and over myself to play.
…Lower
left abdominal muscle twitching in a very irritating tickly way leaving me to
wonder, have I eaten enough potassium lately? Maybe a banana is in my future.
…Ah- and
now I’m leaning over to turn off the computer to notice the little piece of
crud that lives on the &/7 key above the alphabet. What IS that?
How long has it BEEN there?
Why is it this strange shade of dark orange??
…OK.
Curate
THAT!
Monday, January 6, 2014
Clean Up on Aisle Three
It's January 1, 2014.
I've spent an uneventfully quiet day at home with the husband and the offspring.
Exactly none of us got out from under the sheets before 9:49AM.
Luckily, there's not a whole lot of foggity New Years Day hangover happening since I wisely stopped imbibing the nine different vintages of wine maybe two hours before hitting the hay last night. (And if memory serves, that was somewhere around 11:20, seeing as Jeff and I never actually made it to the westcoast NewYear mark. Which means I must have stopped drinking somewhere around 9:20. Which then clearly puts my start time at around 4 in the afternoon, but we don't need to---)
So, the day has been rather lovely and calm. Hour after sun drenched hour has drifted by listlessly. Children happily rotting their brains away on constant electronic screen overload. Husband simultaneously downloading Rachel Maddow on itunes while checking Fantasy Football status slash "I'm working, Hol" on the desktop.
I'm wondering whether to attempt that quiche I've been threatening to make since the manic Bed Bath and Beyond Excursion of Fall 2012 landed a number of shiny white, French-y cookware products in my kitchen cupboards. Never to see the light of day again.
There's Nowhere to go. Nothing to do.
And at some point as the day rolls on and the sheer laziness of it all starts to affect even the rotted brain members of the family-- we do actually throw some semblance of 'clothing' on. Pull out the big plastic containers and attempt something useful. It's New Years Day- let's get Xmas the F outta here.
With a sigh and a slight tear wiped wistfully from the eye, we attack the fire hazard that now sits limply in the corner of the living room- denuding the prickly sad evergreen skeleton of all its ornaments. Leaving crumply piles of wet brown needles strewn in a defeated shaggy line from the living room corner to the outside porch where the carcass now stands- defiantly naked and shedding.
That's when I decide to change it up. It is definitely time to get (oh my god) outside of the house. So, I bravely announce to my barely clothed, severely bedheaded family -- "I'm Going To The Grocery Store!"
To which my family replies- in varying degrees of apathy- "Urh..Hm Hmph..."
I don't need any send off.
I get in the car. I drive the four point two blocks to the local chain store, known in our neighborhood as the "Ghetto Ralph's" for which I am developing a real cuddly affinity, seeing as I can no longer stomach the righteous Whole Foods crowd. And as much as I loves me the Trader Joe's where I do tend to do the bulk of our regular shopping- our nearest is a good 20 minute drive away. Can't beat the ghetto grocery store which takes- at max- two and a half mins to get to in the car. And that's only if you hit the one rather long red light on the way.
I pull into the lot. Swing into a space. Whoosh, slam- go the car doors. (Lookit me, I've remembered my recyclable grocery bags! Ok, so they both say Whole Foods on them, and here I am at the Ghetto Ralph's, but I'm choosing to look at that as an ironic self-loathing sort of white person maneuver on my part.)
Oh my- there's my old friend Matt from the hood with his baby girl! Haven't seen them in an age. She's getting so big... I hug him. We smile. "Happy New Year! How's Greg?" "Fine- what's up with Jeff?" "Great- Same old."
I feel obliged not to get too close to the baby, because, well....I'm not wholly completely healthy. And I look it. Which leads me to feel equally obliged to apologize for the three vaguely weepy cold sores which are working their magic on my lips... "I've caught a bit of a cold- see these lovelies? heh heh-- heh- don't want to get too close to your sweet girly now!"
He looks at me with a veiled mixture of pity and disdain. Didn't need to hear about the cold sores, Hol. Don't really care. I see them. Whatever. And why do you feel the need to justify your facial sores when they sporadically arrive in your life? People can really get past them- nobody gives a flying about your herpes-
Wait. Maybe that was more the dialogue in my own head...
So now I'm inside the store. Happy for having chatted with Matt in the parking lot, despite my complicated relationship with my face. He and Greg are such a wonderful couple- we should see them more often.
I'm making my way through the produce. I'm throwing the organic milk into the cart. I'm working the edges of the grocery store. Meat. Produce. Dairy. We need the works. I duck into the toilet paper aisle- I sweep through the bakery. I'm almost done! Matt and I nearly crash carts around the toothpaste. We laugh about both being the kind who essentially dislike grocery shopping and will do anything we can to make it a speedy trip. I move toward frozen foods to pick up some waffles before heading to the checkout.
And that's when it hits me.
I suddenly realize there's music playing at the Ghetto Ralph's. Because I recognize the song. And because of the muted nature of the PA system- it takes me a minute or so to actually figure out what song it is. And who it is. Because, goodness- I recognize that voice.... It's really familiar! Huh. It sounds like a female singer I've heard quite a bit. Well- really it sounds a bit like- more than a bit like-- my OWN voice really- --
BECAUSE. IT IS MY OWN VOICE. It is MY voice singing MY song on the PA system at Ralph's. I am standing with a box of Eggo's in one hand, listening to an indie pop song I wrote and co-produced with a Chicago pal of mine three years ago called "Stardust Glitter."
And I stop and point to the sky and say out loud to nobody "Hey! That's my song! They're playing my song!"
Luckily for me, my pal Matt is close by and notices me looking oddly toward the asbestos tiled ceiling with my finger pointed in the air. "Wait- that's YOU, Hol?" "Yeah! That's ME! That's 'Stardust Glitter! " We both smile a bit goofily at each other. Because it's not a huge moment. But it is an oddly special one. Not one that happens every day. Certainly not to this gal.
And as we're suspended for a brief moment craning to hear the notes of my tune, some twenty-something post-workout brunette in her black spandex leggings and Tshirt says to me- "That's you? That's your song? It's a really good song!"
A little angel sent from heaven.
I sort of float out of the store. Me and my filled to the brim Whole Foods recyclable bags. I note the gorgeousness of this So Cal January First afternoon. I am supremely grateful to have somehow cashed in a karma chit such that I decided to go to the Ralph's at precisely the right moment, on precisely the right day, to have randomly started listening to the muted music in the store at precisely the right time. Because this tiny little moment for me, as witnessed by my friend, and another random stranger in the grocery store is apparently, sometimes all it takes to keep going.
The year of 2013 was a tough year for me. It carried with it a heavy amount of loss. From my first stepfather to THREE old, beloved family pets. And a dear neighborhood friend who owned my favorite joint to play.
2013 also brought transitions. Like witnessing my daughter say goodbye to elementary school- hello to middle school. My mother said goodbye to the Palisades, and moved out of LA for the first time in over 25 years to settle a bit farther inland with her husband in their retirement home. My grandmother has been moved into hospice in her nursing facility. She will surely go any day now-
And as I sort of limped from one of these emotional milestones to the next that 2013 offered up for me, I felt increasingly deadened as an artist. And subsequently lost. There were only a handful of days where I felt truly alive in my art and work. The weeks I blogged, the word salons I performed in, the couple of gigs I played...the album I am recording. oh. so. slowly. Along with the rock that is my family, these parts of my life shape and mold the sunny side, as it were. The side of me that feels activated and present.
And somehow, at the very dawning of a new year, hearing myself singing in a grocery store also generated that same set of feelings. Not everyone gets to hear themselves in the grocery store, kid! Your work may not have been raised to the status of elevator musak yet, but it still counts for something! There's a tiny pulse in the music you write- there's something in it that some folks think is worth hearing...worth throwing on a satellite radio playlist.
You are HERE, Holly. Is what I heard in the grocery store. You are here, and people are listening. Even if it's only you, and your friend, and one other kind stranger in black lycra... you matter, if only in the tiniest way. Keep going- you discouraged, grieving, herpetic crazy woman, you. Keep on going.
I'll take it.
I'll gratefully take that surprising delicious morsel of a moment in the grocery store. Until I unwittingly play audience to a future medley of Rolling Stones/Burt Bacharach/Jack White/Holly Long being butchered by a vibraphone in an office elevator somewhere.....I'll. Take. It.
Goodbye, 2013. Thanks for the memories.
Hello, 2014. What you got in store?
I've spent an uneventfully quiet day at home with the husband and the offspring.
Exactly none of us got out from under the sheets before 9:49AM.
Luckily, there's not a whole lot of foggity New Years Day hangover happening since I wisely stopped imbibing the nine different vintages of wine maybe two hours before hitting the hay last night. (And if memory serves, that was somewhere around 11:20, seeing as Jeff and I never actually made it to the westcoast NewYear mark. Which means I must have stopped drinking somewhere around 9:20. Which then clearly puts my start time at around 4 in the afternoon, but we don't need to---)
So, the day has been rather lovely and calm. Hour after sun drenched hour has drifted by listlessly. Children happily rotting their brains away on constant electronic screen overload. Husband simultaneously downloading Rachel Maddow on itunes while checking Fantasy Football status slash "I'm working, Hol" on the desktop.
I'm wondering whether to attempt that quiche I've been threatening to make since the manic Bed Bath and Beyond Excursion of Fall 2012 landed a number of shiny white, French-y cookware products in my kitchen cupboards. Never to see the light of day again.
There's Nowhere to go. Nothing to do.
And at some point as the day rolls on and the sheer laziness of it all starts to affect even the rotted brain members of the family-- we do actually throw some semblance of 'clothing' on. Pull out the big plastic containers and attempt something useful. It's New Years Day- let's get Xmas the F outta here.
With a sigh and a slight tear wiped wistfully from the eye, we attack the fire hazard that now sits limply in the corner of the living room- denuding the prickly sad evergreen skeleton of all its ornaments. Leaving crumply piles of wet brown needles strewn in a defeated shaggy line from the living room corner to the outside porch where the carcass now stands- defiantly naked and shedding.
That's when I decide to change it up. It is definitely time to get (oh my god) outside of the house. So, I bravely announce to my barely clothed, severely bedheaded family -- "I'm Going To The Grocery Store!"
To which my family replies- in varying degrees of apathy- "Urh..Hm Hmph..."
I don't need any send off.
I get in the car. I drive the four point two blocks to the local chain store, known in our neighborhood as the "Ghetto Ralph's" for which I am developing a real cuddly affinity, seeing as I can no longer stomach the righteous Whole Foods crowd. And as much as I loves me the Trader Joe's where I do tend to do the bulk of our regular shopping- our nearest is a good 20 minute drive away. Can't beat the ghetto grocery store which takes- at max- two and a half mins to get to in the car. And that's only if you hit the one rather long red light on the way.
I pull into the lot. Swing into a space. Whoosh, slam- go the car doors. (Lookit me, I've remembered my recyclable grocery bags! Ok, so they both say Whole Foods on them, and here I am at the Ghetto Ralph's, but I'm choosing to look at that as an ironic self-loathing sort of white person maneuver on my part.)
Oh my- there's my old friend Matt from the hood with his baby girl! Haven't seen them in an age. She's getting so big... I hug him. We smile. "Happy New Year! How's Greg?" "Fine- what's up with Jeff?" "Great- Same old."
I feel obliged not to get too close to the baby, because, well....I'm not wholly completely healthy. And I look it. Which leads me to feel equally obliged to apologize for the three vaguely weepy cold sores which are working their magic on my lips... "I've caught a bit of a cold- see these lovelies? heh heh-- heh- don't want to get too close to your sweet girly now!"
He looks at me with a veiled mixture of pity and disdain. Didn't need to hear about the cold sores, Hol. Don't really care. I see them. Whatever. And why do you feel the need to justify your facial sores when they sporadically arrive in your life? People can really get past them- nobody gives a flying about your herpes-
Wait. Maybe that was more the dialogue in my own head...
So now I'm inside the store. Happy for having chatted with Matt in the parking lot, despite my complicated relationship with my face. He and Greg are such a wonderful couple- we should see them more often.
I'm making my way through the produce. I'm throwing the organic milk into the cart. I'm working the edges of the grocery store. Meat. Produce. Dairy. We need the works. I duck into the toilet paper aisle- I sweep through the bakery. I'm almost done! Matt and I nearly crash carts around the toothpaste. We laugh about both being the kind who essentially dislike grocery shopping and will do anything we can to make it a speedy trip. I move toward frozen foods to pick up some waffles before heading to the checkout.
And that's when it hits me.
I suddenly realize there's music playing at the Ghetto Ralph's. Because I recognize the song. And because of the muted nature of the PA system- it takes me a minute or so to actually figure out what song it is. And who it is. Because, goodness- I recognize that voice.... It's really familiar! Huh. It sounds like a female singer I've heard quite a bit. Well- really it sounds a bit like- more than a bit like-- my OWN voice really- --
BECAUSE. IT IS MY OWN VOICE. It is MY voice singing MY song on the PA system at Ralph's. I am standing with a box of Eggo's in one hand, listening to an indie pop song I wrote and co-produced with a Chicago pal of mine three years ago called "Stardust Glitter."
And I stop and point to the sky and say out loud to nobody "Hey! That's my song! They're playing my song!"
Luckily for me, my pal Matt is close by and notices me looking oddly toward the asbestos tiled ceiling with my finger pointed in the air. "Wait- that's YOU, Hol?" "Yeah! That's ME! That's 'Stardust Glitter! " We both smile a bit goofily at each other. Because it's not a huge moment. But it is an oddly special one. Not one that happens every day. Certainly not to this gal.
And as we're suspended for a brief moment craning to hear the notes of my tune, some twenty-something post-workout brunette in her black spandex leggings and Tshirt says to me- "That's you? That's your song? It's a really good song!"
A little angel sent from heaven.
I sort of float out of the store. Me and my filled to the brim Whole Foods recyclable bags. I note the gorgeousness of this So Cal January First afternoon. I am supremely grateful to have somehow cashed in a karma chit such that I decided to go to the Ralph's at precisely the right moment, on precisely the right day, to have randomly started listening to the muted music in the store at precisely the right time. Because this tiny little moment for me, as witnessed by my friend, and another random stranger in the grocery store is apparently, sometimes all it takes to keep going.
The year of 2013 was a tough year for me. It carried with it a heavy amount of loss. From my first stepfather to THREE old, beloved family pets. And a dear neighborhood friend who owned my favorite joint to play.
2013 also brought transitions. Like witnessing my daughter say goodbye to elementary school- hello to middle school. My mother said goodbye to the Palisades, and moved out of LA for the first time in over 25 years to settle a bit farther inland with her husband in their retirement home. My grandmother has been moved into hospice in her nursing facility. She will surely go any day now-
And as I sort of limped from one of these emotional milestones to the next that 2013 offered up for me, I felt increasingly deadened as an artist. And subsequently lost. There were only a handful of days where I felt truly alive in my art and work. The weeks I blogged, the word salons I performed in, the couple of gigs I played...the album I am recording. oh. so. slowly. Along with the rock that is my family, these parts of my life shape and mold the sunny side, as it were. The side of me that feels activated and present.
And somehow, at the very dawning of a new year, hearing myself singing in a grocery store also generated that same set of feelings. Not everyone gets to hear themselves in the grocery store, kid! Your work may not have been raised to the status of elevator musak yet, but it still counts for something! There's a tiny pulse in the music you write- there's something in it that some folks think is worth hearing...worth throwing on a satellite radio playlist.
You are HERE, Holly. Is what I heard in the grocery store. You are here, and people are listening. Even if it's only you, and your friend, and one other kind stranger in black lycra... you matter, if only in the tiniest way. Keep going- you discouraged, grieving, herpetic crazy woman, you. Keep on going.
I'll take it.
I'll gratefully take that surprising delicious morsel of a moment in the grocery store. Until I unwittingly play audience to a future medley of Rolling Stones/Burt Bacharach/Jack White/Holly Long being butchered by a vibraphone in an office elevator somewhere.....I'll. Take. It.
Goodbye, 2013. Thanks for the memories.
Hello, 2014. What you got in store?
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Serious
Yesterday in the car? A routinely benign mother/son conversation? Where I do most of the actual conversing in long rambling sentences that each end in higher registers? Thereby smacking of a maddening continual question stream simply because I'm hoping to actually engage my nine year old son...????
My nine year old son--- breaks protocol. Cuts short the usual intermittent piggy grunts that generally suffice as response. Dips his toe in the running question stream and responds:
"Yeah- I agree, Mom. Totally serious. Cereal and Silk."
He looks sideways at me.
I stop my stream mid- run-on sentence number seven and furrow my brow. Can't recall which question he's responding to. Not sure I heard him correctly.
"You agree...um... what, Truman? Can you repeat what you just said?"
He smiles knowingly. I've caught some sort of bait.
"Cereal and silk." No further explanation needed.
I sigh.
"What does that mean, honey?"
"Mooo-oom. Cereal and silk? ---- Serious? --- It means serious! Duh!"
Duh. Yes. I have once again been unwittingly snared into the "Duh" trap.
"Don't you Duh ME, young man. I TAUGHT you how to "Duh." -- You mean the words 'cereal and silk' which sound I suppose a little bit like the word 'serious' ...mean 'serious'?"
"It's 'Youth,' Mom. You wouldn't understand."
Translation: This is what the kids be sayin, mother dearest. You is old, old as the hills and cain't begin to be comprehendin the youthful flow of wisdom that be emanatin from out the pores of this hee-ah younger generation.
Sigh number two within one minute.
"That's not Youth, Truman. That's just kind of stupid sounding."
"My point exactly, Mom. "YOUTH" speak."
He is really self-satisfied here. In sort of a weirdly overly connected to this moment sort of way. My nine year old boy is many things, but he is not a cruel kid. He does not usually take delight in the discomfort of others, but in this tiny little moment in the car, he seems to be truly enjoying lording over me the fact that he is young, and I am not, and whether or not I groc this particular "youthful" expression, as he deems it such, isn't really the point. The point is, he has something over me -- and he knows it-- because he knows I am not such a huge fan of feeling increasingly older, out of touch, textbook middle aged melancholic icky ick. I like to pride myself in my (supposed) ability to still rather have a tiny finger on the pulse. Because I'm an artist - see. A writer and a musician. Not just some dumb ass middle aged white person mom. I know what the Harlem Shake is. I know Beyonce just put out her own record and accompanying videos on itunes all by her lonesome. I've seen the "President Barak" spoof video... (whined the dumb ass middle aged white person mom in her own defense.)
So I go on the attack now.
"OK, Truman- so EXPLAIN to me- who is not a "youth" and clearly can't inherently understand-- EXPLAIN why 'cereal and silk' means serious. Other than it just sort of vaguely sounds like the word serious- but not even all that much...."
He looks a little less sure of himself.
"Well- yeah. It sounds like serious."
"So that's IT- huh? Well. That doesn't make any SENSE, Truman. I mean I'm just sayin. Back in OUR day when WE were the youths, at least our colloquialisms made some sort of sense! Like we used to say when something was Serious- it was Serious As Cancer! See-- That's a thing! That was a thing- that actually makes sense."
Truman looks at me in disbelief.
"That was a thing? Serious as Cancer?"
"Yeah!"
"That's terrible mom. That's really depressing. Cancer is really sad."
"Well, um - yeah. I know. But we were using it ironically, because nothing 'serious' could ever really be serious as cancer, because it doesn't get much more serious than...ah- nevermind."
Side note: therein lies a peep into the cavernous maw between Gen X'ers and the Millennials. Perhaps less of a need to 'make sense' or to adhere to any inherent structure whatsoever within the fabric of their collective language. Maybe it's more just the celebration of the random. The random is funny. The random is odd. The random is... well, random- and that's enough. (May I refer you to "The Harlem Shake" phenomenon circa Feb, 2013)
We return to me and my kid in the car:
"Yeah, ok Truman. Cereal and Silk. It's growing on me now. "
He smirks. Truman- one. Mom- zero.
Old. Me-- old. I find myself thinking about and writing quite a bit about how I feel Old. Or am reminded of being Old. Older. Older than being Young. Older than I used to be when I was Young and there were other Old people around and they were not Me and Mine. Old was Them. But now Old is Us. Old Is somehow Me, and I'm forced to inhabit this weird role with my kid in the car whereby I'm the crusty dusty one gathering up sayings from a time long ago and far away which predated i-anythings and where there were only three Star Wars movies and only really rich people had portable phones and it was sort of like hauling your toaster around with you.
Well- fuck that, I say. Me and Mine may be Old, but some of us are still way fucking cool. Some of us even have some finger on the pulse- and I'm probably not hardly included in that list.
So- to that end- speaking of beloved lists: Here's a small list for nearing the end of this year. A list of some kick arse, funny, OLD people (read, chicks over the age of 25) who are keepin it real. While I chip away at my old person chick rocker mom writer curmudgeon voice, there are those out there who are far beyond my preliminary stage...and so worth a read and a look. When you have a second, check out these awesome blogs. Good for a few laughs, snorts, guffaws. Seriously. Cereal and Silk, man. Check out these ladiez. Foller them on Twitter and Facebook and all that. And while yer at it- follow me and maybe tell one or two folks about my little growing blog here. After all, we crumbly old ones need to stick together. Happy reading!
http://thebloggess.com/
http://www.amysedarisrocks.com/
http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/ (this one may be written by an actual young person.)
http://www.mommywantsvodka.com/
My nine year old son--- breaks protocol. Cuts short the usual intermittent piggy grunts that generally suffice as response. Dips his toe in the running question stream and responds:
"Yeah- I agree, Mom. Totally serious. Cereal and Silk."
He looks sideways at me.
I stop my stream mid- run-on sentence number seven and furrow my brow. Can't recall which question he's responding to. Not sure I heard him correctly.
"You agree...um... what, Truman? Can you repeat what you just said?"
He smiles knowingly. I've caught some sort of bait.
"Cereal and silk." No further explanation needed.
I sigh.
"What does that mean, honey?"
"Mooo-oom. Cereal and silk? ---- Serious? --- It means serious! Duh!"
Duh. Yes. I have once again been unwittingly snared into the "Duh" trap.
"Don't you Duh ME, young man. I TAUGHT you how to "Duh." -- You mean the words 'cereal and silk' which sound I suppose a little bit like the word 'serious' ...mean 'serious'?"
"It's 'Youth,' Mom. You wouldn't understand."
Translation: This is what the kids be sayin, mother dearest. You is old, old as the hills and cain't begin to be comprehendin the youthful flow of wisdom that be emanatin from out the pores of this hee-ah younger generation.
Sigh number two within one minute.
"That's not Youth, Truman. That's just kind of stupid sounding."
"My point exactly, Mom. "YOUTH" speak."
He is really self-satisfied here. In sort of a weirdly overly connected to this moment sort of way. My nine year old boy is many things, but he is not a cruel kid. He does not usually take delight in the discomfort of others, but in this tiny little moment in the car, he seems to be truly enjoying lording over me the fact that he is young, and I am not, and whether or not I groc this particular "youthful" expression, as he deems it such, isn't really the point. The point is, he has something over me -- and he knows it-- because he knows I am not such a huge fan of feeling increasingly older, out of touch, textbook middle aged melancholic icky ick. I like to pride myself in my (supposed) ability to still rather have a tiny finger on the pulse. Because I'm an artist - see. A writer and a musician. Not just some dumb ass middle aged white person mom. I know what the Harlem Shake is. I know Beyonce just put out her own record and accompanying videos on itunes all by her lonesome. I've seen the "President Barak" spoof video... (whined the dumb ass middle aged white person mom in her own defense.)
So I go on the attack now.
"OK, Truman- so EXPLAIN to me- who is not a "youth" and clearly can't inherently understand-- EXPLAIN why 'cereal and silk' means serious. Other than it just sort of vaguely sounds like the word serious- but not even all that much...."
He looks a little less sure of himself.
"Well- yeah. It sounds like serious."
"So that's IT- huh? Well. That doesn't make any SENSE, Truman. I mean I'm just sayin. Back in OUR day when WE were the youths, at least our colloquialisms made some sort of sense! Like we used to say when something was Serious- it was Serious As Cancer! See-- That's a thing! That was a thing- that actually makes sense."
Truman looks at me in disbelief.
"That was a thing? Serious as Cancer?"
"Yeah!"
"That's terrible mom. That's really depressing. Cancer is really sad."
"Well, um - yeah. I know. But we were using it ironically, because nothing 'serious' could ever really be serious as cancer, because it doesn't get much more serious than...ah- nevermind."
Side note: therein lies a peep into the cavernous maw between Gen X'ers and the Millennials. Perhaps less of a need to 'make sense' or to adhere to any inherent structure whatsoever within the fabric of their collective language. Maybe it's more just the celebration of the random. The random is funny. The random is odd. The random is... well, random- and that's enough. (May I refer you to "The Harlem Shake" phenomenon circa Feb, 2013)
We return to me and my kid in the car:
"Yeah, ok Truman. Cereal and Silk. It's growing on me now. "
He smirks. Truman- one. Mom- zero.
Old. Me-- old. I find myself thinking about and writing quite a bit about how I feel Old. Or am reminded of being Old. Older. Older than being Young. Older than I used to be when I was Young and there were other Old people around and they were not Me and Mine. Old was Them. But now Old is Us. Old Is somehow Me, and I'm forced to inhabit this weird role with my kid in the car whereby I'm the crusty dusty one gathering up sayings from a time long ago and far away which predated i-anythings and where there were only three Star Wars movies and only really rich people had portable phones and it was sort of like hauling your toaster around with you.
Well- fuck that, I say. Me and Mine may be Old, but some of us are still way fucking cool. Some of us even have some finger on the pulse- and I'm probably not hardly included in that list.
So- to that end- speaking of beloved lists: Here's a small list for nearing the end of this year. A list of some kick arse, funny, OLD people (read, chicks over the age of 25) who are keepin it real. While I chip away at my old person chick rocker mom writer curmudgeon voice, there are those out there who are far beyond my preliminary stage...and so worth a read and a look. When you have a second, check out these awesome blogs. Good for a few laughs, snorts, guffaws. Seriously. Cereal and Silk, man. Check out these ladiez. Foller them on Twitter and Facebook and all that. And while yer at it- follow me and maybe tell one or two folks about my little growing blog here. After all, we crumbly old ones need to stick together. Happy reading!
http://thebloggess.com/
http://www.amysedarisrocks.com/
http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/ (this one may be written by an actual young person.)
http://www.mommywantsvodka.com/
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