tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15136404043291617512024-02-07T01:42:18.789-08:00The Indispensable NobodyMy musings..sassy and soulful. Worldly and otherwise.The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-91404428635007979162015-04-21T10:47:00.001-07:002015-04-21T10:48:42.293-07:00Inter. Viewing.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Where have I been O, Reader? What happened to the Nobody who is so Indispensable? Well, I tell you-- I've been actually doing a lot of writing. A little bit o songwriting, sure. But mostly I've been writing online answers to online interview questions for this recent Bullyheart album PR campaign in which I've been daily engaged since the beginning of the year. </div>
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And what this kind of writing has allowed me to do is go deeper into myself as an artist and also as a person. So I thought maybe I'd start posting those very interviews here on my blog, since I've found this exercise so valuable. Plus they include info about me more as musician, which I tend not to focus on as heartily here. It'll be interesting to see what you might think...</div>
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Here is one I did a few days ago for a great online publication called The Prelude Press. You can check them out <a href="http://www.thepreludepress.com/" target="_blank">here</a> if you like.</div>
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<span style="color: #232323; font-family: ArialMT;"><i>I know
that you’ve been part of the music scene for quite a while, but Bullyheart is a
newer endeavor, so can you tell us a little bit about the band?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f4bdf; font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;">Truth be told- there is really no Bullyheart "band" in
the classic sense. (Spoiler alert!) I suppose if I liked the word
"project" more, I probably would have initially thought to present
this music with THAT concept attached. But I don't, and so, to be true to
the sound we created, and to speak to my strong desire to shed my
"singer/songwriter" moniker, I came up with a band name, and birthed
this album out into the world loosely around the idea that it's a
"band" album. To be honest, the making of this first Bullyheart
record came about only slightly differently from my previous four
singer/songwriter albums in terms of the fact that I wrote every song,
and again used varying musicians to flesh out the sound. The only
difference is the makeup of the instruments and the intention behind the sound.
Whereas on previous Holly Long albums, I've got horn sections, string players,
banjo and accordian players, small choirs, harp players, keyboardists,
guitarists, etc, etc, the Bullyheart album has only drums, bass and electric
guitars. It's intentionally meant to sound like a late 70's/early 80's
classic rock band. However, there are two drummers, two bass players, and three
guitar players other than myself which make up the "band" on this
album. So, though it's very much a divergent sound for me- and happily
so- I still haven't exactly brought to life my recent dream of putting together
and fronting a band. </span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #232323; font-family: ArialMT;"><i>Is there a
little bit more freedom working with a band, rather than just as a recording
artist?</i></span><span style="color: #232323; font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f4bdf; font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;">Well, in my dream life there is ;-) Perhaps that's why I
awoke one day in my late 30's realizing that what I wanted to be when I grew up
was the lead singer of a rock and roll band. That's a daunting
realization to make deep into the second act of your life. But, my almost
two decades of roller coaster experiences as a solo artist made me yearn
desperately for my early days as an actor and comedienne, when I was constantly
involved in group work. Writing, performing, succeeding- and failing-
along with my friends and peers. That one element has been missing from
my artistic life as a singer/songwriter. And now that I've made this
"band" record, and yet have not really actualized the
"band"- it's a funny thing that's cut both ways. On the one
hand, I love sharing the stage constantly with the guys. It's such a
thrill and a kick to be part of a bigger sound. I love it. I love
being up there. Yet, I still haven't delegated or shed any of the
responsibility. So I'm still in charge of everything- writing, booking
gigs, doing interviews, coming up with the plan. I'd love that kind of
"freedom" - to be able to NOT have to shoulder all that. But to
date, I don't know what that feels like.</span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #232323; font-family: ArialMT;"><i>Your
album, Antigravity just dropped in December, too! How do you feel people have
received the album so far?</i></span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f4bdf; font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;">You know, I think the folks that have gotten it, for the most
part, have really "gotten" it. I knew I was going to put
something out that wasn't for everyone. (Well, that's really always the
case, isn't it, with every artist?) But I was really trying for something
particular here- trying for a record that mostly reverberated with sounds that
turned me on when I was young and life was new. I was going for an
empowered female, rock based voice that to me felt seasoned, and yet fresh at
the same time. Because though Debbie Harry and Chrissie Hynde and Joan
Jett have come way before me (to name a few significant powerhouse rocker
chicks), to me there's still a significant lack of powerful female voice in
pop/rock and indie rock music currently. The trend has seemed to drift
over the decades back to the frail, the emotional, the sexualized when it comes
to women singing and writing songs in that genre...but not the badass.
And I wanted to be badass. I think the people who have heard this
record and dig that Pretenders thing- that stripped down four piece band thing
with a snarly chick at the mic- they like it.</span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #232323; font-family: ArialMT;"><i>Was there
anything that you guys really wanted to be able to accomplish with your debut
release?</i></span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f4bdf; font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;">Well, now that the cat's out of the bag, you realize I have to
talk about "me" wanting to accomplish something- not the
"guys." Though the guys who helped me produce this album and
the musicians who play with me as the Bullyheart band do totally want to
continue and grow and make more music together... </span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f4bdf; font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;">What I wanted from this record was a new start. Something
happened to me after Holly Long album number four. It's called
"Frequency" and it's a 70's ish driven record in the vein of Roberta
Flack and Rita Coolidge. Lot of soul and vibe and great musicianship on
that record. I was really proud of it, and felt that we all hit the mark
really well, from the horn arrangements, to the keyboard solos to the drum
sound to the melding of the small choir behind my lead vocals. It felt
like a win. But it also felt like the end of something. LIke I had
reached the end of my journey as a solo writer and recording artist. I
was just tired and done doing it alone, and stretching out every few years for
a producer and new set of musicians and string of joints to play scaled down versions
of the music we were creating. I wanted so desperately to JOIN something.
To be part of something that already existed, bigger than myself, or to
helm something that would be a group- a band. I still want that actually.
Though the contours of my life make it a little difficult to accomplish,
that's all I really want out of my musical life right now- to sort of live it
backwards. To just focus on the music, just for the music, like you do when
you're a kid and you're first learning how to make sounds. With no real goals
in mind that relate to any sort of professional or industry accomplishments.
And I haven't quite accomplished that- at least, I haven't quite yet
found or formed the group that would be me and the other kids playing in the sandbox
with me.</span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f4bdf; font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;">The other thing I wished to accomplish with this record- in fact
the thing I think I DID accomplish- was vocally embodying a part of myself that
had been lacking in my previous material. One of my co-producers and
engineers on this record, David Boucher, is a dear friend of mine.
He kept prodding me to find that piece of me in my songs that he liked to
hang out with at the coffee shop- the snarky smart-ass Holly. He
encouraged me to challenge myself to write more like some of my musical influences
in my teens- the Chrissie Hynde's and Annie Lennoxes. The ladies with
attitude and brains. With something to say, and the ability to say it in
poetry along with a kick ass beat. And so I did. And between David and
the other co-producer/engineer, Kevin Harp, who vocally coached me during the
tracking of the songs we layed down together, I found help to enact a piece of
my inner core, which is very impatient, and bitter, and just kind of pissed.
But also strong. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #232323; font-family: ArialMT;"><i>I really
love the 80’s inspiration for much of the album, too - it doesn’t sound like
anything that anyone else has been releasing lately. What were your songwriting
influences for Antigravity?</i></span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f4bdf; font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;">Thnaks for the compliments. Glad the 80's inspiration is
coming through, and that I'm not the only one who feels like this record is a
bit of an anomaly right now. That was purposeful. I would hope my
influences are pretty evident. Number one for this record would be
Chrissie Hynde. In so many ways, her songs, her story, her life are
incredibly inspiring to me. A handful of my colleagues here in LA have
worked with her, or are dear friends with her, and I'm six degrees of
separation away...I hope one day maybe to be face to face and just share a
glass of wine. Maybe scotch- or organic green tea, not quite sure what
her poison is. We share midwestern roots- we're both moms. She, however,
found her voice and path early- barreling through to a hit record on her first
try with a band she handpicked after productive years spent overseas as a music
critic, cutting her teeth with the likes of the greats over there. My
path has been less illustrious, and less direct... though the folk song inner
core of our writing may have some similarities. My second influence would
be the great Tom Petty. I cannot get enough of that man's simple, yet
perfect songwriting skills. Just a few chords, just the right syllables
and the catchy melodic phrase plus the driving beat- he's so direct and
universally human. Also (though you wouldn't hear it as much in this
record) Ric Ocasek. I've always been in love with The Cars. They
probably made up at least three songs of every cassette mix tape I either gave
or received from every one of my boyfriends in the 80's. And then there's
Martha Davis of the Motels. And even, from a balls to the wall singer
standpoint- Cyndi Lauper, Pat Benetar, and of course, different genre- Lucinda
Williams. Though from a writing standpoint, I can be more drawn to The
Pixies, The Replacements, old Velvet Underground. I mean- these are only a
handful of the vast array of musical influences on me as a kid growing
up..everything from Stevie Wonder to Fleetwood Mac, Beatles, Beethoven, Chopin,
The Cure, Miles Davis- the list goes on and on. But for this Bullyheart
80's sound, I'd say the mark was always Pretenders, Petty, Motels, Cars. </span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #232323; font-family: ArialMT;"><i>Do you
have a favorite song on the album? Was there one that really hit you when you
were writing/recording? </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f4bdf; font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;">I've guess I've become the annoying artist who considers my
songs as all my children. (Thank you, Tori Amos.) So it's sort of
impossible to pick a "favorite" because if any of them do, they all
have merit and serve different purposes. The song that was written the
fastest, if that's any indication, was The Pendulum. Interesting, since
it's sonically the tune that probably sits the farthest out of the box than any
of them. But that tune was written straight from the gut, and began with
rough draft lyrics written in under five minutes that ended up essentially
being the entirety of the song. Bascially, it's a really honest and fairly dark
piece about my tendency toward bi-polar emotional issues. Like Jimi with
his "Manic depression's a frustrating mess..." I'm chiming in
on that tip too here. </span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f4bdf; font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;">"No Pleasing You" was written, and then totally taken
apart and re-written to become the song it is now, and I'm happy with the
reconstruction. My intention behind that tune was to take an actual story
about an actual person I knew, and get into a Petty writing place with it, and
I think I succeeded more along those lines with that song than with any other
that I've penned. </span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f4bdf; font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;">And then of course there's "Antigravity" itself, which
I put first, and with which I've titled the record. Probably the
overriding voice of the record itself- frustrated, older, wiser, attitude
stemming from disappointment and experience. This song all sprang forth from
the initial rhythm guitar riff, which I play on the album, and for me was my
way in to the realm of rock.</span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f4bdf; font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;">Honestly- I'd rather the listener pick the favorite actually.
For me, each one of the songs has its own story of how it came to be, and
how it fit into the mix...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #232323; font-family: ArialMT;"><i>What would
you like listeners to be able to take away from Antigravity?</i></span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f4bdf; font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;">I would hope that the listener could find common ground
somewhere in this album. Like, yeah- I know what she means. I guess in
many ways, I'm always looking for that sort of connection as an artist... but
I'd also hope that somewhere along the line, someone listening to this record
would simply stop, remove the needle, and set it back at the beginning of the
song he/she just heard, thinking - "That song really f*&cking rocked.
I wanna hear that again." </span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #232323; font-family: ArialMT;"><i>I feel
like it’s really easy for younger girls to look up to female fronted bands, so
if there was any message that you’d like to send to other women listening to
Bullyheart, what would it be?</i></span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f4bdf; font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;">This is a good question, and yet hard to answer. Maybe the
message that I would give from the podium might be different from those I'm
giving in my songs. Were I to stand up in front of a group of younger
women, I'd want to imbue them with the things I wish someone would/could have
imbued me with as a younger woman: Things like- Love yourself.
Trust yourself. BE yourself and no one else, because you are
enough, just as you are. Embody yourself to the fullest- whether artist
or doctor or mother or philanthropist or businesswoman. Regardless of
your career choice or color or creed or sexuality. Whomever you might be- write
yourself with that pen that no one else has. Sing your song with the
voice that only you have. Do it to the best of your ability without shame
or guilt. There will always be fear, but that's what makes the journey
worthwhile, is the meeting and living with the fear, which is essential to
growth. That kind of living, to me, is the true pursuit.</span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f4bdf; font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;">And yet- in my songs- I am saying other things. I sing
about loss and frailty and being upset and feeling unseen, and I'm angry.
And sometimes confused. And I'm sad for other people, along with myself,
and disappointed that life isn't full of fairy tale endings, and that lots of
things are just really very hard, or at the very least, mundane. And I
suppose I write these songs not because I think that life itself is a big
bummer, or that we all should just give up....But I write these songs at an
attempt to record the truth. My truth. My experiences, my true
feelings- the real inside of how it goes or how it feels. I'm trying in
the way that my heroes of song have done in the past, to skillfully and
artfully pen the true human experience, from different angles and through
different lenses. And I'm also doing that, while trying to write a good
song that someone would want to hear again, just simply because it sounds cool.</span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f4bdf; font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;">So what would I say? I'd say- look at me. I'm in my
mid forties. I've done a bunch of stuff. I've seen a bunch of
things and been a bunch of places, and yet.. I'm still a beginner. I'm
still at the beginning of understanding how to create. I'd say- life is
long, if you're lucky. And there's no deadlines. There's just the
present moment of every day. Try to be in that moment as much as you can- every
day of your life. </span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f4bdf; font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;">(I'm going to print this out and tape it to my computer screen
just to remind myself. Because I'll need to be reminded. Maybe
tomorrow or next month, I don't know, but I do know I still need to be reminded
of the real solid true things- over and over and over again. That's the
truth, Ruth.)</span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #232323; font-family: ArialMT;"><i>Now that
you’ve got your first full-length out, what’s next for Bullyheart? Do you have
any big plans for 2015?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f4bdf; font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;">Ok, well, I've had a couple great gigs. Have some more
that are appearing on the calendar. Thinking very hazily about trying to
go for some festival spots in the summer? Not sure- I really do need to connect
with a booker to get those kinds of things to materialize. And to date
I've never actually worked with a booking agent. There's already some new
tunes penned for the next record. And since the beginning of the year,
I'm knee deep in guitar lessons with a new teacher. I haven't been in a
lesson environment for over a decade now, and it's humbling and incredibly
liberating at the same time to get back to basics, and really hone my craft
again- in a deeper and more patient way. I think as long as I hold onto
the feeling of being a student, of continual learning and growing, music can
and will always stay alive for me. Even as the outside opportunities fade
away for an aging female artist who didn't hit in her early twenties. </span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #232323; font-family: ArialMT;"><i>Thanks for
taking the time to chat with us! Is there anything else you’d like to add?</i></span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f4bdf; font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;">First of all, I want to thank you, Prelude Press, for allowing
me the space to yammer on. It's always informative to answer interview
questions-- like somehow through the act of the writing itself, you get a
little closer to your own truths contained within. Helps to clear the
windshield off, as it were.</span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #2f4bdf; font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 13.0pt;">Also- I want to add how much and how deeply I believe that
somehow I've only just begun my musical pursuits. Despite the fact that
I've been writing songs, recording albums and performing for over two decades
now, I think as a musician and an artist, I'm only just now getting it. I
mean, truly- as time goes on, one can only get better and deeper at any
pursuit, if you're doing it right. Which means, if you're paying attention
and staying fresh and alive to the changes around you and in you. And
though we live in a culture that doesn't want to uphold the value of aging,
getting older and accruing more experience in the world just simply has
enormous value. It just simply does. The older you get, the more
opportunity you have to become yourself, to comprehend your own nature (or
not!) and to really understand what's important and what isn't. I'm sad
we tend not to discover musical idols unless they're in their teens and twenties.
As if that's the pinnacle of anyone's life-- I'll be 45 this year.
And I've only just begun to rock.</span></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-6195218992324449202015-01-15T17:48:00.000-08:002015-01-15T17:48:25.191-08:00Dancing In The DarkIt was a Quarterflash song. Jesus. Quarter. Flash. I don't think I've said those two words together in over twenty years.<br />
<br />
"I'm a gonna harden my heart. I'm gonna swallow my tears. I'm gonna turn. And. Lea- heave you-hoo here....."<br />
<br />
My mom was dancing alone in front of the mirror. It was early in the eighties. My dad had recently left the house- they were in the middle of dissolving their 13 year marriage. Which would put my mother somewhere around 33 tops. Seriously. She's 33. Which means she's pretty hot, with her long auburn brown wavy hair, clad in her tight high-waisted Lee jeans and wine colored silk blouse buttoned down to reveal the chunky 80's gold necklace. <br />
<br />
It was cold outside, so she would have been wearing hose underneath those jeans- even indoors. That's just how the midwestern ladies rolled back then. Still hosiery everywhere. All the time. Even in the blistering summer heat. So I remember watching the way her feet worked on the carpet in those nude hose. Up and down and twisty turning a little bit on every down beat. Her hips swaying back and forth in perfect rhythm.<br />
<br />
"I'm a gonna harden my heart..." Gonna pronounced like Own-a with a g. Big gross dipthong. The lead singer lilts the end of the word upwards in a little country mannerism, like a tiny high pitched gasp. Blecch. I hated that song even back then.<br />
<br />
And the funny thing was.... I remember being caught in the moment- not because I was so enthralled by my mom watching herself dancing in front of the mirror. But because I felt TRAPPED there. Almost forced to watch, since I was probably all of 12 (burgeoning on angsty teen years...knowing everything about everything) and sort of annoyed slash mortified to have caught my mother in this private moment. Like, how DARE she do this knowing I'm in the house? Yuck. This is so embarrassing for me. This is so narcissistic! (Most likely didn't have the terminology. But did have the judge-y emotion.) Her hip swaying was so effected. It mirrored the singer's mannerism- there was something that felt staid and inauthentic about it. Like she was performing. As if someone else was watching besides her. <br />
<br />
(Well- there was. There was ME watching. But unbenownst.)<br />
<br />
So there I sit perched on the threshold of the opening of my flower-- so to speak-- as a woman. Watching my mom- very much a full blown, gorgeous, sexy woman dancing alone in a mirror. To a female empowerment song that's basically saying Fuck You to the guy who just broke your heart.<br />
<br />
"Cryin on the corner, waitin in the rain. I swear I'll never ever wait again. You gave me your word. Words for you are li--hi-ies..."<br />
<br />
So of course, all the confusion of an adolescent caught between her loving, grieving parents splitting up their marriage, comes crashing down on me in this moment. Because that's of course, my DAD whose words are apparently lies. Lie-Hies, if you wanna get technical. My dad who I love so deeply. My first and foremost figure of masculinity who loves me to his bones also...and whom I know is torn up inside over the decision he made to leave his family.<br />
<br />
"Darlin in my wildest dreams, I never thought I'd go...but it's time to let you know...."<br />
<br />
Remembering now how "eew- gross" I thought my mom was in this tiny shard of a memory- it only becomes so clear to me just how much that feeling of disgust was constructed in self defense. To save me from all the scary feelings. From the actual feelings of deep loss, confusion, fear, powerlessness, worry, isolation and abandonment, that were all rolled up into a big hairy ball in my heart when my father walked out the door. So much easier to decide my mom was weird and that her vulnerability was weak and therefore kind of icky. <br />
<br />
And so begets the first stitch in a life long needlepoint of defense mechanism that I've been seeking to tear apart, lovingly, for the last 15 years or so. <br />
<br />
See, this image of my mom flashed itself upon my brain at about 4:21am two nights ago. You know, that hour or so I'm awake every night, regardless of diet or alcohol consumption or exercise. That hour of the wolf I've become so well acquainted with. Those grueling minutes that frequently used to house my full blown anxiety attacks, but since my hormones have thankfully shifted a bit, now have just gone back to displaying the more mundane programme of tearing apart any good feelings I have about my life point by worry-wart point. This is the time I indulge in feeling completely useless, crappy and unsuccessful in all my endeavors, including just the basic one of being a human being.<br />
<br />
So two nights ago, amidst the wee hour, internal ricochet slowly increasing in volume from "you're not doing enough for this or that kid blah blah blah--to-- that deadline will never get reached blah blah blah--to--no one's gonna listen to this crazy new record you've made blah blah--to--you're lucky your husband stays married to you, you're such a mess blah--to--or my GOD you've got to clean out the flipping coat closet like TOMORROW...."<br />
<br />
"I'm a gonna harden my heart" blasts through my brain. With accompanying memory above.<br />
<br />
And I feel like my mind is playing tricks on me maybe here....but maybe is also trying to provide a little relief. (Comic relief?) <br />
<br />
There's something so great about how life tends to work in this way: The thing you think is the dumbest, the cheesiest, the least inviting, or the person you find to be so intolerable in a social setting....is many times exactly the thing or the person that's waiting as a key reveal for you to get deeper connected to your true self. To your humanity and to your self forgiveness and forgiveness of others. <br />
<br />
This has happened to me many times. The new mom who just "annoys me" in my kids' class.. the one who "I don't know honey, she's just so....like...self absorbed or I don't like the way she talks, her laugh is SUPER annoying...." This is inevitably the woman my husband will remind me, upon hearing rant number 3 about her, to ask out to coffee. "WHY? My god are you kidding? What would we have to say to each other?" But he's always right. One way or another- whatever annoys me, sticks in my craw, whatever-- needs to be ferreted out. Sat down with. Met. Allowed to give voice. And then I always find something there. I'll find some point of connection. Or a lesson in how I judge my own nature and find it unappealing in the faces of others. At rare times, I've even discovered a really good friend.<br />
<br />
So this moment in time reminds me...now that I am in my forties with a marriage and kids of my own... with my own high waisted Lee jeans that I choose not to wear with hosiery...with my own wine colored silk blouses and long brunette hair....I'm reminded to lead with love and forgiveness. Because now I do have so much more empathy and love for this version of my mother dancing to the Quarterflash song. Because here in this memory, not only is she my mother, but here in this space and time, she is me. Propping herself up with this song. Back when I was 12 and not ready or able to love myself despite or alongside all my vulnerabilities, it was torture to watch my mother navigate her own way through trying to reclaim her mojo after having been "left."<br />
<br />
And now that I'm birthing a new voice of my own through this new album I'm putting out, and feeling vulnerable and a little fatalistic about it at times, I need propping too. I need to find a way to dance in the mirror to some song that makes me feel powerful- witnessing my own self be vulnerable and desirable at the same time. Human. Real. <br />
<br />
And that's hard. Because it requires me to unstitch the defense mechanism needlepoint. It's so safe to appear not to care...not to try...not to dance. <br />
<br />
But I must no matter what those voices tell me at 4am. It's perhaps the only true defense against them.<br />
<br />
And now I must leave you with what is arguably the most laughable video ever made.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OqeKV2UYq1Q" target="_blank">Harden My Heart</a><br />
<br />
Just to remind all of us not to take any of it too seriously. Especially at 4am.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-23055861244654207242014-10-15T11:10:00.002-07:002014-10-15T11:19:17.000-07:00True Value HardwareI 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.<br />
<br />
So today is different.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
The gyst was this:<br />
<br />
<i>"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><br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
So that was sad. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Here is the NY Times article should you also be a McDormand fan: <br />
<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2014/10/19/arts/frances-mcdormand-true-to-herself-in-hbos-olive-kitteridge.html?hpw&rref=arts&action=click&pgtype=Homepage&version=HpHedThumbWell&module=well-region&region=bottom-well&WT.nav=bottom-well&_r=1" target="_blank">Frances</a><br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
Oh sigh sigh sigh to it all. What a complex beast full of hypocrisies am I. <br />
<br />
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...) <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
-- let's not forget animals, plants and all life forms in general, but that's for another post entirely--<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-54251983121233912302014-09-26T16:17:00.001-07:002014-09-26T16:17:27.723-07:00Fire It Up! (or To Failure - Part 2)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">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:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Fire it up!" </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">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! </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Fire. It. Up. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">You're done with this set. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">You're done with this machine. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">You're done for today. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Done. You think. DONE! I'M DONE!! </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And that's when --</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"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. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">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 <i>body</i> Fire It Up from somewhere when I thought there simply was no fuel left is so incredibly empowering. It informs the <i>mind.</i> 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. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">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!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">********</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">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...</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Yep. Miss World Fitness- 2014." He said.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I swallowed.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"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."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So thank god she's working her guts out for SOMETHING. Something actual and specific and real. Not just to make me feel inferior.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">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.) </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">******</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So it's a big deal for me. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">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....</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">FIRE.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">IT.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">UP.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">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....</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">But then again, what do I know? A few months ago, I couldn't conceive of being anywhere near a size 6 again.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And I've only just begun to bench press.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Fire it up, Hol. Let's GO</span><br />
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<br />The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-69029981568763966612014-09-25T18:01:00.003-07:002014-09-25T18:02:47.571-07:00To Failure - Part 1<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I thought all I wanted to do was drop 10 pounds. Maybe 12. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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.)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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 <i>weight </i>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.)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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!)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And that phrase, as Michael keeps trying it on me over and over again- that phrase is "To Failure." </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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.)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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.)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But that's for Part 2.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">(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.)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">x</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-22061181734832881862014-02-04T08:52:00.001-08:002015-01-30T11:08:16.768-08:00Only The Lonely Can Play<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But I'm jumping ahead. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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?" </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">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....</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-86658836210360779182014-01-16T11:13:00.002-08:002014-01-16T11:13:34.052-08:00Post Post Post Modern Art. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 25px;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;"><i>Definition
of Curate:<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;"><i>1.
select, organize, and look after the items in (a collection or exhibition)</i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 17.0pt;"><i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;"><i>2.
select, organize, and present (online content, merchandise, information, etc.),
typically using professional or expert knowledge:<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">Then the
invisible forces of Colloquialism landed upon this little word and began
adopting and co-opting this notion of “curation” in other arenas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly, my hipstery upper middle
class Westside white world was filled with curators.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">The local
wine stores weren’t stocked with wines from knowledgable owners any longer- they became
curated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Book stores,
sandwich shops, cafes, gift shops, high-end bakeries…the pot dealership down the
way—suddenly all run by curators.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">Somehow,
the use of this term never really bothered me back then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just another slippery little
redefinition being bandied about. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">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-<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>social media.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">The brief
news piece involved some sort of German study on Facebook and Facebook
users.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Age ranges, amount of time
aboard, type of interactions, and emotional responses to these interactions,
etc. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lol.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">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:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>Interactive</i></span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;"> users are ‘liking,’ commenting,
posting their own status, sharing files, etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This type of interaction tends to make the user feel more
connected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plugged in. Whereas the other type of
interaction- the <i>lurker</i></span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">- just browses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">But back
to the curation of it all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wherever photos of one exists--quotes,
comments, reviews, etc etc- the need to<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“<i>select, organize and look after the items” </i></span><span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>falls upon us all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">We are
now all curators.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Curators of the
presentation of our own lives and selves as we appear on the internet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">Now for
me, this curation is not a new thing at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then subsequently a Facebook page,
Reverbnation page.. blah blah.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You needed to be present and active and continue to show up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s still true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">To be
honest, somewhere back in 2010, immediately after promoting album number 4, I
just sort of stopped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I dropped
the ball on curating the fascinating, up-to-the-minute, ever-evolving life of
the artist Holly Long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never
stopped being the artist, I just got weary of curating her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">So now it
seems- this task appears to be much more of a universal online thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet somehow this reality of each
one of us having to become personal curators fills me with an eerie sense of
dread.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">OK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So we must consider the source
here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am one of the grumbly
troglodytes who went kicking and screaming into my iphone’s IOS 7
transformation last year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">So it
would stand to reason that I have a little chip on my shoulder when it comes to
progress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am a chick who digs
her vintage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so I’m a wee bit scared.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">Alright.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I said it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m scared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">Now, I’m all
for waving the flag when you’ve got it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But I must say- I really don’t always have the flag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am authentically filled with bumps and
jags and inconsistencies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">I find
life to be a rich nuanced concoction of crazy beautiful coincidences mixed with
dully mundane buckets of melancholy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Atop rickety structures of social mores and attempts to do right and be
present and make small differences in a good way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am not hitting the marks so much of the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">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:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">I suppose
that’s a lovely image to end this here rant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">The ongoing stream of information never
stops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Will never stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">Which
requires the continual growth of new muscles of curation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ever expanding new skillz.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">I am left
here to wonder, however, at the outcome of all our meticulous curating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">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…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">*******<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">Speaking
of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m off to wash it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">…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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">…Lower
left abdominal muscle twitching in a very irritating tickly way leaving me to
wonder, have I eaten enough potassium lately?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe a banana is in my future.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">…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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What IS that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>How long has it BEEN there?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Why is it this strange shade of dark orange??<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">…OK.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: ArialMT; font-size: 16.0pt;">Curate
THAT!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--></span>The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-32516391069310422482014-01-06T11:13:00.003-08:002014-01-06T11:13:50.203-08:00Clean Up on Aisle ThreeIt's January 1, 2014. <br />
<br />
I've spent an uneventfully quiet day at home with the husband and the offspring. <br />
<br />
Exactly none of us got out from under the sheets before 9:49AM. <br />
<br />
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---)<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
There's Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
That's when I decide to change it up. It is definitely time to get (oh my god) <i>outside</i> of the house. So, I bravely announce to my barely clothed, severely bedheaded family -- "I'm Going To The Grocery Store!"<br />
<br />
To which my family replies- in varying degrees of apathy- "Urh..Hm Hmph..."<br />
<br />
I don't need any send off. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.)<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
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!"<br />
<br />
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-<br />
<br />
Wait. Maybe that was more the dialogue in my own head...<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
And that's when it hits me.<br />
<br />
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- --<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
And I stop and point to the sky and say out loud to nobody "Hey! That's my song! They're playing my song!"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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!"<br />
<br />
A little angel sent from heaven.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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-<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I'll take it. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Goodbye, 2013. Thanks for the memories. <br />
<br />
Hello, 2014. What you got in store?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-11424003928946155532013-12-18T14:44:00.000-08:002013-12-18T14:58:22.813-08:00SeriousYesterday 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...????<br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
"Yeah- I agree, Mom. Totally serious. Cereal and Silk." <br />
<br />
He looks sideways at me. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"You agree...um... <i>what, </i>Truman? Can you repeat what you just said?"<br />
<br />
He smiles knowingly. I've caught some sort of bait.<br />
<br />
"Cereal and silk." No further explanation needed.<br />
<br />
I sigh. <br />
<br />
"What does that mean, honey?"<br />
<br />
"Mooo-oom. Cereal and silk? ---- Serious? --- It means serious! Duh!"<br />
<br />
Duh. Yes. I have once again been unwittingly snared into the "Duh" trap. <br />
<br />
"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'?"<br />
<br />
"It's 'Youth,' Mom. You wouldn't understand."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Sigh number two within one minute.<br />
<br />
"That's not Youth, Truman. That's just kind of stupid sounding."<br />
<br />
"My point exactly, Mom. "YOUTH" speak." <br />
<br />
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.)<br />
<br />
So I go on the attack now.<br />
<br />
"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...."<br />
<br />
He looks a little less sure of himself.<br />
<br />
"Well- yeah. It sounds like serious."<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
Truman looks at me in disbelief.<br />
<br />
"That was a thing? Serious as Cancer?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah!"<br />
<br />
"That's terrible mom. That's really depressing. Cancer is really sad."<br />
<br />
"Well, um - yeah. I know. But we were using it ironically, because nothing 'serious' could ever really be serious as <i>cancer,</i> because it doesn't get much more serious than...ah- nevermind."<br />
<br />
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)<br />
<br />
We return to me and my kid in the car: <br />
<br />
"Yeah, ok Truman. Cereal and Silk. It's growing on me now. "<br />
<br />
He smirks. Truman- one. Mom- zero.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://thebloggess.com/">http://thebloggess.com/</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amysedarisrocks.com/">http://www.amysedarisrocks.com/</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/">http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/</a> (this one may be written by an actual young person.)<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mommywantsvodka.com/">http://www.mommywantsvodka.com/</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-86709207835855521112013-10-18T13:05:00.001-07:002013-10-18T13:05:04.171-07:00smilie facingConfession: Sometimes I find myself posting a smilie face at the end of a Facebook comment or a Twitter message when I don't really mean it. Usually a winkie smilie face. And a lot of times, I don't mean winkie smilie face. I'm not really smilie facing. Or winking.<br />
<br />
But there I go. Semi-colon. lower case dash line. (Press shift) Right facing parenthesis.<br />
<br />
Of course now it's easier to winkie smilie face on my new spangly recently upgraded to ios 7 iphone (grumble fucking hate ios 7 stupid bullshit upgrade...) because I have such a plethora of face-y emoticons from which to choose to punctuate my emails or texts or status updates.<br />
<br />
And I was thinking about that today as I spent the vast majority of my morning deciding not to do anything more productive than troll around the net, looking for conversations to start or join. Like the employee at the water cooler who never really finishes her cup of water. And never really leaves. Just keeps chatting and head-shaking and using finger air quotations around things and fist pumping anyone who shows up around the cooler because it's Friday and she just doesn't want to work. At all. She just wants to connect with folks.<br />
<br />
So that was me. And as I'm roaming around commenting on certain political strands and social issues and of course the inevitable cute photos of my friends' children and animals doing various cute things or reaching various cute milestones in their lives.... I'm having a ball. But I'm also winkie smilie facing. And though I do try to keep the emoticons and all the various potential incendiary punctuation marks like exclamation points !!!!! at a minimum---<br />
<br />
I still feel like I'm over smilie facing.<br />
<br />
And WHY am I over smilie facing? Would I be over smilie facing around the water cooler if I was still that bored office assistant on a Friday morning trying any way possible to make the last few grueling hours of the work week go by faster?<br />
<br />
I would like to think, no. I would like to think in actual face-to-face conversation with actual fellow worker human beings, I would not need to signify with smilies my sarcasm, or solidarity, or sad understanding, or sly disbelief or any of the other varying nuanced shades of grey I'm hoping my winkie smilie faces convey in the vacuum. I'd like to think that were I in front of these individuals, they would understand any and all of the varying greys through my vocal inflections, facial expressions, hand gentures. Dynamic. Pauses. <br />
<br />
You know. The rhythmic stuff of interaction.<br />
<br />
But when I'm left to merely a small variety of little black and white symbols lined up in certain formations that I input into electronic devices to speak my personality for me- I'm a bit concerned. I lack the faith of the pithy. I am a bit worried that some of my letter and space formations- my word choices and sentence structure, though so obvious to me, may fall short of fully representing the actual intended meaning.<br />
<br />
See, because I know I'm not a muckraker. I''m not someone who likes to drop some sort of comment bomb and then disappear for awhile, returning later to hungrily review the damage she has created. The fiery trails of barely literate name-calling she has spawned. Rather, I'm a craver of interesting interaction sort of Facebooker. And Twitterer. <br />
<br />
When I was a kid- and still an only child- my parents say I would frequently enter a room in the house where folks were busy working, reading, resting. I'd sit down on the couch to announce "Let's have a conversation." Easily bored, often lonely when my hours of book reading and piano practicing were over, I was the kid who desperately wanted to interact.<br />
<br />
And so this age of information (misinformation?)-- this new era of small world communication should really jive with me and those like me. And for the most part I think it does. However, I still wish I didn't have to use so many damn winkie smilie faces. Because like I said earlier- I'm not a winkie smilie face kind o gal.<br />
<br />
But because I'm not a muckraker- and still one who occasionally leans toward the dark comedy side of the bench- I find I gotta trot out the smilies. Or maybe I lose friends. Both real and virtual. Maybe I end up starting conversations that wind up with "Wait- What I meant was..." at the beginning of every one of my replies.<br />
<br />
And who wants that. Who wants to be publicly editing themselves at every turn.<br />
<br />
So I leave you dear reader with this: It's almost 1pm at the water cooler here. And while occasionally avoiding cross-knit browed glances from my boss, I'm still here air quoting and chatting away. And because you are not actually standing in front of me while I say "T.G.I.F." in an overstated, obvious, making fun of myself while appearing to also look sort of cool tone of voice...I am left to type--<br />
<br />
Happy weekend. T G I F. ;-)The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-19760694441251559162013-10-04T11:50:00.001-07:002013-10-04T11:50:36.733-07:00shittyI am having a current discourse with myself about "feeling shitty." Mostly because right now, for no actual discernible reason, and for no apparent limited time trajectory, I am feeling shitty.<br />
<br />
In the 12 plus years I've been in consistent therapy - basically in service of the condition called Being Alive - I've been able to come up with a few other words to further illustrate this feeling. Words like- Lonely. Purposeless. Lost. Adrift. Empty. Disconnected.<br />
<br />
But really nothing suffices quite like "shitty." That's still the best one I've come up with so far to truly describe this state.<br />
<br />
And of course when the discourse starts to take shape over the feeling shitty of it all...it inevitably becomes about "un-feeling shitty." Not feeling "un-shitty," which will ostensibly occur if I do it right, but about "un-feeling shitty." Which is more of an action. Or an attempt at an action.<br />
<br />
I feel this way. I would like to feel un-this way, so I'm going to figure out how to un-feel this way. <br />
<br />
And therein lies the rub.<br />
<br />
Because, I can take any sort of action to try to achieve the un-shitty state. Say:<br />
<br />
1. Drink more coffee<br />
2. Go for a run<br />
3. Stand on my head<br />
4. Sing something<br />
5. Write something<br />
6. Find someone in my neighborhood and talk to them<br />
7. Eat something sweet<br />
8. Eat another piece of that sweet thing<br />
9. Meditate<br />
10. Watch TV<br />
11. Facebook. Twitter. TEXT. CALL SOMEONE -<br />
<br />
CONNECT! TURN IT AROUND!<br />
SOMEHOW!<br />
<br />
But those things don't necessarily make me un-feel this way. They just sort of put it off for awhile. The process of un-feeling something is sort of a losing proposition, I've found. I cannot truly escape the feeling states, I can only manage them. So- enough of the conversation about "unfeeling."<br />
<br />
So then I go- the conversation needs to switch. To the feeling- and not to the attempted distraction. But the feeling. It looks like this- it smells like this. If it were a food it would taste like this. It does this to me. It makes the world look like this. Dive deep into the feeling.<br />
<br />
Which is risky. Risky because I worry that by diving in, I'll never get out, and then where would I be? Who would make the crabmeat dip for this evening's pot luck dinner? Who's going to the grocery store to take the household fruit stock from one brown, slightly dehydrated banana to the horn of plenty my upper middle class children need and deserve? Who's gonna ride the bike at the gym for 30 minutes? This fat is not going to burn ITSELF off.<br />
<br />
I mean, who's going to power through that mundane moment to moment living existence that I am so grateful and lucky to inhabit? You know- the one that is also frequently the catalyst for the whole "feeling of shitty" in the first place. (ie- what has my life become? Where did my dreams go to die? How can I recapture that feeling of being needed and useful?)<br />
<br />
It's also risky because- let's face it- I don't see a whole heck of a lot of company in that world. The world of those Not Running From The Feeling Shitty. Misery loves company supposedly, but we 21st Century humans apparently prefer company in the prolonged attempt to never ever ever feel miserable. Because when you feel miserable- that seems to be the wrong state of being. Well, that's not right. That's not good. Here- take a pill, get a massage, go talk to someone, be sure you do everything you possibly can not to feel that way. Because feeling that way sucks and is uncomfortable and obviously means you've failed at the proposed goals here. Which is that Life is Awesome. So stop that. Don't feel shitty. You're wrong.<br />
<br />
!!<br />
<br />
I know there's at least one guy who's on my side here. And that would be the man I've been creating a deeply connected relationship with in one tiny small earthly space at roughly the same time every week. The man I happily pay to spend this small amount of time dedicated just to me and my shitty human condition. And that would be my shrink. (You were kinda thinking gigolo for a second though, weren't you? I entertained that notion for about 6.7 seconds. That was kinda fun.)<br />
<br />
My shrink believes in the just feel shitty of it all, right along with me. I'd go so far as to say there's probably many in his profession who come down on that side too. Not every moment of every second of every day- not that the goal of human existence is to feel like crap, but it also certainly isn't to un-feel like crap either. And maybe in fact, the less we focused on "goals" in general, possibly the more peaceable we'd be. Alone and together.<br />
<br />
So I've spent many expensive minutes in his office feeling shitty with him. I'm telling you- it's been kinda great. I am getting some bang for my buck in there, turns out. Diving into the shitty in a safe environment, for a specified amount of time-- I highly recommend.<br />
<br />
The trick is - like yoga - how to install this program into my everyday life whereby when the shitty comes, I can do it. I can connect through it - into it- with others- so that it becomes a workable part of my existence as opposed to something that makes me want to hide. To crawl under the covers and cower until the fog lifts for a bit.<br />
<br />
sigh sigh sigh.<br />
<br />
so here I am writing the shitty. Thanks for reading. If you are reading, I suppose I actually posted this piece. Which, as I type these final words, I am entertaining crippling moments of ambivalence about. On the one hand- you're crafting this blog, Miss Holly, in an attempt to be as authentic and real as you possibly can. To not hide from the warts. Post the Feeling Shitty blog. Post it! On the other hand- Who wants to read about your vague depressive feelings of shitty which are hopefully soon to shift anyway? As they always do because nothing lasts, not even the truly great stuff?<br />
<br />
Well, I hope you've gotten something out of this. <br />
<br />
I still feel a bit shitty.<br />
<br />
Though perhaps a little less so. <br />
<br />
Same time next week?<br />
<br />
<br />The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-17422612447993757282013-09-23T12:46:00.002-07:002013-09-23T12:49:18.065-07:00It Keeps You RunningI spent the endorphin-soaked 20 minute segment of my run yesterday solving the world's problems. That's generally what I do, you see. Or at the very least, I spend those super focused, rainbow-swirly moments internally ranting while nodding silently in agreement with all my own opinions.<br />
<br />
The bummer is that inevitably what occurs at the 45 minute mark of my run- the part where I lurch through my backdoor sweaty and gasping for air after hurling myself through approximately 3.5 miles of space- is that all the answers dry up.<br />
<br />
Endorphins, for me, apparently work like magic fairy dust. Or PCP or something.<br />
<br />
There's a part of me that wants desperately to record my brain while on these self-injected chemicals. And not so much to retain the content alone, but to retain the drive behind the content. Because, I'm telling you, I could seriously do some pretty awesome and/or wacked out things if I was perpetually jacked up on these chemicals. Like potentially write the next Broadway hit rock opera or run for political office. And probably at the same time. Because, when the chemicals are coarsing like wildfire through my veins-- I feel empowered. I feel plugged in. I feel hopeful and necessary, like my ideas are viable and possible.<br />
<br />
Now obviously I've done a few significant things in my life on a more down-to-earth scale. I've birthed two children and am parenting them. I've made some albums. I've done charity work and fostered long term meaningful friendships. I've consistently co-tended to a relatively successful marriage. <br />
<br />
But all of these major cornerstones in my life took and do continue to take time. Small increments of time and energy and attention- consistently. Whereas, the endorphin rush feels like a totally different gas in the tank.<br />
<br />
You know what I mean, right? Even if you don't bring it on yourself through exercise, there are other ways. The second cup of coffee, perhaps. The third glass of wine. The fourteenth day of consistent meditation. That one unbelievably amazing yoga class. Reaching the top of the mountain. Jumping out of a plane. There's so many ways.<br />
<br />
And the fuel that you're suddenly sucking down is incredible. It's like 100% Self Esteem in a can. Like revisiting- or re-creating perhaps- a time in your life where you were willing to suspend all the disbelief. When, either because of ignorance or sheer joy, you actually believe in the possible, despite the existence of the highly improbable.<br />
<br />
So- ok. THAT was running through me for a time yesterday as I'M running through the slightly sea-soaked balmy Venetian air. The innocence of believing in the possible. <br />
<br />
And now I think it's necessary that I provide you with this image. Because a small piece thereof is what came into my purview just as I was getting into the groove of my run at the .3 mile mark down Venice Blvd. I pass a bus stop- and this is what I see plastered on the side:<br />
<br />
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<br />
To be very specific- the image I see on the bus stop window is the one in the upper right quadrant. The chick in the bikini with the phone- apparently shooting a selfie (which, as all you linguists out there probably ruefully know, was just included last month as an official word in the dictionary.) And this image makes me sort of sigh in vague disgust. Not because the whole Grand Theft Auto franchise itself has really pierced through my life yet in any meaningful way- though I do have a nine year old boy who adores all things video game...<br />
<br />
It's just that this image and all it implies is so so tiresome to me. Me - an aging, curmudgeonly, educated female who's been swimming around in her own sea of confusion about where she belongs in the world as a woman and as an artist for some time.<br />
<br />
Now, there's nothing wrong with beautiful girls/women wearing bikinis. And though it's really vacuous, I suppose there's nothing actually technically wrong with shooting a selfie or flashing the now completely meaningless "peace" sign at the same time alongside your "come fuck me" face. (Yeah- yeah I know- it's a V for Five. As in Grand Theft Auto Five, but I see the other implications.) <br />
<br />
What makes me sigh is that the whole package stinks. It's the use--yet once again--of the image of a young, nearly naked gorgeous girl alongside images of fully-clad dudes sporting enormous machine guns and other automatic weapons. As if those two contrasting images of male power/violence and naked female weakness/vulnerability living beside each other are totally normal. Well maybe because they are sadly ubiquitous in our culture- powerful advertising tools. These two contrasting images also seem to make up the essential energy that is this particular video game. (Which, by the way, might be one of the top selling, most highly sought after games in all of home video gaming history. )<br />
<br />
But, in my world - it's 2013. Not 1958 or 1875 or 1312. It's not even 445 BC. In my world in 2013, we are moving ever so slightly toward a more wise, tolerant, kind, SMART society. Where androgynous emblems are starting to take root and male and female live together in equality. In my world we realize that women have much more power than just their sex appeal. We value women for embodying the fundamental beginnings of all human life and culture. And the nurturing element that sustains. In my world, men who really understand sustainable power realize it's not about perpetrating fear. It's about supporting growth. In my world, men don't have to prove how strong or manly they are through violent acts. They don't subjugate their heart-- the real center of power because power is about connection. They use their hearts alongside their brains and allow their hearts to make them present and vulnerable. Then they become interested in discovering what the right choices are and how to make them in all the deeply grey areas life has to offer.<br />
<br />
And now I've just passed mile marker 1.2. And my inward wordy philosophical rant turns a bit angrier.<br />
<br />
Because I realize My World is really still that-- just mine. It's not the world I actually live in. It's the fantasy world I like to think I inhabit. Like Aaron Sorkin's "West Wing." It's not a TV show about the ACTUAL White House. Just the White House you wish were running the country. Sure, there are handfuls of people living in the USA and elsewhere who likely would deeply align with me, but I do realize how sadly and actually in the minority I am. <br />
<br />
So I get mad. And my huffing and puffing becomes a little more measured and audibly louder. Fuck these stupid men who grew up with no love and no respect for women because their mothers were beaten down and undervalued by their fathers. A lot of whom grew up with no strong male role models because their role models abandoned them daily or just split entirely. As did the generations before them. Fuck these dudes who believe that running and splitting are what make men free and thereby living their birthright. And that shooting and screaming and fighting and fucking and gambling and basically being destruction incarnate makes a man awesome.<br />
<br />
Fuck all y'all insecure men, I inwardly shout, who are only comfortable with a beautiful woman if she's smaller and prettier and more timid than you. Who appears to be not as bright or driven or steady as you. And who then is basically yours for the taking- someone you can dominate. Fuck y'all who keep messaging to our girls out there to become that kind of bikini-clad clone and to fight each other over the stupid stupid boys, because securing one of them is the only measure of her worth. Fuck y'all who keep grinding our boys down to be so stupid and to value violence over compassion and brash impulse over thoughtful decision-making. <br />
<br />
And the whole time I'm indulging in this strangely satisfying inward rant, fueled by that high octane endorphin rush....I'm remembering childbirth. That's right- the births of my two kids. I've been very lucky-- these two moments in my life are simultaneously the most violent and the most meaningful moments I've lived through. And I suppose somehow, my furor over witnessing a sophomoric ad based on celebrating male gun-toting dominance over vacuous, naked femaleness seemed connected to these memories.<br />
<br />
See, I chose to give birth to our daughter Josephine with no epidural. I had not ever gone through childbirth before, and naively decided to adhere to my belief in the possible and went into the birthing room drug free. To this day, I have a lot of respect for myself in retrospect. Because fairly early in the process, I discovered that having a child is a very violent thing for me- filled with shakes and vomiting. Constant pain - tormentous pain (not these contractions that come and go, as they were sold to me...), Moaning and screaming and fear of dying and then fear that my body would split in half and that I would NOT die, but have to keep enduring the biblical amounts of fear and pain. That was in a nutshell my perfect-on-paper birth experience of our daughter back in 2002. Though she would eventually emerge 24 hours later whole and healthy, without trauma or damage, leaving me actually able to walk off the birthing table, her birth - sans epidural- was about the scariest thing I have ever been through in my life.<br />
<br />
I suppose the only way I could re-up and get pregnant again was by hoping that it would not happen to me the same way the second time. That maybe this time would be different. I would be able to endure it having gone through it once before. Well- it was different. Half way through giving birth to our son, and realizing I was going to experience everything exactly the same tormentous way I had experienced it the first time- I yelled for that fucking needle. Give. Me. The. Epidural. I begged and pleaded and sobbed and whispered. And finally got it. <br />
<br />
So I do now know how it feels to give birth in the 21st Century. With all the comforts that 20th Century western medicine has to offer. But my first birth experience was definitely something more akin to cavemen times. And having gone through those births- having endured that kind of torture and fear and pain, I believe one thing very deeply. Women are just stronger than men. In some fundamental way- women are hardwired to withstand in a way that men are not.<br />
<br />
So of course it makes sense that over the span of centuries and millennia, men have sought to balance that out. They've sought on a broad scale arc to undermine their women alongside their own inner feminine facets. Being a woman-- one who gives birth to humans-- is really really fucking amazing. And nuts. And primal and scary and freaky and gross and disgusting and beautiful. And bloody, let's not forget. But we women do it because we are wired to. And so far, it appears to be the only way we humans keep on truckin, so to speak. <br />
<br />
So men, for the most part, have reacted by dipping right down into their endless vats of testosterone and found ways to feel badass. Despite the fact that they are not the true original badasses, men now wear, govern, and own that mantle. Men do the killing, for the most part. Men do the planning of the killing. Men fight. Men wage war and develop weapons of destruction and men organize and attach value and put up fences and govern countries and run companies and plan coups and terrorist attacks. Men write stories and make movies glorifying all this kind of behavior- making it appear infused with valor and courage and other essential elements of badassity. <br />
<br />
But men are not the original badasses. We women are. And there's no amount of money or gold or pussy or drugs or territory or hold over religion or technology that can change that. Because women are the ones designed to create and sustain humans. And THAT is real power. <br />
<br />
I'm tired of living in a male-dominated world where male-dominated attributes are so overly celebrated and perpetrated. I'm weary of my own constant questioning of self which I think is partly due to my sex, but to be truthful- also very deeply rooted in my DNA. (I am just drawn that way.) <br />
<br />
As I run down Venice Blvd, one of the chief arteries in this little piece of LA I choose to call home, I am reminded of one of the many reasons I live here. Say what you like about Venice, but we do have a penchant for questioning norms here. And a tendency to celebrate the outside track. The weirdos. The freaks. The ones who don't necessarily conform to the norms, but rather reject them - realizing many times they don't fit. Some of us here are innovators. Some are artists. Some are complete dropouts. Some are just passing through. But the energy here is palpable- you are always allowed to attempt being who you are here even if it doesn't fit anywhere else. <br />
<br />
I'm constantly trying to figure out how to feel like I'm truly inhabiting my self, my power, my human life so generously bestowed upon me by the universe. I'm happy to live here in Venice because I feel at least like there's more hope for me and my children to, say, notice a billboard of an egregiously chauvinist and violent image and realize how wholly that doesn't fit into our family's concept of self, or of what humanity is capable of becoming.<br />
<br />
I suppose hopped up on endorphins, for 20 minutes out of every two or three days or so, flying down Venice Blvd, I can internally concoct myself as the next Martin Luther King Jr infused with direly important messages to the world. As the next Cesar Chavez- ready to mobilize the troops for the greater good. Or Gandhi- poised to soothe and fundamentally change behavior all at once. An impassioned leader, poised to channel and deliver my true message- that women and men are equally necessary and powerful. And that if we can truly internalize that reality-- we really can be great together.<br />
<br />
And then the spell is broken. <br />
<br />
I walk slowly down my back alley. Chest heaving up and down. I approach my backdoor. Turn off whatever 70's/80's band has been providing the high volume soundtrack to my internal ravings. And realize I will write about this later on. That the concepts and ideas that whirl themselves around my brain high on endorphin chemicals are so huge, they can't begin to be manifested in any immediate way in my life. Nor can they be coalesced in one simple blog post. But the conversation can at least be attended to in some small way. <br />
<br />
And I suppose that's what keeps me strapping on my old New Balances three times a week and pointing myself toward the ocean and back. That's what keeps me in the game of suspending the disbelief and embracing what I hope can be possible. <br />
<br />
Yesterday, Grand Theft Auto V was on the menu. And a subsequent journey into my own rage at popularized social inequality for the sexes as it relates to violence and power. But really, I'll take whatever my endorphins are serving up- week after week. It's a damn good fuel that sparks my wanting to believe in the improbable possibilities. <br />
<br />
And that's what keeps this ol girl running. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-16921311165200372232013-09-20T15:20:00.002-07:002013-09-20T15:20:41.771-07:00in fashionThere was never any way I was going to be in the fashion industry. <br />
<br />
That's what my 18 year old self made very clear to my then- stepfather Michael. Back in 1988, Michael suggested that instead of becoming yet another wanna-be actress in Hollywood, I take my model-esque body, love for clothing and mind for creativity, and go do. <br />
<br />
Either that or become a TV news anchor, he suggested. Because not only was I extremely easy on the eyes, according to Michael, but very smart and supremely charismatic. (He was an avid and vocal fan of me back in those days. A kind quality in him I will never forget until my dying day- especially since his arrived very sadly earlier this spring in the form of pancreatic cancer.) <br />
<br />
The news anchor idea at least titillated my nubile actor brain a bit more than did a career in fashion. Mainly because it involved my face being displayed on a screen of some sort. And because it simultaneously dealt with a very serious industry, which is the News. But- Fashion. Come on. No one takes anyone seriously in the fashion industry. My thoroughly-inexperienced-with-said-terrain teenage self threw this tidbit of ignorance back mockingly at my well meaning stepdad.<br />
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Which I think mainly meant- <i>I</i> don't take anyone seriously in fashion. Fashion was not a serious world of creative expression, I suppose I had decided. Though stealing away in my mother's closet and poring through her Vogues and Glamours and Bazaars had been a monthly habit for me back in my elementary school days. Until of course, I was gifted a subscription to Seventeen somewhere in middle school. And then I proceeded to wear those dogeared pages down from overuse. Studying the line of a skirt or the color of a silk jacket as if to memorize these features, as I was doing less surreptitiously with my actual homework.<br />
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And that eventually morphed into paying the same kind of attention to the jacket covers of all my records. I wanted the verbal information provided, surely- who played what where. Who wrote what. Lyrics. Credits. But I also loved soaking in the visual vibe of each record- the colors and choices of photos, hairstyles and CLOTHING of all my favorite rock stars.<br />
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Oh, and oh my god, let's not forget the hours spent creating mini fashion magazines out of white construction paper and staples using my Hasbro Fashion Plates toy circa 1982. If I ever land upon these gems of my childhood again, I will either burn them or frame them- depending on how I want to approach my vague shame of these memories. <br />
<br />
"You too can be a Truly Modern Woman in this Delectable Ensemble from designer Horatio Langley! Just flip on that sexy beret- toss your high leather boots on and you're good to go anywhere in town, ladies!" <br />
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The above is an attempt to provide copy of the scripts I wrote in sprawling cursive alongside each colored-pencil Fashion Plate creation. Horatio Langely being my best version of a made-up designer's name. Sounded foreign and classy and a little esoteric all at once. This is the sort of thing I was holed up doing in my room in middle school after the homework was completed, piano practiced, and the hours of phone time were concluded. (Those endless conversations with my bestest friend Sarah which primarily focused on boys who didn't know we existed.)<br />
<br />
I was making my fashion plates. I was writing my copy.<br />
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However, this was clearly not something I was going to DO as an adult. To actually spend my LIFE'S WORK in this industry! I have so much BETTER, more LASTING things to accomplish as an artist! (I also humbly recall the misguided interaction with stepdad Michael at the outset of acquiring my Theater degree from UCLA about how I would never, not ever audition for a <i>commercial</i>. What a lowly existence that would comprise. Being a COMMERCIAL actor. Y-UCK... Fast forward to five years later when I'm actually living in the world of Hollywood- struggling desperately for any sort of paying gig. The rare commercial audition was like manna from Heaven for me.)<br />
<br />
What the hell does anyone know at 18. OK, I suppose some of you out there had a significant amount of your shit together by 18- I do know a few of those unlikely types. But I certainly was not one of them, and so I had all kinds of room to look up and down on all sorts of things I knew absolutely nothing about.<br />
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Which led to a flimsy-at-best career in acting in my twenties. Followed by an only slightly less flimsy career in music, where clearly I belonged all along.<br />
<br />
But it did NOT lead to a career in fashion. And I suppose that's ok- because the music found me and has not let go, and that seems to be as it should. BUT. My relationship with fashion magazines and clothing and thrifting and buying and putting outfits together and spending a fairly significant amount of time basically thinking about fashion has only grown and flourished. So, I was not destined to be a pro- but I am one hell of an amateur, not wheeling and dealing in the realm of fashion, but sort of parked off to the side. I think rather I'm a pro in the magic fantasy world of fashion as it relates to other things, less tangible. More related maybe to the tie between rock music, say, and fashion. More related to how fashion makes me FEEL.<br />
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And as I sat down with my lovely friend Maggie the other day downing some Provence Rose at a local joint- somehow this subject got brought up. And Maggie insisted that I blog about it- that fashion needed to hear from me about me and this so-called subverting of the value within.<br />
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And I guess I agree with her, because here I am typing away at you, my readers. What I have uncovered over these last few years that has afforded me growing older, wiser, and more humble, is that I do truly value fashion. And it's not a worthless endeavor or a flimsy industry at all. I mean, sure- there may be some shallow souls inhabiting that world, but who the hell am I to blithely dismiss the realm that birthed Dior and Armani and Prada....Calvin Klein and Chanel- Lagerfeld and Von Furstenberg--the list goes on and on. These are true artists, each in their own way. Working their craft in the physical realm, but also of course, as artists must do- tapping into the spirit world on a regular basis to bring back inspiration based in primal concepts and etherial energies much of the time. They are constantly going on their own inner journey year after year to bring forth something simultaneously authentic to themselves, and universal.<br />
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Anyone who knows anything about the world of the fashion designer knows this.<br />
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But more importantly to me- and closer to home- is that as a consumer of fashion, as my own personal stylist, I too am working my artist self. Each time I put an outfit together (well- maybe not EVERY time, sometimes just that trusty old Tshirt and jeans are all I've got energy for), but most times I'm looking to channel something. And what that means is I'm trying to bring forth whatever facet of the multi-dimensional Holly wants to shine that day. Meaning, I'm trying to physically clothe and accurately reflect that which wants to come out and play.<br />
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If you walked through my closet you'd immediately be struck by how schizophrenic my wardrobe is. (Most of my friends posit that I do have some sort of personal style that according to them coalesces these many forces and many influences together into something of a whole cohesive thing. I hope that's true. I can't really comment on that- too close to the source.)<br />
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But what I can say is that some days I'm attempting to channel the French me. The coquettish, classic, pixie Audrey Hepburn me who has only 14 pieces of clothing in her closet, and they're all impeccably tailored and they all go with each other. Each piece is rakishly elegant and beautifully easy at the same time. Like I just threw myself together last minute, and instantly became accidentally the height of style in less that 4 minutes.<br />
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And then, there's the Stevie Nicks-70's-siren, rock-star me. The sexy vixen- powerful mistress to the druggy, free-loving, Topanga Canyon lifestyle. These pieces are flowy Indian dresses, feathers, leather, vintage lace, high heeled boots. Hats with floppy brims and cape-like jackets.<br />
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Some days are Chrissie Hynde. Tight leather pants. Mens shoes, tailored jackets. Ripped up rock concert Tshirts. Black eyeliner. Red lips.<br />
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Then there's Faye Dunaway...plaid wool A-line skirts. Brown, camel, soft salmon leather boots. Tight button down 70's silk Cacharel shirts only buttoned up half way. (If I was really adventurous, I'd go braless too I suppose.)<br />
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And that's just the obvious iconic female energies. Sometimes I'm channeling something smaller-- a feeling or a memory. One particularly productive trip to a thrift store two years ago resulted in a pair of tapered flower jeans as well as a shrunken crochet jacket. I put them together and became "Pretty In Pink's" Molly Ringwald the day that Lane asks her out at the record store where she works.<br />
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A couple months ago I found an old satin bowling jacket. When I wear it I am Michelle Pfieffer in "Grease 2." Lookin for my coo-oo-oo-ool rider.<br />
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The comforting thing about my conversation with Maggie is that as I spewed all of this to her at the 1.5 glass of Rose mark, she was nodding her head in understanding. Yes, Holly- she says. I get you. Especially about the French thing. Who doesn't want to wake up one day and be French? To throw on the perfect navy striped Tshirt and silk scarf over your exquisitely tailored trousers and flats...wander down the St Germaine in the brisk fall...under a cobalt blue sky...smoking your first Gauloise of the day...on the way to meet your starving artist lover...10 years your junior...at the smoky cafe?<br />
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Because sometimes the most fun thing about fashion is the story you are telling yourself. The piece of the person you maybe aren't on a regular basis but want to at least echo now and again becomes that much more manifest when you put on her outfit. Like a costume. And I love that. It's like holding on to a tiny bit of my real childhood. The one where my friends and I would meet half way in between our houses after school and assign the roles we would play in our mutual game of imagination that would last until we were all called home for dinner.<br />
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Play. Imagine. Fun. That's what fashion has been for me. That's what it continues to be.<br />
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So no- dear Michael. I'm still not, nor likely to be, destined for a job in the fashion industry. That's not where my real talent lies. I am a creator of songs and poetry- words and music strung together in lines, as opposed to thread and fabric. And though I am someone who likes to look and ponder over the images- to soak them in like wine and see what pieces I can incorporate into my living breathing life or work-- that's where it ends for me. I think I'd ruin it if I had to put a real-life, every day mercantile construct upon my love for fashion.<br />
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At least now I know it has nothing to do with devaluation. Because I do hold the fashion industry in high regard, having spent scads of time reading magazines and catalogues. I've also had the pleasure to meet up and coming young visionary designers over my years here in LA. I just know it's not the world I am meant to inhabit. I am an avid visitor- though I don't live there. <br />
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After all, if I did move in, I might have to change my name to Horatio Langely.<br />
<br />The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-74174118166864484452013-09-13T14:34:00.000-07:002013-09-13T14:34:54.545-07:00Just a Little Space<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Our beloved dog died at the end of July. Our sweetest, dearest, beautiful 13-year-old beagle, Georgia- the "first child" my husband and I brought home to be ours back in 2000. The first little soul to begin to really teach us what it feels like to be a parent, and to care about another creature so fundamentally and deeply. She left us after a year of battling serious heart disease. It was her time to go. And like every perfect moment she spent with us in her endless loving presence, her ending too was perfect- fairly quick- fairly quiet- filled with love and kindness.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I was devastated and ripped open. Even knowing that this day was coming for the past number of months only barely prepared me for the real moments of loss that suddenly fell softly and mutely like a heavy layer of dust over everything. The emptiness of the house, huge. The silence of her absence, deafening.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We wrapped up Georgia's doggie beds and stashed them away-- too painful to see them lying around the house out in the open any longer. We cried and held each other as a family. We sighed and stared into space. We ate a sullen quiet dinner without our beagle's constant barking for table scraps. We cried again, and we hurt and ached.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And then the sun came up the next day- as it must and always does after a soul rocking, heart stopping day like July 23rd was for me and our family. And the sun came up the next day. And the next. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And two days ago was September 11. And though the edge was duller, the swirl of pain and loss still stirred itself in the depth of my gut. The memory of that indelible day and the days that followed manifested in that deep realization of how precious our time is and how fiercely and brutally mayhem can sweep through a life. You never know how much time you have. Nor those whom you love and cherish. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And sadly, in an achingly timely way, I received another piece of death news on this evening of 9/11, two days previous. A friend of mine from Venice had been found in his home earlier in the day- having passed away in his bed the night before. A friend who was a huge presence in our neighborhood, as friend, as neighbor, and most publicly and significantly- as creator and proprietor of the local music club, two blocks from my house. The club that had just gotten its legs last year, that has just really started to cook. It's my favorite place to play- the place that feels like home away from home. It was Jeb's place- his dream brought manifest. And now Jeb, despite being only in his mid fifties, robust of health and filled with life and spirit, left this earth totally unexpectedly, a mere two days ago on 9/11. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And yesterday, the sun came up again. Rather beautifully, actually. It was a beautiful morning here in Venice on Thursday September 12, 2013. As if to fly in the face of death and loss. The brilliance of the sun was bright, the warmth of the air golden and lovely. Southern California morning weather at her finest. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And on the evening of Thursday, September 12, I left for the theater in Santa Monica, to perform for the third time in a spoken word salon called Tasty Words that my dear friend and writing coach, Wendy, hosts every month. The theme for the evening was Music, and I had written an autobiographical piece about two musical influences in my life and how these two women have, as bookends almost, helped to inspire and shape my musical endeavors in the past two decades. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It somehow seemed fitting that I was performing at this time. Having spent the last few days in heavy editing mode on this piece. Both equally in appreciation and disgust at my own writing - deep into the process of finding out how different the animals of writing for the page and writing for the stage really are. Even when it's just for my own voice! I find I am a wee bit wordy when putting pen to paper, or fingers to keys, and so, as a musician, when I'm looking to inhabit the rhythm of a piece I've written, it's tough to find my way through all the multisyllabic, comma laden, run-on sentences. (When the fuck are you getting to the period here, Holly?)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Basically, I've been winding my way toward understanding that old "less is more" adage. And the key to this is-- space. Allowing for space- for pauses and time to explain what you mean to say as opposed to three more adjectives. And four more sentences. And another paragraph of exposition. You just sometimes need- time. And space.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I must have let this lesson sink in well enough as last night's reading went off pretty well. It was overall a very strong show, actually. Great stories- good writers and performers all. And I noticed the moments that worked best for everyone, including myself, did have this element of space and time attached to them. The rhythm and flow is just so elemental to the story coming across- to the message or the narrative landing.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And the sun came up again this morning- as it most always will until it ends up engulfing this little third rock from the sun on its path of self destruction in another billion something years. The sun came up again and my first thought of the morning as I heaved my feet over the side of the bed was-- you did good last night, kid. And, more importantly- that's all that's needed, Hol. Just a little space. A little space to let it breathe.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Because when you allow for the space, you can move forward. The moments will land. And your string of these moments- the path of YOUR life will feel less tangled and stickly. Like your writing, and your performing. It will all flow with more ease and grace.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And now back to Georgia. And Jeb. And the circle of life and death that I feel I've been forced to develop a more present relationship with recently...</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As everything does tend to come in threes, I probably should mention that two months before we lost our beloved dog, and three months before this neighborhood lost its beloved club owner, I also found out that my ex-stepfather had finally succumbed to pancreatic cancer. After months of aggressive treatment and then final weeks of peace and pain management, he passed in the hospital surrounded by family. And this news hit me harder than I thought it would. I hadn't spoken to Michael in well over a year, but to hear that I'd never ever be able to speak to him ever again buckled my knees and sent me bowled over and weeping on the floor- awash in a sea of memories of him when he'd been my mom's husband and one of my greatest supporters and fans. Though never a replacement for my actual living father, Michael was one of the dearest men to me for a large chapter in my life, and hearing about his absence felt like a big hole had been ripped out of my fabric.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So death goes.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But I've taken away something essential so far from this triptych of death in my purview recently. Death in three parts: 1. Close to the heart but not in the everyday. 2. Death in my house, so close to the bone it's in my almost every waking moment. And 3. Death in my world nearby in a precious place near and dear. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This essential element that has been resonating in my soul is this: that in order to live- one needs space. Space for the communication to occur. For the real person you are to show up for a moment and be present. Just a little space- to hear the pauses of your life- of your rhythm. Then the story of you can tell itself. And that's all we got, is our story, and the moments that make it up. Because someday- maybe sooner than you know, it will be all over. You know this for sure. Your story, too, will be done- at least this time around.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The days immediately following Georgia's death were slow and long and sullen. Filled with many hours of the quiet heavy dust of loss. But fairly soon, the horrible fog lifted, and we were able to talk about her- remember her- celebrate the beautiful shining life she had led. To remember her little quirks and times gone by spent in her snuggly, warm company. She was - as dogs generally are - 100% present. Always available for love. Gorgeous reminders of consciousness- pets can be. And so it became somehow surprisingly easy to shift away from constant pain into wistful, sweet memories. Because there was nothing to pine over or worry about with the passing of our dog. She was here- she lived perfectly- she left and she's gone now. Unlike most human relationships I've had, this one was so simple, elegant and whole. So when she died, Georgia in a most loving way started to teach me how to properly grieve too.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And the crazy thing is- from that experience, I found space inside myself I didn't know I really had yet. The space- the capacity- to have loved that deeply, and to have lost daily connection with that soul. It was mostly conjecture up until the point of losing a daily friend who felt more like my child than my animal. All of a sudden- I knew that pain. And somehow feeling it lifted something else away, and I became more ready to go along my way. On my path. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Death has coming knocking three times for me this year. I hope there will be no more for a long time, but I of course don't know and can't control any piece of that. Death has been sudden, and sad and inevitable all at once. It has come expected and unexpected. But it has been a patient teacher too. Turns out, I can love and embrace it all and then lose it. And the sun comes up the next day. And I get to keep working my particular strand in the weave.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I guess I just need a little space.</span>The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-83731207659715829132013-07-17T18:54:00.000-07:002013-07-17T18:54:09.880-07:00alone timeMy husband left yesterday for 48 hours. <br />
<br />
Pulled a Fantastic Son maneuver and flew to Chicago to surprise his dad on his 70th birthday. Left to spend rare quality time with immediate nuclear family and gave the wife a couple days of space. The verisimilitude of solitude. (Close enough. I'm still a mom after all. While one kid is away at sleepaway camp, the other one still lives here. Whom I apparently yet need to actively parent when he's not attending day camp or superglued to his Minecraft laden laptop. Or sleeping.)<br />
<br />
So it's sorta like solitude. Which is a lovely lovely gift. Especially for a musician and writer- right? Some quality time by myself to walk the dog, lay in the sun, perch on my chair in front of the computer, spend some good snuggly time lovingly fondling the tele (oh, how I wish it felt as organic and sexual as all that...) thereby coaxing the next solid Holly Long rock-and-roll tune from within.<br />
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This kind of time seems tailor-made for Creation. Creation of songs and writing. Creation of more Me stuff that makes me feel more like Me. Because that's what the openness of "alone" time away from one's spouse or partner, away from one's normal daily life is supposed to generate, yes?<br />
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Well now that I am roughly half way through enjoying my little gift, I feel compelled to share what exactly I've been doing with this time. Because perhaps in the writing of it- and therefore in the reading of it, we all might learn something about me. Most of all, maybe I'll learn something about me. <br />
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Like the Twilight Zone episode from the second season my son and I enjoyed last night along with a bowl of overly buttery, underly salty stovetop-popped popcorn. <br />
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This was the episode about the middle-aged antique-store owning couple who stumble upon a genie in an old worthless wine bottle. This posh dandy with a top hat- cigarello-dangling from his mouth- genie grants them four wishes. At the end of the episode, they basically just end up thankfully right back where they started, having wasted their wishes on negative consequence-laden ideas like "a million dollars." (Tax man takes all that they don't foolishly bestow on friends.) Or being the "powerful leader of a foreign country." (Husband becomes Hitler for about 10 minutes- in the last throes of the war, holed up sweating in his bunker.) He uses his last of the four wishes to wish himself back to his old life.<br />
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In other words, the couple, in going through the process of having wishes granted, learn what is really important to them. Which was essentially, what they already had to being with.<br />
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OK- oldest moral in the book. But still poignant and relevant. Especially for me finding myself still so often gorging on the delicious dopamine of "what if" in my not-so-free time.<br />
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Turns out- here's what I do when I'm given a bunch of alone time:<br />
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1. Troll favorite thrift store with friend. (excellent decision) Allow friend to buy me lunch as "belated" birthday treat. Say YES to strawberry frosted white princess cupcake offered free of charge which looks and smells exactly like the cake mom used to make every birthday before age 10. Delicately eat half in restaurant in front of friend. Stuff rest in face like a maniacal starving child upon returning home and entering kitchen, alone.<br />
2. Along with remains of doomed cupcake, come home with royal blue and black satin bowling jacket. Embroidered tigers splashed across back and sleeves along with the word "OKINAWA." (Kinda love this thing.) Also come home with vintage pink floral floor length belted coat which, like Maria's homemade play clothes in "The Sound of Music" looks to be made out of the drapes. (Still kinda love this thing too.)<br />
3. Go on long guilty run after indulging so viscerally in sugar bomb princess cupcake. Also Windex remains from counter.<br />
4. Pick up son from tutoring and take him to what we call "Moving Sushi" restaurant for mommy and me dinner where plates of sushi glide around the room on a little miniature moving walkway. Swap out usual shared bottle of sake for green tea (responsible single parenting.) <br />
5. Come home- watch two episodes of "Twilight Zone" with son along with popcorn. Consume two glasses of wine.<br />
6. Give dog medicine, put her out for final evening pee, close all windows. Retire about an hour after son has gone to sleep. <br />
7. Revel in the fact that tomorrow, once son is off to camp, whole day will be spent artistically. Playing music. Writing essays. Productive, productive, productive.<br />
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So far, so good! A great summer afternoon and evening. Not so much generating artistry, but certainly setting the stage for it.<br />
<br />
Day 2:<br />
<br />
1. Drag oneself out of bed- groggy after having been awoken three times previously during the night to deal with dog and her strange coughing issues. <br />
2. Freak out a little bit about dog. Misplace coffee cup three times. Get befuddled making peanut butter and jelly sandwich for son's lunchbox. Yell at son twice to get his shizz together so you can get him out the door to day camp, give dog morning medicine a bit too early to try to take edge off of worry.<br />
3. Feel really good about yourself that though you didn't sleep well AT ALL and are feeling woozy and hungover- primarily from lack of good solid sleep- you STILL are planning on picking up son's friend and taking him to daycamp along with son. You are still a vaguely dependable mother and friend.<br />
4. Deposit children successfully at camp. Make way to local ghetto Ralph's grocery store. (Not Whole Foods. Too exhausted to deal with parking lot and picky consumerism necessitated therein.) Plog through a small but key list of missing items at home. Return home- put groceries away- feel a bit sleepy.<br />
5. Decide to shake it off by giving dog, who has now ceased coughing, a walk to local coffee shop. Hope to ogle/small talk possible muse-producing, mojo-to-write-music-creating hot hipster dudes along the way. To that end, don some coral lip gloss.<br />
6. On the way, realize yesterday's long run has resulted in oddly swollen and achy left knee. Return home vaguely limping - unsuccessful in procuring usual dog treat at local coffee shop, or spotting any hotties.<br />
7. Glance at clock- realize it's only 11:35 in the AM. Decide that it's ok to spend some unproductive time watching TV. Especially since exercise is now apparently out of the question.<br />
8. Flump down on bed and proceed to watch three Netflix episodes in a row of favorite new TV show "Orange is the New Black" about women in prison. Feel glad to so far not have done anything worthy of landing yourself in prison simultaneous with harboring gnawing suspicion that you may be frittering away your precious "alone" time. <br />
9. Fix yourself entire box of macaroni and cheese for late lunch to make yourself feel better. Eat most of it. Feel worse.<br />
10. Change outfit. That dress wasn't working for you. Put on rocker jeans and old Mickey Mouse Tshirt. NOW you can go in your office and create.<br />
12. Turn on computer. Mostly stay off of Facebook and Twitter. Open up latest essay in Word. Re-read twice and stare at remaining white page for four minutes solid before turning it off and picking up guitar.<br />
13. Plug in guitar to sustain pedal and turn on amp. Plunk away at some underdeveloped ideas. Sing jibberish along with chords for awhile before deciding everything you're playing sounds like a bad Eddie Money tune covered by Pat Benetar with a cold. Try unplugging sustain pedal, thinking this may be at least half of the culprit. <br />
14. Turn off amp. Unplug guitar. It wasn't the sustain pedal after all.<br />
15. Sit down to write an email- a Facebook update- ANYTHING. <br />
16. Write the beginnings of three Facebook updates before eventually logging off.<br />
17. Decide to start writing blog, though you have nothing really to write about except what you've done for the past 24 hours....<br />
18. Start writing blog.<br />
<br />
<br />
Apparently, even the most precious gift of time can't necessarily be "utilized" to creative expectation. Tonight, I'm taking advantage of my nanny staying late for a few hours to drag myself and my swollen knee two blocks down to the local club I love to play now and again just to swill a wine glass and hear some music. Sometimes, this is the best medicine for feeling lack of energy, mojo, structure, connection. Just being in a room where others are making music, or making merry....makes my time count.<br />
<br />
And after all, I think that's what I'm really trying to do here-by myself or with others. Make it count somehow. And I guess that doesn't necessarily mean making "something" all the time. Maybe the cupcake and the OKINAWA satin jacket are enough to allow me to feel my "alone" time was time well spent this past day and a half. Plus, I did write this blog entry after all.<br />
<br />
Alright honey. You can come home now--<br />
<br />
<br />The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-52392514736608889172013-07-04T09:13:00.001-07:002013-07-04T09:22:12.253-07:00i am a stalkerSo I was just trying to find this guy's email. <br />
<br />
This guy I had recently met, and whom I vaguely knew through the tendrils of my west LA music connections. <br />
<br />
I had run into him a couple of times out in the world-- had a few conversations with him about music and bands and playing out the role of professional musician in an increasingly tough industry environment. We had connected as people- I had heard his band's music on line months before when someone else introduced me to them, and had dug it.<br />
<br />
So, when we last ran into each other and he mentioned for the second time that we should try to get together and play sometime...that his band was undergoing some changes- that he was up for jamming and playing with new people this summer, I was interested. And I told him so. <br />
<br />
"That would be great." I said. "I'm always really up for co-writing." (which is true.) "And I need to get out of the little hole that is my music room more often. I need to be around more musicians more of the time- I get more creative that way." (also true.) "I'm sure I could fit something into my schedule. I mean, I'm busy-- but I do have some flexibility." (not exactly true. I am mostly not all that busy and I usually have nothing BUT flexibility.)<br />
<br />
But I didn't want to appear too eager- too desirous of this. Because any good coupling, be it romantic or in this case, artistic, needs an equality of partnership. Each person needs to need the other person equally in order for it to succeed. And as I have ruefully discovered in times past, when I give out vibes of being too needy as writer- too desperate for work- just as in the world of dating, the pickins suddenly get real slim. So, I played it cool.<br />
<br />
"I'll email you," I get from him. <br />
<br />
"Great. Talk to you soon." I wave goodbye.<br />
<br />
And then, of course, also reminiscent of dating in LA in my twenties, days turn into weeks, weeks into going on two months, and I don't hear from him. <br />
<br />
And suddenly what began as a perfectly normal conversation between two musicians, suddenly jumps tracks in my head, and I'm thinking way too often about when he's going to write me. Checking my email every morning with the hopes that there'll be a brief, "Hey Hol- here's my number- give me a buzz. Maybe you can stop by our studio some time this week and we can hang out. Bring your guitar." <br />
<br />
Now, this in part is due to the fact that my poor overworked producer is working two different gigs at once right now. Tracking one artist, mixing another. Starting late May, he became unavailable to press on with the current Holly Long rock band extraordinaire album which we are making like every other indie album ever made in the history of indie albums--- on the fly. One recording session every few weeks. One track painfully layered tiny bit by bit as weeks turn into months. I'm not used to this way of creating a record, but I took the process on because I knew in my gut the finished product will be worth it, and I chalk up this tedious chapter to the continual education of myself as self-produced artist.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, I'm hungry and bored for more musical stimulus. More input. More sounds and sights and ideas and words. There's nothing quite as impotent-making as the role of creator ready and wide open to the influence of what appears to be a blank-slate universe. Where are my muses? Where are the new experiences to pull from in order to think, to feel, and ultimately- to write? The angsty teenage element that is my Creative Energy gloms onto anything that looks even remotely like a new avenue with some semblance of a pot o gold at its rainbow end.<br />
<br />
So this guy. This guy who is the only thing my universe has begrudgingly provided these past few weeks that seems to be a hint of a new road suddenly takes on greater significance than he should, and greater significance than I want him to.<br />
<br />
But- not to be daunted by my own back-burner seething- I decide to do what any other normal, driven person with a goal would do without any information to begin with. I start diving around online. I start looking anywhere and everywhere I can think of to drudge up this person's contact info. All I need is an email address. That's all I need.<br />
<br />
And this short trip also leaves me nowhere. Unlike myself who is registered- signed, sealed and delivered up all over the online music world in service of allowing potential fans to connect with me and my music, this guy is pretty much nowhere to be found. I'm starting to wonder if I've made him up. But no- the band is there. There's those couple of videos I can access via Youtube. And a few more tracks on itunes.<br />
<br />
Ok. Ok.<br />
<br />
So that's when it hits me that there are ways people have of finding people online. People tracking websites-- methods I have never utilized before. And I decide- ok- let's go ahead and check that out. My stalk-o-meter is not yet going off because I tell myself- I'll just look at it, and if it's too expensive or creepy or in any way weirds me out, I won't do it. <br />
<br />
I find myself on the first tracking website google provides me with. Looks professional enough. Mild mannered. Well, except for-- "Looking for police records? Past employment history? You've come to the right place!" God- no- I think. I'm merely looking for an email. Just a little old email address. That's all I want. So I can craft what will hopefully turn out to be a short, concise missive stating Hi. You guys. me. music. Let's get to work!<br />
<br />
And one of my current dreams may come just a little closer to being realized. For some time now, here smack in my forties, I've decided I want to JOIN a band. An outfit that I don't have to be in charge of. Something already in tact- with a small track record. Somewhere I can just show up with my little bag o tricks and leave at the end of each rehearsal without having to lug all the gear, wrap up all the cords, pay the rehearsal studio, write all the songs, book all the gigs, send out all the promo emails...<br />
<br />
See- I'm looking for the buzz without all the responsibility. And this guy and his band seems like just the right soda flavor...<br />
<br />
So then I scroll down to the price points on this website aimed at locating someone who doesn't know you're trying and maybe doesn't really want you to locate them. Turns out the special trial offer is really cheap- something like $4.95- and they promise me name, address, phone number, and email. Great ! I think. That's way more than I need.<br />
<br />
I click on this link. And I type his name in the proper blanks. And city of residence. Because of course, that's really all I know about him. And within a few minutes- I have a result! I actually have four names the site says fits my search criteria! Awesome- I think. It was just that easy. And I still don't really feel all that gross. Just five bucks. No biggie.<br />
<br />
Turns out, of course, the FOUR names really only boil down to TWO. There's only two names that are the SAME name I typed in, and actually only ONE of those entries has an address in the West side of Los Angeles. Ok- I think- it's got to be him. Great. So I click on his name and get....name....current address....zip code....and...and....nothing else. No number (which god knows, I'd never have called anyway) but most importantly- NO email. Which was the whole reason I DID this thing in the first place.<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
That's when I look at the price list again (conveniently printed at the right side of every page on this website) and notice that for an additional $19.95 I can get more info on this particular entry. I can get previous employer information, previous addresses, and EMAIL address, if there's one available. Well, shit, I think. I wish you woulda told me that at the beginning- then I would have gone straight for that tier. I wouldn't have wasted no $4.95 on this useless search which basically just gives me an ADDRESS.<br />
<br />
So, now like an idiot vacationing in Vegas who has just gambled away her last $20 at the roulette wheel, only to make a swift beeline for the ATM to withdraw another $400, I sort of blindly move ahead and pledge more money onto this people locator site to bring me deeper into this entry. It's only twenty extra bucks, I think. It's only an email address I need, I think. This is important to me! I think. This is me morphing and changing into the new musician I am becoming in this decade of my life! I think. This is going to work!<br />
<br />
And so of course- like anyone can tell you who's been betting on red all night, only to have the table come up black...and then to switch to black the moment before the ball lands on Red 4...this didn't work out for me at all. My twenty dollars yielded me nothing more than a previous employer for the name of this westside dweller whose name matched my desired search name. Still no phone. More importantly- no email. Just the name of a tech company in Simi Valley where the man I was searching had worked from 2004-2010. Sigh. <br />
<br />
Not the right guy. <br />
<br />
My guy was never working for a tech company for seven years. He and the band were on the road during at least three of those years.<br />
<br />
And now I realize I've just spent $25 of my hard earned money finding out small bits of totally useless information about some techie guy who lives in southern Santa Monica. Sigh.<br />
<br />
And to boot. I now get daily emails from this website I so blithely and stupidly joined. Prompting me to run other searches on other random people. "Now you can get the most up to date arrest information!" Clearly this site is really only appropriate for HR departments, PIs, and really really bored people. And I am now a card-carrying member.<br />
<br />
Well- if Snowden is indeed correct, someone in the NSA is right now adding that particular juicy bit of information to my ever- expanding file. Not that they're actually reading it, mind you, just filing it away. If in fact I do become some sort of a terrorist or a threat to society in any real way far off in the distant future.<br />
<br />
Who knows- if my musician writer's block lasts much longer-- there's no telling WHAT I'll do....<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-13246701891194554852013-07-02T10:46:00.001-07:002013-07-02T14:18:47.256-07:00FacebluckIt's not so much a bad day. Not an abnormally dark or desolate landscape of a day. Not particularly sunny or bright either. Perhaps that's just what brings it on the hardest... the complete normalcy I feel encased in moments before the chasm opens. And I fall through.<br />
<br />
See- these last few summer days for me have been spent connecting with my husband and one kid (the other is whooping it up currently at sleepaway camp.) Followed by attention paid to self detail- the pedicure, the yoga, the gym, the intake of vitamins and more vegetables than usual, the hair appointment on the calendar.. Yesterday it was the high-end food truck fish taco at 4pm followed by a glass of Rose at local Venice haunt- me replete with my legal pad and pen (yes- you laptop toting motherfuckers- legal pad.) Nine pages of writing commenced at the bar.<br />
<br />
Whoo Hoo!<br />
<br />
I've been feeling pretty good about things. One week out from a successful band gig. Three essays now in shambling order toward the long-term goal of becoming something like a "book" eventually or a "one-woman show." One demo whipped up 10 days ago on a whim and sent off to my pal and co-producer in Chicago with a breezy air. Something may be made of this...or not. But what fun it will be!<br />
<br />
In other words, I am doing my work. I have put my head down and focused on the small tasks at hand. I have mostly stopped complaining, bickering with my poor husband, kicking back three to four glasses of wine a night. I have found some consistent purpose and balance as of late in my "job"- paid or unpaid- as artist. As writer and musician and performer. I'm doing ok! This could be the greatest year ever!<br />
<br />
And then all I have to do, really, to topple this hard- earned, carefully cultivated solid ground, is choose to procrastinate for 14 seconds. All it takes is one mildly poor decision. And that is to log onto the WORLD WIDE WEB. I'll type in the Rose-dribbled contents of my weathered legal pad, I'll work on one of those two essay edits from last week, I'll finally begin ONE of the tales for that scary story book I've been orally composing with the kids in our hot tub in Ojai... I'll do all of those things. <br />
<br />
Right after I check Facebook. <br />
<br />
And you'd think by NOW I'd know not to do this. Because it happens every time. <br />
<br />
EVERY TIME- when I choose to log on at this particular fragile moment in the arc of my work, and in the fledgling stage of burdgeoning self-esteem, I will find myself unfailingly, inexorably knee-deep in the most toxic of what Facebook has to offer me. <br />
<br />
All it takes is a little "www.fa" plugged in my browser window and the computer knows right where to sling me. I am suddenly awash in amazing papparazzi photos of my old college roommate accepting a 2013 Saturn award for her role in America's most watched zombie television show. I am accosted with my OTHER college roommate's status report on the interview she just gave on one of my hometown radio stations in support of her new book? Webcast? Album? All of the above? she is creating. Another of my high school friends is taking the dream trip of his life across America by train. And probably filming it, seeing as he and his brother are Academy Award winning documentarians. A neighbor is directing her self-written, full-length feature film in Croatia. Another is scaling some mountain in Nepal.<br />
<br />
And then there's the slew of mothers I've Facebook befriended who are just yards and yards ahead of me in the parenting race. Women whisking their children away to Africa for three months to take part in a work camp. "Off to get Malaria shots today! Wish us luck!" their status report chirps. Others are relaxing in their Montana ranches taking in the fresh air and learning how to milk a cow. A college acquaintance of mine just purchased a horse for her daughter. A. Horse.<br />
<br />
And I haven't even mentioned the slew of musicians I know out plying their trade on the road. "So vibey here at LIB!" (Lighting in a Bottle- one of various summer westcoast festivals.) "Phoenix was awesome- heading out to Sodona tonight to play in the oldest-known western saloon still standing!" <br />
<br />
And of course after the bombardment of such VISIBLY SUCCESSFUL LIFE CHOICES OCCURRING IN THE REST OF FACEBOOK AMERICA'S WORLD, it doesn't take much else to kick this dog who has suddenly and completely fallen down. All at once my little, reasonable, daily humdrum win of making a healthy stir fry for my family after a day of pedicure, gym and writing seems vastly, horrifically under-par. Nothing to write home about, much less POST on the Facebook.<br />
<br />
It's at these times that even the barrage of photos comprising what folks are eating (which I've never really understood) won't fail to douse whatever is left of my own mojo about my own life. The pics of the aged cedar logs they've just bought for the grill tonight---which they built with their own hands-- and you know because you were privy to the past two months of photos of them showing how painstakingly they constructed it-- these photos are the nails in the coffin of what minutes ago I would have called my happiness.<br />
<br />
And--- close the book. Turn off the computer. I am done. I am a huge failure and a depressive freak who at every turn has done nothing beyond undermining her own progress simply because she lacks some "Go-Git-Im" gene every other Facebook friend appears to have elegantly decorating their collective DNA strands.<br />
<br />
A fellow local musician and friend of mine, Tom, has over twice the amount of friends I do on Facebook. Maybe more by now since he is a working musician- paying the bills with his music. Which means he's on the road six to eight months out of the year both nationally and in Europe. A few years ago he wrote a song called "I'm Not A Ghost In This Town" about feeling completely invisible in one's own surroundings, which I especially hold dear. And applaud him for penning.<br />
<br />
Because I, with access to a mere 1,053 Facebook friends' stellar Status Reports on a daily basis can only imagine what being privy to over 2500 publicly shiny lives might do to me. <br />
<br />
Granted, both those numbers are miniscule when you calculate the human world at large. And keeping that in mind, I'd like to think that somewhere in that 7 billion, there are a few more souls like me who are just trying to find worth in the simple small things (that stellar fish taco I ate yesterday, but didn't photograph.)<br />
<br />
Ultimately, in order to drag myself up from the bottom of the ego well, I am reminded to put in perspective what Facebook is for: <br />
<br />
After all, no one is posting the grueling eight-hour traffic laden drive home from picking up their daughter's horse. <br />
<br />
My TV star ex-roommate has not made mention of that time last season in Episode 4 where the director screamed at her so viciously for missing a cue for the third time, it caused her to flee in tears and hide in her trailer for the rest of the day. Nor the string of bad dates she's invariably had to endure over the years seeing as she is pushing her mid-forties and still very visibly single.<br />
<br />
Academy award winning documentarian doesn't find the wafting vomit smell from the motion sick 12-year-old seated behind him on the train worth posting into posterity. <br />
<br />
And as awesome as the oldest saloon in America sounds, the band probably didn't take Facebook- ready shots of the seven people who actually witnessed their set because they were afraid the flash might awaken what appeared to be the oldest looking bum asleep at the end of the bar whose incessant snore drowned out even the most lively of their songs.<br />
<br />
Facebook is for dressing yourself up and taking yourself out. I suppose we all know this. And somewhere deep in the well of me that houses my flickering self esteem, I know this too. And I can get over it and get back to writing some shit down. Which is what, as a paid and non-paid writer, musician, singer and perfomer, I am invariably drawn to do. In my pajamas. With the dishes clogging the sink. And the bed unmade. And a little sleep crust still in my eye. <br />
<br />
There's my status report for all yalls. Enjoy feeling vastly superior to at least one person on Facebook today!<br />
<br />The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-76981883754725613872013-05-29T14:10:00.000-07:002013-05-29T14:10:17.928-07:00Slow The F Down<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Yes- that's something I've been known to yell either standing on the sidewalk or out of my car window at other motorists whizzing past me in my neighborhood. Whizzing by at inappropriately high speeds- as I have arbitrarily deemed. Like some sort of demented over-grown school crossing guard drunk on the power of a medium sized fish in a tiny pond, and maybe one too many vodka shots in the diet coke can.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Not me-- the crossing guard.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Oh hell. Maybe me too.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">In any case- this phrase that I have so dutifully taught to my children whilst they are inhabiting the passenger seats of my road-rage filled Volvo- I find has some legs. In fact, this phrase frequently wallpapers the inside of my brain as it relates to many instances beyond automotive. And I wonder at the power of its message. And I wonder at my alacrity to adopt such a phrase so often in my life.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And I wonder the most if I am rather alone in my continual adherence to and upholding of this particular demand. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Because here, smack in the middle of 2013, teetering on the very western edge of this great American country we call home, I notice most people don't seem to really do a whole lot of slowing the f down. Most people would much much rather speed up. High speed internet. High speed car chases. High speed rail. High speed cameras. Everything's better that goes faster- that gets us there, that's provides us the information, that captures our moments-- fast fast fast now now now NOW!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I, on the other hand, still might be inhabiting the 20th Century. I enjoy reading books made of paper- mostly used books. I eat slow- taking many little bites- chewing my food until it's so smooth and paste-like, I could feed it to my baby, were I a mother bird. I carve out as much time in my life as I can to sitting around in my family room listening to records by myself that I have recently purchased at the one or two remaining record stores in the greater Los Angeles area while wearing my 70's and 80's thrift store clothing concoctions. I read and re-read liner notes (also printed on large sheets of paper or paper products known to us old folks as 'album sleeves' and 'album jackets.' Turns out, albums apparently don't wear any pants. Sort of like the three little pigs. But I digress.)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I also find myself internally trying to slow down all the time. To do less, more often. To really take stock of what it is I think I need to be doing all the time, and just look at my list out loud and say- Nope. No. Just not gonna do a bunch of that stuff. And I'm certainly not gonna do it fast. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It takes work- you know! This slowing the f down! And yeah yeah, it probably started somewhere in the early naught years for me in the yoga classes. Finally learning how to meditate. For real like. Not just closing my eyes and not saying anything while holding my body stiff and still in the same uncomfortable cross-legged position for over 5 minutes. No- that was the first year or so of mediation. Then over time, I learned how to actually quiet my mind enough to not want it to end immediately. (Now? Are we done now? How about now?) Took work- took so much work. And frankly, I'm so long out of practice now on the meditation front that I believe I'd have to go all the way through that whole fidgety cramped leg, mind whirling around wondering if it's been five fucking minutes already process all over again. Meditation is NOT like riding a bicycle, I've found. Like slowing the f down- it is a skill that needs to be oft attended to or else it wears off like new car smell in the summer heat.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And yet- what has remained for me, what continues to be cultivated by this grumpy introspective artist chick is the residual effect of what years of meditation eventually brought on. And that is the strong desire to slow down- take another minute at the table before clearing the dishes- take another "to do" thing off the list-- take another breath before internally berating myself for not having everything all DONE ALREADY. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I do not see the progress in speed. I do not see the benefit from extreme multi-tasking. I feel part of our continued moving away from each other and from real connective moments together is this cultural obsession with doing a lot of shit a lot of the time and doing it all at the same time. But I don't get it! I do not see the "us" in Busy! (Though it is there- the us. It's the second and third lett...ok...anyway.)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And yes- I do hear some talking points on TV and internet awash in this sentiment. People are nodding toward the need to get back to basics. Slow down. Spend "quality" time with each other. (How about just any time? How about just doing nothing "purposefully" or "goal oriented", either alone or together? Like, for a few hours at a time? That's what I'm talkin bout.) But somehow it rings false for me. Like "slowing down" has become just another bullet point on the endless list of Honey Do. If it was anything else, we'd be less than American. We'd somehow be -gasp- OUT OF STEP with the rest of society.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It takes skill to sit around and not do anything for some time. And not just because we don't value it at all, but because so many of us have simply forgotten how. We're so enrapt with our gadgets and our devices, not to mention the actual real stuff we all have to do to keep the construct of our complex lives afloat. But any way you slice it, so much of these tasks and attention to the machines of our information age really just serve as distractions away from real awareness. From having to actually check in and be like-- Hey, you (meaning ourself), hey- how ARE you? What's UP? What's going on inside there? How's life treating you? How are YOU treating you? What's happening right now in this tiny space of this moment right here? Do you have any idea, or are you too hopped up on your Cheeto bag of iwhatever information? </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I find myself at times staring into space when I'm waiting for my son at his tutor/waiting for my daughter at her fencing practice/waiting to pick up my children from school/sitting in the car at that nutty red light that lasts over 2.5 minutes at the corner of Lincoln and Venice- (it really does. I've timed it. 2.5 minutes in any direction.) Sometimes I look around me during those periods of waiting. And I see so many others not staring into space. They're emailing. They're on their ipads. They're on the phone. They're talking about the brief that needed to be filed yesterday. They're discussing the catering plate that needs to be picked up in three hours for the fundraiser. They're people firing on all cylinders- every waking moment of their days filled with productive conversations and the exchange of important goods and information.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And yes- a lot of the time I look around me and I feel sad and lonely. And not because I want to be one of them. Not because I think I should be engaging in all this power career track continual balancing act where each day consists of keeping upwards of twenty plates spinning in the air in all moments. I do admire these folks in a way. I admire their tenacity and grit and cultivated ability to be able to do all that so often and for so long and not come down with acute Sinusitus every 7 weeks. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But I really feel sad and lonely because I imagine there's only a small handful out there like myself who suspect that there's something deeply, inherently desperate and not right about all this behavior. That all this busyness -- all this "progress"-- is not really progress at all. What is it progressing? What are we doing, doing all this stuff all the time? </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Some would argue- and rightfully so- that we are busy making money to keep ourselves and our families alive with a roof over our heads, and food on the table. That we are doing this to stay alive. But that's not really true. We have so many means to merely subsist, most of us. All this busyness, I think, most of us believe is ENHANCING our lives. This is all the shit you GET to do when you're beyond merely killing the wooly mammoth and sweeping out the cave. All this stuff somehow makes life BETTER, people would argue.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Well hm. I think not. I think it makes life meaningless. I think it focuses the spotlight on all the things with apparent value, instead of valuable things.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">****</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I plopped myself down on my shrink's couch the other day. Sitting- - I never lie down, somehow that would seem inauthentically stereotypical. (Though of what ERA, I know not!) And as I ploomped myself and all my bourgeois ennui down on his overstuffed neutral toned settee, I sighed grandly. "I'm not doing great." I say. "Ah - you've come to the right place." Says he. "I think-- I think I've gone and lost my sense of humor today." Says I. "Oh no. You're not gonna get all Christian on me now, are you?" Jokes he. I smile a bit. Ok- so maybe it's not all gone.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We tread down the well-worn path of my constant low-level distress. The back burners are always on-- simmering pots of death anxiety, fear of total annihilation, despair of being totally invisible and completely powerless. Sometimes things happen in my life that cause more extreme emotions- positive and negative. But the stove is always on, regardless.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">This time as we examine and discuss the contents of my simmering pots, my therapist has me do an exercise. "Ok. Ok, Hol. Just for shits and giggles. Let's pretend you rule the world. Seriously. Not like a king or a despot, but like a god. Like you created and rule the world. You made it the way it is. You made everything- you made people. What would your world look like? What are the tenets of your societies based on? How does it all roll in your universe?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It was a harder task than I thought. But I found myself answering this way. Like a child would, I believe:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Well- in my world. We'd have different priorities and kind of not give a fuck about a lot of stuff we seem to now. No one would really care who had more toys at the end and who was in charge and who was doing a great job and who wasn't. We'd not be so concerned with who was to blame for messing everything up and with making progress and taking over this world. We'd stop killing each other and live alongside animals and the natural world. We'd help each other. There would be more campfires and maybe smoking pot or drinking some nice wines together-- taking care of each other's kids. Maybe singing songs together. Trading recipes. Hanging out. Not having so many goals and concerns about winning.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But mostly I think we'd really not do nearly so much as we do now. We'd all really just slow the fuck down."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Is what I said.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">My therapist said. "Yes. Yes, that's right. I like your world. Can I come live there too?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I said "Sure." </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So, at least I know there's two of us here. Kicking it here by the campfire with a bottle of good Pinot and a guitar. His kids watching mine ('cause they're older.) And in between puffs on the old peace pipe, we're just hanging out and yelling at all those flipping cars driving by way too fast to "Slow The F Down!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">For god sakes. And ours too.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-23414558430492271832013-05-21T15:29:00.000-07:002013-05-21T15:29:00.637-07:00They're Trying to Convince Me We're All Idiots. Last weekend for us was one of those Private School Three Day-ers. Friday was deemed a "professional day" - whatever that means- and so our kids were home.<br />
<br />
I of course did no playdate planning for Friday or Saturday. Partly because I am a grump and was protesting the lack of school on a Friday. And partly because I do occasionally find benefit to my children and myself having "nothing" to do. <br />
<br />
The result of this lackadaisical attitude was that I and my family was privy to a lot of advertising over the weekend. Mostly due to the large amount of TV watching. Including the dreaded "live" TV replete with the commercials. And apparently, as one who rarely consumes her television live and in the moment, I find that when you don't encounter ads for a long while, you start to really listen to them once you're re-introduced. <br />
<br />
This led me to the conclusion that advertising is now not only insipid, boring, useless drivel I have to struggle through to get to the next chapter of my "high quality" nighttime soap opera....it is now possibly the devil's voice whispering in my ear.<br />
<br />
And what is the devil saying to me? <br />
<br />
The devil is saying that we American consumers are most assuredly....quite very...exceedingly...<br />
<br />
Stupid.<br />
<br />
We have to be in order to chow down on this amount of of ca-ca.<br />
<br />
It all began with the Ford commerical Friday morning. Or maybe it was Chevy. Can't recall. HA ha! Beat you at your own game, fuckers! You spent 9.2 million bucks creating that ad and securing choice time slots for it and I can't even recall what car you were pushing on me! Nor even the MAKE!<br />
<br />
(Wait, hang on. I was just in the middle of being appropriately miffed that the advertising community believes we're all idiots. Um. Hang on- I may have veered perilously off course. Let me regroup.)<br />
<br />
Though I don't remember the make or model of the large gas guzzling full-size SUV that flashed itself upon my screen- good looking "mom" in pink plaid oxford button down and khaki pedal pushers unloading soccer ball after grocery bag after smiling athletic gear-clad child after family dog from within- I do recall one thing very particular. I do recall the voice-over which said something about how this car "boasts the largest amount of storage space of any other car in its class...blah blah." And then -- "You DESERVE that kind of convenience."<br />
<br />
I do? I DESERVE it? What does that mean? What did I do to DESERVE convenience- specifically some sort of coveted amount thereof? Perhaps simply be born American? The land of convenience! (Also the land of child obesity, Big Gulps, Drive-thru Starbucks, lack of responsible gun laws?) I guess we all "deserve" what we get. <br />
<br />
And then later on- I encountered a jaw-dropping PSA (the dropping jaw during which was of course, my own.) This PSA ran in three different segments during my On Demand program. Fast forward had been disabled due to programmers finally getting hip to the fact that given a choice on whether to watch ads or not- we'd all really rather skip it. <br />
<br />
So I was forced to enjoy all three acts of this PSA focusing on how it might be really important to move a little bit during one's TV watching hours. One of the actresses starring in the show I was attempting to watch commercial-free was earnestly explaining into the camera lens how helpful it might be to "stand up" during commercial breaks. Perhaps "do a little dance" or at least "move your arms around and stomp your feet up and down." About how "easily we forget that movement is important." All the while simultaneously demonstrating each particular movement. So we'd be SURE to get what she's talking about. You know- "do a little dance. Like this."<br />
<br />
(Sadly, many of us Americans living in the land of child and adult obesity actually have forgotten that moving one's body is pretty vital. So ok. Chalk one up for the advertisers. You win on that one.)<br />
<br />
Then later on- I'm snuggling into bed for the night. TV is finally, thankfully OFF. Many a bedside read adorn my nightstand, all of which I'm concurrently in betwixt and between...I opt for the new monthly wildlife magazine that showed up in the mail that day. National Wildlife- A publication I assuredly began ordering years ago thinking, Hey, my kids like animals. And so- hundreds of unread issues later having repeatedly decorated the inside of our recycling bin-- I finally decided to crack one last night in bed. Cover filled edge to edge with chocolate brown musk oxen inhabiting frigid northern pastures.<br />
<br />
I found myself muchly enjoying the images of the heavily carpeted musk oxen and their enormous teddy bear noses. Not to mention those crazy bone colored horns which grip the sides of their heads like a 1920's Flapper girl curls.<br />
<br />
Then came photos of some strange Alaskan barnacle-like crabs. And a huge swimming throng of sea lions. And then- I couldn't get too far into the magazine without running into it. The ADVERTISING. The crap which essentially pays for me to be able to have access to this delightful and informative nature magazine. Sadly, my yearly fee of $whatever.99 is not cutting it to keep things afloat.<br />
<br />
So I come across this:<br />
<br />
(And I am plagarizing here- literally copying text straight from a full page jewelry ad which popped up right next to "News of the Wild" segment. Because some things are just perfect as they are.)<br />
<br />
<i>"SURRENDER TO 400 CARATS OF TEMPTATION. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Are you ready for this necklace? You might think you are, but when dealing with 400 carats of the most robust red gem on the planet, we want you to be prepared. Before you invite the S__ V__Ruby Necklace into your home for only $blahblah, you need to understand the consequences.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>POSSIBLE SIDE EFFECTS MAY INCLUDE: spotaneous kissing and hugging, increased heart rate, slow dancing and the urge to get away for the weekend. Some may experience: long walks on the beach, episodes of snuggling, spooning and staring lovingly into each other's eyes. Less serious side effects may include: increased appetite for romantic comedies and overuse of the words "honeypie" and "sweetheart."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>SOUND DRAMATIC? you bet! But don't forget we're talking about ruby, the stone notorious for provoking passion, lust and intense romantic emotions throughout history....</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
(and my personal favorite part of the plug--)<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>WE DON'T PLAY BY THE LUXURY RULES. </i><i>We took the S___V___ Ruby Necklace </i><i>to an independent appraiser who works with auction houses, estate sales and insurance companies. He valued it at $BLAY DEE BLAH. We thanked him for his professional opinion and then ignored it! Because even if a gemologist tells us that this necklace is valued at over Blay Dee Blah, we want you to wear it for ONLY $blah blah. Yes, we're serious.</i><br />
<br />
I want to find whoever wrote that copy and take them out for a drink. Good on ya, mate. That was atrocious!<br />
<br />
I mean- either I am a lot more of an anomaly than I believe I am, and the rest of the English speaking world is filled with complete boobs who smile knowingly at the "honeypie" part. Or- hopefully- they're filling costly space with things that look at lot like words and just vamping. Vamping to get to the large $WHATEVER.99 that you have to send it to PO Box Flamdee Flam. Or check out www.Rubiesnshitrus.com or some such.<br />
<br />
I suppose it must be noted that a few pages later, another full page jewelry ad from the same company ran for their <i>STUNNING 2-CARAT TANZANITE RING FOR ONLY BLOO DE BLOO! RANDOM COMPLIMENTS, HOWEVER, ARE ABSOLUTELY FREE."</i><br />
<br />
Clearly, my favorite copywriter worked his magic on this one too. It's got his stamp all over it:<br />
<br />
<i>This is not the ring to wear if you want to blend in. Two carats of genuine tanzanite attracts attention. Lots of it. People will talk. That's just what happens when you wear the passionate purple stone experts have called "the most beautiful gem discovered in generations."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Well gosh. Experts say that. Ironically though- they do put their foot in their mouths a bit when they tell you--<br />
<br />
<i>"It is found nowhere else on Earth other than in the shadow of Mount Kilimanjaro and experts say supplies will not last forever." </i>(again, with the Experts. But wait- here's where it gets a bit tricky)<br />
<i>Fifth Avenue retailers are more than happy to charge you as if the mines were nearly empty. One of them is selling genuine tanzanite rings online as well for well over $2000 each. That's ridiculous."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
OK. But- um didn't you just say your experts said they won't last forever? 2000 is ridiculous?<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
Well, ultimately, I suppose it costs nothing for me to close the magazine. Or turn off the television. Sometimes just stemming the constant influx of merchandising information in service of maintaining respect for my fellow human beings is worth it. Certainly worth more than $anything.99.<br />
<br />
We've got another three day weekend coming up in a mere few days. You better believe this time around,the "do nothing" strategy will be replaced by some serious scheduling. This weekend- I'm making PLANS.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-56001629575607759492013-05-11T18:00:00.001-07:002013-05-11T18:00:09.938-07:00MiddlesI don't really know exactly what I'm going to write today. Which is not the way it usually goes for me here. I usually sit down eagerly- the edges of my brain pleasurably afire with a specific topic. Or sometimes it's even two vaguely related ideas that I'm chomping at the bit to expound upon and tie together deftly with electronic silken thread.<br />
<br />
But today I don't have any of that. With the exception of the pleasant burning sensation. That I've got.<br />
<br />
The pleasant burning sensation is the closest I can come to describing what it feels like to create something, perhaps to someone who does not regularly create, or who might be unsure of the whole 'creative process.' The spark of the creation-- a ha, note the common fire metaphor here in that tried and true colloquialism-- the spark feels a little like smoting flesh. Honestly- it does. Because you can't get away from it. It has you writhing a bit. But if it's good-- or frankly, even if it's not-- the burning feels compelling- gravitational. You don't want to pull away from it. You want to dive in and let it take you over...let the flames engulf while you as 'channel' simply show up to capture it in your net and write it down. Or birth it in some other way here unto this physical realm because it demands that of you. It demands that you give birth to it.<br />
<br />
Oddly similar were the early sensations of labor pains for me- of actual giving birth. An urgency- a pulling, a warmth, a tingling. All of which eventually grew in massive proportion for this vessel- holy shit - and how. What began as exciting and tingling and a bit stretch-y feeling ended up launching me head long onto the floor, wretching, writhing with excruciating yanks of pain in all directions, whimpering like a tiny child to please make it stop because I couldn't do it any more. (The three w's of giving birth. Wretching, Writhing, Whimpering. Why don't they tell you about those in any birthing class, is what I want to know?)<br />
<br />
Ah. Memories.<br />
<br />
OK- so turns out for me there are some tendrils of connection between birthing actual people, which I've done twice, to birthing anything else creative too, which I've done countless times. I'm just actually discovering this as I type it to you on the virtual paperless page-- that my physical experience of those two birthing processes has similar flavor. Hm.<br />
<br />
Anyway. So-- you can see now that I had to sit down and write-- it's coming out of me anyway, though I STILL as of yet, have no actual discernible TOPIC to write upon. Right? You don't know what this blog post is about, do you? <br />
<br />
Well- ok- so I titled it Middles because that was a clue that plopped itself upon my cerebral cortex in big blazing neon immediately before I sat down to type. MIDDLES, Hol. Duh.<br />
<br />
See I just came from a five hour symposium on Middle School education at my kids' elementary school campus. The place was rife with highly educated teachers and administrators and curious, well-intentioned, slightly shaky soon-to-be- middle school parents, like myself. All there under the common umbrella of co-creating a think tank on what would make our current middle school program even stronger and better and more enriching for the children there.<br />
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And though that may not sound like the awesomest way for you to spend your Saturday (believe me, my husband and I groaned a bit this morning at the plans we had so responsibly made-- at the invitation we mature invested parents responded to in the affirmative some weeks ago.) Despite our wariness, it actually proved to be pretty fabulous- for a couple of reasons. First of all, turns out- I have some opinions. Yeah- I know that may be hard to believe. But I do. And I like to have them heard. Secondly, I like to feel like I'm actually contributing to the good of the whole- like I'm here and participating. Which attending this forum allowed me to feel.<br />
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Interestingly, this is a trait our highly educated teachers and administrators kept bringing up research-based knowledge on in terms of understanding the middle school mind. Middle schoolers really want to do worthwhile things, they told us. Middle schoolers want to feel like they're doing something important. They don't want to be given a bunch of boring drivel worksheets to waste countless hours upon at home. They don't want to be talked down to and passed over and not connected with. They want to be engaged and feel empowered and enacted.<br />
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Hm- I'm thinking. Really- um. So you're saying MIDDLE school kids feel this way. Ok. So apparently SOMEONE has never actually graduated from middle school...(or maybe none of us has fully either? Can I get a witness?)<br />
<br />
What I think I'm trying to veer toward here, topically speaking, through the thunder storm of my cluttered brain, is that I am becoming ever more aware of how deeply connected I as mother am to my kids during their times of transition.<br />
<br />
Middle school for me was really rocky- especially in the beginning. I had just thumped unceremoniously down to the emotional basement from a nirvanic penthouse of sorts, which the 5th grade had been for me. There was nothing I could not do in 5th grade. Thus, Holly Long in 5th grade was so happy and fulfilled. 6th grade took my well organized files of well being, self-acknowledgement and what had been dawning pre-pubescent feelings of empowerment and dumped them all helter skelter on the floor. I remember details. I also remember big clouds of mauve and olive green confusion. I remember suddenly feeling awkward all the time. And everyone was looking at me. And everyone was judging. And it sucked.<br />
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<br />
So, as my kid teeters upon this very precipice, I cannot help but re-encounter my own turgid 6th grade feelings of despair.<br />
<br />
And now, I'm also realizing- that as I veer toward the point that Middle School was tough for me, and as I sense my daughter starting to deal with some familiar territory, I'm discovering that perhaps from a larger perspective, the term 'Middle' is poignant here too in ways that don't just have to do with me and my kid.<br />
<br />
Chrissie Hynde gave us "Middle of the Road." In corporate society we discuss Middle Management- which now seems to be a catchword for where we don't want our children to rise to their level of incompetence. Middle Age has had me over it's lap for awhile now, chapping my hide with its strong leather strop. We discuss things as "middling" in negative connotative ways. The middle of the bell curve has never been where America wants to see itself or its kids' test scores or future outlook. The Middle Class seems to be shrinking. No one wants to be in the middle of a crisis, or a breakdown. All kinds of scary things happen in the middle of the night. Whenever anyone wants to lose weight its almost always from somewhere in the middle of their body. The Middle East continuously seems to be a disastrous political mess. And then of course there's always -- the Middle Finger.<br />
<br />
The word Middle is kind of shitty in our outlook, isn't it. We've sort of decided that here. I guess that makes sense. Everyone likes beginnings. Beginnings of romantic relationships. Beginnings of life cycles. The beginning is related to youth- to spring- to healthy beautiful things growing and sprouting.<br />
<br />
On the other hand the End is a little scary. Though it is finite. We know to leave the movie theater when we see The End. We're sure the book is over. The ends of phases or wars or arguments are relieving. Even the ends of good things like a rockin party, a fun camping trip, a marriage that at one time was thriving, or just the last cookie in the box-- though hard are at least helpful. Again, it's this sort of defining boundary. The end. The ends of things. Time to get on with it and start something new. A fresh beginning. So the ends are related to the beginnings, which we so dearly love, and make way for them.<br />
<br />
Middles are hard. Middles are less defined. Middles are tricky and expansive and potentially rife with trouble.<br />
<br />
Well- I do feel like I spend my life in the middle. I've had some time here in the middle. I've gotten a little better at being in the middle of nowhere. At feeling like I'm a middling performer that somehow hasn't yet been able to cross over into a place where I feel seen enough. As mentioned before- I'm very consciously, very continuously dealing with middle age. And as it turns out, the middle isn't actually so bad. <br />
<br />
The middle is where you can find balance I think. Balance between being stinking rich and heart-breakingly poor. Balance between knowing you're incredibly valuable and important and knowing you are also inherently insignificant and tiny. Balance between loving every single second life has to offer, and trudging through this life as though it was an albatross heaved pitilessly upon your shoulders. <br />
<br />
The middle is where the truth lies too- I believe. The actuality of the greys that make up almost every conceivable life situation, despite that many would much prefer to paint them with blacks and whites.<br />
<br />
I think I'm becoming a cheerleader for the middle. Maybe I'd actually like to go back into Middle School and have a do-over. Or perhaps, more accurately, re-remember my times there as fantastic grist for the mill. As ripe fodder for whom I was to develop into over the years. Middle School maybe got a bad rap from ME.<br />
<br />
So, I will strive to keep my eyes wide open during my daughter's foray into this middle territory. Though I can't live it for her, I certainly can abide. I can withstand. I can reflect. Here in the middle of it all.<br />
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<br />The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-82126708137773186252013-05-01T12:53:00.000-07:002013-05-01T12:53:41.901-07:00Truman's DreamThis morning. Not too early. Sun fully shining already through the dull pearl of our Venetian morning cloud cover. In fact, it's just about an hour or so before it's really time to get out of bed and get the morning routine started. My eight-year-old son climbs into bed next to me.<br />
<br />
This is not a unique occurrence. Truman has found his way to snuggled under the sheets tightly compressed to his mommy's side often enough these past five or so years. It's a trait of his I cherish. For me, it's warm and sweet and precious. Though I know for him these wee morning hour cuddles happen out of necessity- out of urgency. Because to one degree or another, he's frightened when he stumbles down the hall and into our bed at night. <br />
<br />
This morning was no exception. Only this time, instead of just tapping lightly on the bed, sliding under the covers that I groggily raise for him to roll into, and falling asleep immediately like a box of barbells on my arm-- Truman comes in whimpering. And shaking a bit. Standing by the side of the bed like he doesn't know what to do.<br />
<br />
Ah. This one's not fueled by his mild sleepwalking or grey woolen fear of the dark. No- Truman has clearly had a bad dream.<br />
<br />
He climbs in feverishly and I wrap myself around his body. Having just emerged myself from a fairly intense REM state, shaking off the silky threads of my subconscious travels, I sleepily stroke his hair and kiss the top of his head over and over to calm him down. I ask quietly, What's wrong, sweetie? He mumbles something about ...dream... in the high soprano of a young terrified boy. He says nothing more. I don't push. We fall into a nice drowsy half hour after that. He calms into measured breathing, so I know he has fallen back to sleep at least for these next 20 minutes or so. <br />
<br />
My gaze finds the clock and I realize it is time to awaken. I whisper softly in his ear Time to get up Tru. Gotta get dressed for school. He tenses around my arm. No. OK- a few more minutes then, I say. Again, stroking his hair. I say- Why don't you tell me a little bit about your dream last night? I don't want to talk about it. He squeaks again. I know, honey, I say. But I think it's good to talk about these things sometimes. Then they don't stay trapped inside.<br />
<br />
He finally acquiesces to a short series of phrases describing us- me and him- in a boat. With one other man driving at the helm. We're riding in the boat when suddenly- Truman falls out of the boat and into the water. I say- how scary- you fell out into the water? Bobbing there treading water? He says yes. I say- well, did I jump in and come get you like I would do? Did I yell at the driver to stop the boat? He says no. The boat kept going. You didn't come get me....<br />
<br />
Oh my god, I'm thinking. This is one fucked up awful dream.<br />
<br />
Now we know Truman has some anxiety. Lucky kid, he pulled that gene card straight out of my pool. And we've also noticed a tendency toward abandonment fears. Which don't seem to have sprung up from any actual instance in his real life-- this time around at least. He was never accidentally left at the park or in a grocery store cart-- not even for a minute. Truman has never been left anywhere at any time unattended. Unloved or abandoned. Never.<br />
<br />
But he is wired for abandonment- he has always needed to be able to lay eyes on his parents or guardians while outside in the world --at any point in time when he is not safe at home in his house or neighborhood. He manages his fears very well at school. His friends think he's just the cool joker with the long blond hair goofing around in their midst. But we know the soft squishy inside he harbors.<br />
<br />
So this dream - though terrifying- seemed about right. This seemed like a Truman Lieber nightmare in full glory.<br />
<br />
I suddenly am struck with a moment of inspiration. Perhaps bred from all my years of pouring through fiction and nonfiction paperbacks- four and five at a time. All my therapy and anxious struggles of my own. Nightmares. Certainty of abandonment. Shapeless murky memories of unwantedness....<br />
<br />
I lean in again to Truman's ear, and whisper to my child, safely tucked among our toasty morning sheets and blankets- wrapped snug in his mother's arms with the faithful Beagle still snoring lightly at our feet- I whisper- Let's change the ending of that dream.<br />
<br />
Let's you and me rewrite your dream. Ok? Because it wouldn't happen that way at all. Here's what would actually happen, my love: <br />
<br />
Ok- so you're back on the boat, right? Can you imagine that? Do you see the water lapping in small waves up against the sides? Do you hear the gales of wind blowing all around? Do you see me and the man in the boat- standing up- looking toward the front- toward where we're headed? Yes, he whispers- breathless. I see it. Ok- good. So let yourself fall into the water again. Can you do that? Do you feel the water all around your body now? It's cold. It's dark and endless. You're moving your legs to keep from sinking down into it...yes? And you're yelling for me? Can you do that? Yes-- yes-- he says, a little more urgently. Great. Good. Now- Look. Look carefully at the boat. I'm turning around! Do you see me turning toward you? And I SEE you in the water. And now I'm yelling to the man to STOP THE BOAT! STOP! And he does. He stops the boat from moving forward. But more importantly, at the same time this is happening- I am JUMPING IN THE WATER. Do you see the big splash I just made? I just jumped in the water, and I'm swimming toward you. Fast. I'm saying "Hold on- I'm coming- I'll be right there Truman--" do you hear me? Yes, he says, Yes I hear you. Good- because now, I've got you. I'm holding onto you with one arm around your waist. And I'm swimming us back to the boat with the other. And I'm kicking with all my might, and you are too- we're both kicking and dragging ourselves back toward the boat which has stopped for us. It's waiting for us. Do you see that? Y--y-yes, I see the boat stopped, waiting for us. Good. Excellent. And now Truman, I'm pushing your body up and over the side of the boat. Pushing with all my might while I furiously kick my legs to stay afloat. Aaaaaaah---and THERE- you've just dropped back into the boat and you're lying on the floor heaving to catch your breath. And you're ok- you're safe. You're cold and dripping wet, but you're breathing. You're not in the water. You're not drowning anymore. You're alive and safe and back in the boat. <br />
<br />
And then in the smallest and most heartbreaking of voices, my son says, But what about you, Mom? <br />
<br />
So then I describe quickly in some detail about how I use the last of whatever strength I have left to pull myself up and over into the boat too, and how the man takes one hand off the tiller to help me, but it takes a little bit. He can't use both hands to help me or the boat will tip over. And about how now, I'm back in the boat, right next to Truman, also heaving on the floor for air - lungs working their very best to move the oxygen fast through the body. And I describe how we're ok after that. We're both ok. We both get our breath back evenly enough. We both lie right next to each other on the bottom of the boat for some time until it gets where it's going, and no one falls out again. And we're together. And we're safe. <br />
<br />
I don't know how much immediate salve my rewrite brought to my son. I don't know how deeply the aloe of my story soothed the burn of that nightmare. I do know he was able finally to emerge from deep within the bed moments later to plod back into his room and pull on some clothing that I laid out for him to wear today. I knew he was going to be ok, when I brought out a pair of pants from his drawers and he stopped me. No, mom. That shirt's fine, but I'm gonna wear shorts today.<br />
<br />
Whew. Ok. Another panic moment averted. The searing fear sprung from the deepest depth of the subconscious silenced for awhile.<br />
<br />
The funny thing is- as I was rewriting Truman's dream for him this morning from the soft comfort of my warm, solid bed very much perched on dry land- each line of the story- each watery image- burrowed itself indelibly into my brainstem. It is now OUR dream- that one. OUR subconscious story. And I know for a most solid stone cold fact that it happened EXACTLY as we wrote it. And will keep happening that way over and over again. That is how that story goes.<br />
<br />
He will always fall in the water. I will always see him. I will always jump in the water. I will always swim to him. The boat will always wait for us. We will swim back to the boat and heave ourselves back into it. And we will always be together- safe and alive. This moment is eternal.<br />
<br />
This is the moment of mother and son, forever.<br />
<br />
I don't know what happened to my son Truman before I got to him. I don't know where he's been and what pain he's suffered through. I do know that this time around, I get to be his mom. And that I will go to the ends of the earth for him, and pray that he truly understands that I will always be there for him. He will never be abandoned. Not this time around.<br />
<br />
I will always jump in the water for him.<br />
<br />
Happy early Mother's Day, my dears.<br />
x<br />
<br />
<br />The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-69079237670174114642013-04-23T16:29:00.002-07:002013-04-23T18:18:01.526-07:00White PeopleAh, as I start in on this post, I'm already afraid of the consequences that might arise from failing to perfectly explain myself. Or from being misunderstood. I shall sally forth anyway, because this conversation is nipping at my heels.<br />
<br />
A few posts back I mentioned very briefly my daughter's fencing teacher- a fabulously strict, bawdy broad who goes by the nickname of Nana. If she were a character in a 40's pulp fiction novel she'd be something like the "hooker with a heart." Happily, she's not a hooker- never has been as far as I know- though if she were, she'd definitely be the Madame of the place. She is however, Russian born, fiercely competitive and entrepreneurial, intense in all ways including the humorous one. She is the lady who so deftly (according to me) coined this benignly derogatory term that has been trying to birth itself in the corners of my brain for years. And that would be... no surprises here..."White people." <br />
<br />
Nana rolled this out upon me one day when I was at the studio, waiting for Josephine to finish her group lesson, chatting with some of the various moms and dads in the room. I had to stop her in her speedy march down the tiny aisle stuffed with parents, bags, helmets, kids in various states of undress. I just had to tell her Jo would miss her upcoming Saturday private lesson because we, yet again, were going to Ojai to hang out in our house there for a weekend getaway with some friends. And that Josephine would be going to the upcoming tournament, but there was some additional family scheduling snaffoo which meant that only I would be there one day, Jeff, the other.. blah blah blah. <br />
<br />
She looks at me in the unwavering glare of the stare you get whether she's miffed or marveling at you and sighs. Gives a little eye roll. "Ok." She says. Then she turns to my fellow parent (who's also caucasian, by the way, as is of course, Nana herself) points at me and says "White people." Rolls her eyes. Then turns to wink at me to let me know that I'm in on the joke. Which of course, unbeknownst to her, I already knew because I loved the whole teeny slice of life moment as it was squeezing itself upon me. The only sadness in it was that I also knew in that brief millisecond that Nana had sized me up perfectly. I wasn't aghast at all, though I concocted a mock jawdrop "I'm offended" face just to make her sweat a little. (I can't always show her how much she cows me....gotta show some backbone now and again...)<br />
<br />
But really I was delighted. Because she had encapsulated perfectly this enormous amount of disdain I myself have been cultivating for the "White People" of America- perhaps specifically the ones in my own purview. Of which, of course, I am solidly a member. So it goes without saying that Nana beautifully identified for me in that minute my own specific guilt and tendency toward self loathing.<br />
<br />
Now for the explaining. Because as much as "White People" sounds like a slam on color, it's not. It's not about necessarily being white at all. At least for me it's about other, deeper things. The primary of which is being privileged. Being supremely busy with all the spoils of your "white person" life. Being soft. Having no backbone because you haven't really had to foster one, and so -Being used to cush. So used to cush that you have to create things like anxiety and ennui to remind yourself that you are still here in the whole soup of the human race in which there exists quite a lot of suffering!<br />
<br />
Tell you what- try the phrase on for size. You need to add a heap of disdain, and an eye-roll akin to what my (likely your own if you got one?) rapidly developing teenage daughter is so diligently cultivating. <br />
<br />
"White people." <br />
<br />
Make sure you're elongating the "i" in "white." Really punch that first "P." Be sure to say it like it's the PG version of what's most likely the real phrase which begins with a gerund word starting with F.<br />
<br />
But now, here's the key. Make sure when you're saying this- your tongue is planted firmly in your cheek. (Which, by the way, is a hugely "White Person" kind of thing to say.) In other words, the Nana wink is included in the delivery.<br />
<br />
See- because part of me identifies with the derision, as mentioned above. How could I not? I was lucky enough to be born to a family, not with proper "White Person" money or even what now passes for "status" in our 21st Century American milieu where most can still rise given enough pluck, luck and elan. But my family was midwestern and stubbornly driven to succeed. And so, I was too. I did well in school. I did well in extracurricular activities. I learned to care about myself and other people. I grew up in a relatively safe, loving environment despite the dissolution of my parents' marriage in my early teens. <br />
<br />
And thusly even through all the crappity crap that ended up being my particularized dealt hand, I not only survived, but actually thrived and (though my neurosis would try to convince me otherwise) now enjoy a fairly cushy, easy, privileged lifestyle. <br />
<br />
Oh yeah, and I did also happen to be born white. Which in this day and age sadly, tragically, still really really matters in this world. <br />
<br />
So I think it's important to identify and understand the validity of this phrase, "White People." I'm choosing to take it on and with zeal, apply it to those I see around me every day. Maybe in a weird way like the African American community boldly embraced the N word (I am a white person and therefore not allowed to even type it.) They turned the socialization and stigmatization around. You gonna call me that? Fuck you- I'M gonna call me and mine that with ENDEARMENT so you can't HURT me with it anymore!<br />
<br />
Now, we whites taking on the low-racist-level version of "White People" as some sort of a burden really have no business comparing ourselves to this bold maneuver- but I'm using the comparison just to illustrate the point that it's similar from a sociological vantage point. I am attempting to turn around what I feel has been unfair and untrue underground socialized thinking as well. And that's namely that White People are Better. See- I think that's just simply not true. In any way. Though we certainly have been in charge of the better part of the Western world for a very very long time now, we are just no more deserving at all.<br />
<br />
There's the heart of my highly-educated, white person guilt. I and mine don't necessarily deserve the keys to the kingdom any more than anyone else does, and yet- we've got em.<br />
<br />
OK.<br />
<br />
So- in case you're still a little fuzzy about what this is all about- I'm going to provide you with yet ANOTHER list. Because I think it might help. And please, feel free to add more in the comments section if you get it. And god help me, I hope some of you- white, black, yellow, red, green, puce- understand what I've been trying to get at here. Otherwise I perhaps come across like a horrible reverse racist. Well- perhaps that's true of me. Oh well. Just trying to work it out.<br />
<br />
Here's a list of some shit that's really really "White People:" (And just to be clear, at least half of it applies to Yours Truly.)<br />
<br />
1. <b>Whole Foods</b><br />
<br />
2. <b>Second Homes </b> (oddly, not third, or anything upwards. Because by the time you're there- you're possibly in the very most uppercrust of monied society which could mean you're a famous sports star, and you're most likely not white in color or in any other way. Or you're a sheik, and you have 15 domiciles. Not white either.)<br />
<br />
3. <b>Vitamixes</b><br />
<br />
4. <b>Private cooking classes</b><br />
<br />
5. <b>Colonoscopies</b><br />
<br />
6. <b>Ativan, Xanax and Klonopin</b><br />
<br />
7. <b>Malbec</b> <b>and</b> <b>Viognier</b><br />
<br />
8. <b>Luncheons</b><br />
<br />
9. <b>Hybrid vehicles</b><br />
<br />
10. <b>Organic everything</b><br />
<br />
11. <b>Cloth baby diapers</b><br />
<br />
12. <b>Hand sanitizer</b>-- especially purse size<br />
<br />
13. <b>The Symphony</b><br />
<br />
14. <b>Espresso makers</b><br />
<br />
15. <b>Jimmy Buffett</b> (**does NOT apply to me- I feel compelled to make note)<br />
<br />
16. <b>Smart phone headsets</b><br />
<br />
17. <b>Sur La Table</b><br />
<br />
18. <b>Naming your daughter Madeleine, Abigail, Emma or Kaitlyn.</b> Especially if her middle name is <b>Rose or Grace.</b><br />
<br />
19. <b>Pet spas</b><br />
<br />
and perhaps the whitest of all white things-- with which I am very much enthralled--<br />
<br />
20. <b>Downton Abbey</b><br />
<br />
And seeing as I just got home from a Ladies Luncheon today- replete with rented fine china service and 65% cacao chocolates dusted with curry and/or bacon bits- I am rather relieved to have written this blog today. Like a coming out for me. Not only is my name on the top 20 list of the Whitest Names in America (really? Holly? yep..) but I just might be for surely and for real be an actual "White Person." My music life, which maybe gives me a few points in the soul category, doesn't really even begin to balance out the White Personess I emit out of my very lavendar-lotioned pores.<br />
<br />
I guess my kids really are right. I am not cool, and never will be. <br />
<br />
Fuck it. Gotta run. Need to go shine up the stainless steel kitchen appliances with some metal polish. The Windex has been leaving streaks and I am NOT HAVING IT--<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-21753044257505808392013-04-18T17:18:00.000-07:002013-04-18T17:18:47.929-07:00Chapter 3: La Sagrada FamiliaI wasn't positive my kids were going to love their spring break in Europe. <br />
<br />
And now that we're two weeks away from it, I'm still not sure that either of them truly <i>loved</i> the trip. They both appeared to have a relatively good time most of the time and I do believe there were some A-ha moments for them both- surely many more for my 10-year-old daughter than for my 8-year-old son. The son who was visibly disgruntled at having to leave all electronic equipment behind each morning- forced away from the hotel room (read- a consistent Wi-Fi source) on a daily basis to go seeking tourist attractions. It put a real cramp into his All Minecraft/All The Time Especially On Vacations sort of personal manifesto.<br />
<br />
And yet despite that- Truman loved Barcelona. At least, he says he did. Josephine was happy in both cities, Paris having already enthralled her before she ever stepped foot on an international bound flight for Charles De Gaulle. In fact, she informed me sometime late in her fourth grade year that she wanted to live in Paris when she grew up- perhaps go to college there. "Hm.." I responded, a bemused grin trying not to launch itself rampantly across my face thereby causing Josephine to (rightfully) retort that I wasn't taking her seriously and why she ever tells me anything, she doesn't know?! Instead, I calmly asked her "Why, Jo? Why Paris?" "Well mom," she says completely seriously, "Probably because of the fashion there. You know- the Fashion. And the art."<br />
<br />
For any of you who may know my daughter Josephine, perhaps you've already chortled in disbelief to yourself. Because up until VERY recently, Josephine Adele Petunia Lieber, a young woman endowed with many wonderful traits, including a consistently upbeat demeanor and flawless lust for life, has not reflected ANY of her mother's penchant to cultivate any sort of fashion sense whatsoever. She has been surrounded by friends who do, however, and so I assumed that her comment about wanting to "live in Paris someday" was likely prompted by some playdate flop-on-the-bed talk with her girlfriends- at least one of the friends who has a penchant for magazines, shopping, accessorizing. Or one whom at least seems to have mastered the ability to wear a pair of pants for longer than one day before holes at the knees and/or indelible Sharpee marker slash dirt slash motor oil stains renders them unwearable.<br />
<br />
So when we arrived in Paris- all 38 degrees of it- she was undeterred by the chill and wind. She saw the Paris that I see, and giddily fell in love. She was, of course, ready to.<br />
<br />
Truman on the other hand. Paris was "ok." And that's a direct quote. Perhaps the only soul alive on this earth today who's been to the jewel of France and still believes that Paris is "just ok." But Barcelona on the other hand-- ahh-- well, he's always been a sucker for the beauteous darker-skinned ladies. Barcelona was great, according to Truman Lieber. Namely, he says, because of one man actually-- because of the great architect Antonin Gaudi.<br />
<br />
Now I can't really choose favorites between the two cities- they both enthrall and delight me. And I have a tough time choosing which of our many tourist stops were my favorite among them all (of course, Montmartre now begs to be at the top of that list, considering m'last blog entry.) Though there was the Montjuic Park, and Park Guell and Notre Dame and La Tour Eiffel and the Gothic Quarter in Barcelona and shopping in St. Germaine and every Gaudi structure we encountered and and and---<br />
<br />
But I do choose the Sagrada Familia as perhaps the only monument we encountered on our vacation that I will probably devote a blog entry to. One might argue this cathedral- easily the largest tourist attraction we visited- definitely deserves the attention. But mostly it's because this particular holy structure captured not only my attention (like shooting fish in a barrel really,) but captured the heart and imagination of my 8 year old Minecraft obsessed Truman. He was oddly like a kid in a candy store inside this huge unfamiliar church. "Look mom- you look up and it really does look like a forest. Like he wanted it to." (um- oh yeah! I'm thinking. We watched that 60 Minutes segment about the Sagrada Familia that my mother in law turned me onto 10 days ago or so before leaving for Spain.) "Mom- mom- remember how they said that each column of stone was stronger than the one next to it moving up toward the front of the church? Because the stronger ones needed to be close to that statue of Jesus over there? So, those big pink ones there are the strongest, Mom. They're from Persia. Persian marble." <br />
<br />
Now here I must pause a bit. Because I have not painted a fair and well- rounded picture of my kid. Yes, my flopsy mopsy beautiful toe-headed Venice surfer boy of a son is stubborn. And video-game obsessed like almost all his peers. And loose of limb and good at most sports that he seems to lack any real competitive nature to excel in. And really funny- almost always getting the joke- meaning also the adult ones- and delivering his own comedic gems with impeccable timing. (If only he could really understand that yes, comedy comes in threes, but once you've made someone laugh once with the thing... you don't trot the same thing out 3 seconds later and expect the same reaction. Or 10 seconds later. Or 30 seconds later. Or even later on that night. Yeah- just not gonna happen, kid.) <br />
<br />
I guess what I'm trying to get at is, Truman is usually pretty damn smart for an 8 year old. And I forget this because, like many boys I know, he comes off like all the others: vaguely smelly, cute, and distracted. Truman just wants to hang with his peers- watch his Comedy Central TV shows- build his many various minecraft structures on the various servers he's connected to, or play with his pet rat. He doesn't so much want to read, or even talk much to other adults. But he has a memory like an elephant. And so, while he's regaling me with the Persian Marble thing, I'm thinking, ok, well that DEFINITELY must have been a 60 Minutes factoid because God knows, I never told him that. I don't even remember hearing it. But of course, Truman does. Truman remembers everything. (Maybe one day he'll be a very effective politician. Or lawyer. Yeesh.) <br />
<br />
Now- La Sagrada Familia translates to The Sacred Family. And this huge mammoth church is clearly Antonin Gaudi's greatest work among a portfolio of groundbreaking stunners- though he only lived to see a fraction of it actually built. It's still not entirely constructed- they suspect it will be finished somewhere around 2025, I believe. But over the decades since the beginning of its construction at the turn of the 19th into the 20th century, this building has been faithfully, painstakingly attended to. Well, really like all other massive, major and minor historical European cathedrals predating this one- it has been sweated over and brought into existence chunk by chunk by a huge posse of dedicated stone masons, artists, architects, engineers and the like. For years upon years. Hell, Notre Dame took over 250 years to build, so this house of God is moving along rather quickly in the grand scheme of things! Point of interest via 60 Minutes: There's one stone carver born in Japan, who moved to Barcelona in his early twenties to meet the aging Gaudi and throw in his talents on this work, and he has ever since been helping to sculpt the Sagrada Familia's famous outdoor facades for almost his entire 75 years of life. <br />
<br />
But back to the title of the thing. Sagrada Familia- Sacred Family. I find this interesting- not as a Christian, because I am not a Christian. (Though I grew up in the church and was baptized at 13 in the holy waters of Lake Michigan.) But this title reaches out to me as a human, and a soul who though she's roundly denounced all religion as sorely lacking, cherishes her very personal connection with the Divine Spirit (or God, as others might say.) And this enormous chamber that Gaudi, the very devout Christian that he was, conceived of to celebrate his God and his Son did feel like a holy place. Not only is the actual physical surrounding of the cathedral monstrous and unlike any church you've ever been inside of, but the space itself, the very air seems charged with - for lack of a slew of specifics- love. This church celebrating not only God, not only Jesus, not even really only Mary, but celebrating the WHOLE story of Jesus from birth to death is most clearly, most palpably a holy place. And this is coming from a gal who truly thinks Jesus was an amazing guy, with some absolutely right on ideas, but not at all the son of God. <br />
<br />
(If you care, if you're interested, in short- I believe we're all sons and daughters of it all. That's right- you, me, the neighbor's annoying cat perched on the fence just outside your home office window, the little eight legged tannish spider you keep meaning to squish in the kitchen ceiling corner because you're not sure if it's poisonous or not... we're all sacred. All of life on earth- all of everything outside of earth- all of it all.)<br />
<br />
But my views aside- this church and its architect, Antonin Gaudi, is really so very special. Even (I might almost be tempted to say especially) eight-year-old Truman Lieber could see this. Truman with his penchant for building things in cyberspace and being just as mesmerized by train and ship models as were his Grandfathers before him. (One grandfather is an architect. The other is a structural engineer. Another great-grandfather was both...) I don't know if it was traveling up into the towers and walking the myriad of steps that comprise the nautilus-like spiral staircases, or leaning out the windows spaced at intervals along the way- frightfully high- so overtly higher than anything else for miles and miles and miles around that you feel like you really might be touching heaven if there were such a thing. But I believe my son was truly moved by the spirit that day- moved by the Sagrada Familia.<br />
<br />
I certainly was.<br />
<br />
And I wonder if it's the concept behind the name of the place- if it's the many tendrils of concepts that connect each stained glass window and iron door frame and marble column and granite carving-- they all seem to be cohesive in a way. A Church dedicated to a Family. A Sacred Family. Which for me means - Us. Humanity. Not just God and his boy, not just the virgin who conceived of him (ahem. ok, that's the only truly 'blasphemous' thing I'll say on that.) Not even the sacred Trinity, which, like almost all religious iconography and/or symbols, I find so useful actually in theory rather than in actuality. <br />
<br />
This place felt like it was meant to honor Faith and Spirit. And whether you're Jewish or Buddhist or Christian or Muslim or Hindu or nothing- Faith and Spirit are a part of everyone's existence. Because even if you don't believe in anything in the spiritual realm, you do believe in something. Even if it's only the oxygen you breathe, or the goals you have set for yourself, or possibly the people you love. You believe in, and must tie and connect yourself to SOMETHING. And this feeds you faith and gives you spirit to move forth in life.<br />
<br />
So the universality of this place captivated me. And I felt like I was home a little bit in this amazingly astounding, weird, gorgeous, demonstrative, Alice in Wonderland-styled place of worship and devotion. At home with my family in the place dedicated to worshiping the family that we all are together.<br />
<br />
Here's a few photos we took of the Sagrada Familia. None of which of course do any justice to any part of this place, but pictures are fun to look at, and I think I've typed enough long-winded paragraphs. Please forgive the occasional baseball hat of another unwitting tourist. It was tough to get photos of this place without having people in them, there are so many there at any given time- even given how big it it, even given that I'm taller than most in heels (small heels- kitten heels on my boots. I knew I was gonna climb some stairs after all...) Hopefully you can catch a glimmer of what I felt in them. Adios, my readers, for now. Hasta la proxima, mi familia!<br />
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The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-56306437756552181252013-04-12T11:02:00.000-07:002013-04-12T11:02:08.866-07:00"Do More of That" - Chapter 2 of European Vacation<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I fell in love in Paris. Again. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Though this time, not with the city, nor with any of the many dreamy Parisian lads flying by on their bikes with scarves blowing in the wind, ruddy cheeked from the chill like a prep school footballer on the field in October. No, I am a happily married woman...</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And yet- I did not fall in love- again- with my husband! Strong and steady, he is, always at my side- our love has deepened to what I believe on good days is akin to what the Beatles were getting at with "One day when we're dreaming...deep in love, not a lot to say..." sort of thing. On the not so good days, it's just the humdrum love of long-term marriage. Love aging like a fine wine into contentment and deep familiarity. Not a whole lot of room for crazy fiery passion any longer...hm... ("Wait-- oh wait, young Parisian lad! You there! Arrete! Arrete!")</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But anyway. That's a blog for another day.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I fell in love in Paris this time around with an artist. A woman. A dead woman to be exact. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And heaven knows I'm not the only one. Apparently this woman-- Suzanne Veladon is her name- was quite the toast of the town in her day. And because I did not take a whole lot of art history back in my youth, I was very spotty on the story behind the lives of all those Belle Epoque Parisian thinkers and painters and writers-- all those Dadaists and Impressionists. I had never heard of Suzanne Veladon. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Which seems crazy after all. Because I had heard of all her compatriots - Degas (her mentor,) Renoir (her lover, fan, and painter of one of her famed portraits,) Toulouse Lautrec (similarly a fan of her work and a friend. Also painted a portrait of Suzanne.) In fact, I stumbled upon her name because I was looking for Erik Satie in Paris. Satie- the self-monikered " phonometrician" (as opposed to composer) who back around the turn of the 19th Century into the 20th, penned the melancholic and delightful Gymnopedies that have stuck in my head since childhood. I played each of the three as a kid too, many times over, because they were A. technically easy and B. vaguely sad. Both of which suited me to a tee in my early teens.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So I've been a Satie admirer for years. Especially since he was so modest and poor- such a great image of a starving artist in his little 10x10 foot room almost on the top of the hill of Montmartre. I trudged the family up this very hill- all these sets of stairs in Montmartre after snapping a disheartened picture of the Moulin Rouge upon the main drag of that part of the city which is so incredibly like the French version of seedy Hollywood Boulevard. All the Le Sex Shoppes left and right, I almost couldn't walk up all those steps to find my Satie and his little room on the hill after all.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But we did -- I assured everyone that what I was searching for on the top of Montmartre was worth more to me than the brick red windmill sandwiched between two other buildings now- one housing a theater as well, and the other a nondescript chunk of office concrete.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I had to go up there- I don't know what I thought I was looking for, but it definitely had something to do with my starving, self-deprecating Satie whose work and whose energy I've always resonated to. It had something to do with that. Of course the world always has other plans for you, and so the irony is, that yes- Satie did live in this little room up there on number 5 Rue Cortot, with a glorious view of Paris spread wide from the top of the hill nestled up close to the Sacre-Coeur.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But what wasn't there was the Satie museum I had read about weeks previously in the Sunday LA Times. (Turns out that's located just outside of Paris in a suburb I believe called Arcuiel where he was forced to relocate after running out of all his dough in Paris itself. Oops.) There was nothing but a small brass plaque positioned above the front door of a small apartment complex marking the place Satie used to live. Modest- easy to miss. I suppose, somehow fitting for the composer of the sweet, shyly meandering Gymnopedie strains.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So- the disgruntled kids and vaguely annoyed husband that comprised my family were soon distracted by some chocolate crepes and espresso in a nearby cafe while I rabidly Googled on my phone anything relating to Satie so that I could somehow salvage the moment for them and for me. Don't know if I ever really did that for them- hopefully at some point our children will be happy they've trudged up and down and around the famous steps of Montmartre- which turns out to be very much akin to our little artsy, dingy, lively LA suburb of Venice here in the CA.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But I was successful for myself, for in the moments of desperate electronic research, I of course land on Suzanne Veladon. Because not only was she a quality artist in her own right, and the mother of the famous painter, Maurice Utrillo, but she was the only love of poor Erik Satie, who enjoyed six glorious months in her company, only to be dumped roundly by her when she abruptly moved herself and her son out of his tiny flat. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Apparently, Satie never loved again. Supposedly never even tried- no dates for lovelorn Erik who spent the rest of his phonometric days pining away for Suzanne and writing her letter after letter for 30 years following their wild but short lived affair.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So I became enraptured with this woman. This woman whom Google tells me is known as "The Mistress of Montmartre." I read as much as I could find about her (in roughly 24 minutes- the time it takes for my family to consume two chocolate crepes- one with whipped cream and one without- and an espresso.) I found images of her art- I found images of her portraits. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Turns out- she was a spitfire, this Suzanne. And a wonderful artist. Turns out, she was worthy of Satie's obsession. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">First of all, Suzanne Veladon was quite a looker with her sweet heart shaped French visage- large doe-eyes widespread on her face. Fiery red hair. Lush lips. Tiny waist and hands. Had she been a wee bit taller, and born 100 years later she could have been a Victoria Secret model. But she was also a sassy survivor of a lady having been born to a poor washerwoman - dad up and split. She dropped out of school at 9 to work as a waitress, groom, laundress, eventually running away to join the circus as a trapeze artist! Which she probably would have done until her dying day had she not taken a terrible fall, which did not end her life, but ended it in the circus for certain. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">(I'm now going to bullet point here because I know this might be a little tiring- reading a poorly constructed bio of someone YOU could just easily google yourself. There' s just a few more points I want to get at about her life because they were salient to me.)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">- Then, at 18 gives birth to bastard son Maurice</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">- Moves to Montmartre district of Paris where she works as a model for artists</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">- Becomes a fixture in the thriving art scene and in the lives of Degas, Toulouse-Lautrec, Renoir, and of course, my little Satie.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">- Has many portraits of her completed by these masters</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">- Under the tutelage of Degas, learns to paint and begins her life-long journey of becoming a master herself</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">- Begins to teach her bi-polar son Maurice how to paint to help him deal with his mental illness. He will eventually surpass her in critical acclaim and become much more famous than his mother as a painter.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">- Sometime after her affair with Satie (and there were many many lovers in this woman's life, make no mistake) marries a wealthy banker. Stays married for approx 12 years</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">- Leaves the banker- falls in love with a man 21 years her junior.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">- Marries this man - Andre Utter- in her FIFTIES</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">- Lives well and happily into her late 70's in her chosen bohemian lifestyle</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Wow. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">That's called living, I think. Yes- there were clearly many casualties, as I suppose there always are around the fiery ones. Many hearts broken and marriages disrupted and relationships sullied and promises broken in and around the life of Suzanne Veladon. But boy oh boy, did she live that life. She loved and lusted and fucked and loved some more. She worked her craft and her art. In fact, she apparently worked on some of her oil paintings meticulously and forever before deeming them to be "completed" works. One piece in particular took her over 13 YEARS-</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So- I come home with this. This is my treat and my reward for blindly moving forward sans guidebook upward into the Montmartre district of Paris (we missed many other fantastic points of interest there as a result, I am certain.) </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I come home with a renewed European sense of self. As artist, as woman, as spitfire, as one WORTHY of continuing to not so much trudge through this artist's path that life and I have chosen for me, but to dance through it. To shimmy and move and fly and occasionally stumble and fall down on it all covered in horseshit and mud.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Because if you're lucky- life is long. And there's nothing you're supposed to DO, no one or where you absolutely have to SEE, nothing you need to GIVE or TAKE. It all is just part of the crazy beautiful quilt of your existence- moment by moment, stitch by stitch. Wherever it is that you find yourself.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I am unhinging myself perhaps finally from the last vestiges of a need to be commercially recognized and/or "successful." I am tired of the "marketing" hat I've forced myself to wear for years now. Not that I can't wear it, not that I don't actually- turns out- have a little inherent talent for selling and understanding what makes people gravitate toward certain things or ideas vs others- but I don't WANT TO. That's not who I am and not what I do. I am an artist and a grump and a wild silly dancer and at times a comedian and at others a depressive mother fucker who likes to shack myself up in my room with the piano and delve into Rachmaninov. Or Satie. Or Jimi Hendrix. Or Holly Long. So I think I'm going to do more of "that" in the forseeable future.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">****</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">This woman behind the counter of the Santa Monica Homeopathic Pharmacy gave me a gift last month after I'd been compulsively driving myself there week after week, searching for yet another natural supplement to help stave off the viciously debilitating anxiety--- I think during this visit I had gotten in a protracted conversation with another aproned herbalist behind the counter about my digestive tract. As related to my heart issue. As colored by my hormonal imbalances. As perhaps affecting my insomnia.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And this other older woman pharmacist, having overheard it all, jumps in and asks me what I do for fun and relaxation. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I say, "I'm an artist, and so really doing my art- making my music, performing on stage and writing songs or writing anything really, is what makes me happiest. I feel the most alive. So, I don't know what I do really to 'relax'- I'm not so much for the 'relax.'" </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"So you make the music and you a singer and a writer?" (She was of some form of Eastern European descent.) </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And I say "Yes, yes I do, and I am. But I haven't been doing that as much lately. I've been in a slump." </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And she says-- "Aha. Yes. Well- there you go. You go write. You go make more of the music. You do more of THAT (she gestures a bit with her hands here, shaking them slightly away from her body as if air drying them after a wash)- you going to be fine."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Perhaps the most essential vitamin and mineral for this starving artist. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So, thank you Suzanne Veladon. You may not be aware, but our affair has only just begun. I've already written a belabored mediocre folk song about your life. Perhaps if I edit it carefully and stick some reverbed electric guitar behind it, it will be worthy of performance at some point. And google keeps calling out to me with updates about you- I think there may be some movies about your life- certainly many many books...</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And of course, thank you, Erik Satie, for bringing me to Suzanne. Not like you aren't still important to me in your way, but I'm suddenly very very hot for your ex. (How familiarly that must ring for you...)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And finally - thank you eastern European homeopathic pharmacist lady. You are wise and smart and as it turns out, very very right. I don't need another supplement. I don't need to chart my bowel movements or count the hours of sleep or vegetable calorie intake...</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Right now, I just need to do my art. I need to do more of THAT.</span><br />
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(Didja notice I changed my header photo? I thought it apropos for this travelling series of posts. It's a nice snap captured by my daughter who fanatically drained away the digital camera battery day after day on our Europe trip taking bizarrely framed artsy photos at every moment. I thought this was a great candid of me. Or at least of the me I was trying on for the 10 days in Barcelona and Paris. God bless that Josephine- she rocks it behind the lens.)<br />
<br />The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1513640404329161751.post-71549258651135851222013-04-08T09:28:00.000-07:002013-04-08T09:28:02.817-07:00The Traveller's Guide My family and I have just returned from a lovely and exhausting 10 day trip to Europe. Two cities in ten days didn't sound like a lot, but when you're doing it with two highly energetic elementary school kids, and it's just you two parents "on" as tour guides- all the time- 24/7... it turns out, deciding which croissant to choose from the in-hotel breakfast bar in the morning can seem tiring.<br />
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Yet it was wondrous- Barcelona and then Paris. Really a great trip. I'm thrilled we went and equally thrilled to be back home.<br />
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And I'm sure most other people at this point might spend their time posting pictures or unwinding sweet yarns about their fun family excursion on their personal blog. Me, however... I'm not feeling it yet. Perhaps it's the jet lag. Perhaps it's post-trip malaise. Perhaps it's just the fact that I have really yet to poop following approximately 22 hours in the air and in three different airports approximately two days ago. (Has it been two days now? Or fourteen? Didn't we just land this morning?.....)<br />
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But in my current moments of unpacking, both physically and psychologically, I thought instead of laying out chapters of our Spanish/French holiday, I'd provide my readership with a list. Because I like em. I like the lists. I've got one next to me right now, o course- the "Just got home from Spring Break, Gotta get back to your actual fucking life you slacker, here's some shit you gotta do" list. But I won't present you with that piece of doldrum either--<br />
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What I will provide below is slightly reminiscent of the actual list we left with our dear house-sitter upon jetting off across the pond. You know, all the nitty gritty shit she hadta know about where the pet towels are for when the cat pees on the floor, and how the faucet can get sticky in the downstairs office bathroom...<br />
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Except this list is a bit different. This list will entail what one would have to know if one were taking over not my house for a time, but my LIFE. A body-sitter list, if you will.<br />
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So just in case I go away for a time in the near future, and I enlist you to take over as Holly Long - to BE Holly- here is a brief, yet helpful guide for you in two parts: Holly at Home. And Holly On the Road- should that need arise. ($75 per day plus expenses, right?)<br />
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HOLLY AT HOME- The Traveller's Guide<br />
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<i>First of all, thank you so much for stepping in last minute. I'm not sure what I would have done had you not been available. We'll talk on the phone to go over everything sometime before I leave, but I thought I'd send you a little precursor of some things you'll need to know about taking over as me for the next few days.</i><br />
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1. First and foremost, you will have to sweat the small stuff all the time. But you will have to be really good at pretending you're not doing that at all. Well, except to your husband and kids. You can never really fool them.<br />
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2. You must obsessively clean shit that will immediately get messed up again. Either that or-<br />
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3. Spend inordinate amounts of time organizing something unnecessarily- like the chopsticks in the silverware drawer. This is almost always because you are simultaneously engaged in-<br />
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4. Freaking out that you're not doing enough for your art. Or your children. Or the world in general. So when this happens, you must divert and procrastinate. <br />
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Ah! Which reminds me-<br />
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5. At least once while you're me, take the dog and a book to the coffee shop. Be sure you sit in the coffee shop with the intention of "getting inspired" by your surroundings. Read the same three sentences over and over again. Then wind up just feeling guilty that your nanny is picking the kids up from school and essentially parenting them while you fritter away the afternoon making eyes at the 20- something tatoo-ed barista.<br />
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(**Note. If you need to accomplish this task, but don't want to leave the house, the same result can be had by watching a few hours of your favorite cable TV shows on demand. In the middle of the day while the rest of the adult world is hard at work in the spirit of progress, productivity, and survival. Don't forget to eat almost an entire bag of potato chips and onion dip while doing this too.)<br />
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6. Sing and/or play some sort of musical instrument and/or write something down at least once every day. Otherwise you will actually start to disappear. It's been proven.<br />
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7. Which brings me to number 7. Always spend a little time each day (and/or wee early morning hours) feeling like because you're 42 and you haven't yet accomplished anything remotely grand or interesting, your life is probably over and you'll never get anywhere. You got good at that around 22. You're too old- you used to be young, vibrant and relatively attractive and now the best you can hope for is probably somewhere in the realm of "handsome." Plus, you might not be particularly good at any of the things you've spent 42 years trying to cultivate getting good at. Be sure to familiarize yourself with these thoughts. They will be taking up a lot of your time.<br />
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HOLLY ON THE ROAD- The Traveller's Guide<br />
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<i>Ah! So I've enlisted the brave soul that you are to become me while away from the homestead. It must be that I'm just too weary or afraid this time around to attempt it myself. Again, I must thank you from the bottom of my heart, and please know that my cell phone will always be on should you need to reach me at any moment to answer any Holly Long related questions. </i><br />
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1. Bring your Ativan.<br />
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2. Bring your other bottle of Ativan.<br />
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3. After about the second day and the second glass of wine, you will finally feel as though you have arrived anywhere you are at that point, you will be grateful for the opportunity to see whatever part of the world you're currently in, and you will be much easier to be around. This feeling will leave you, and return numerous times while you're away.<br />
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4. Anytime you think of it, try to be nice to everyone around you because though you're unaware of it now, as a result of your nervous tendencies, you're probably being a bit of a dick a lot of the time.<br />
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5. You won't really poop until you get home. S'ok.<br />
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That's all you need to know! Feel free to buy me any fantastic foreign baubles, unnecessary clothes or shoes you think I should own. I can't get enough of all that stuff. Have a ball, and I'll see you/me when I/you return!<br />
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(I do promise some actually interesting European trip related thoughts at some point in the upcoming week. Since one of you may want to read something about something other than myself and my deep well-tended neurosis. I mean, yeah- Gaudi was pretty cool. And Paris has a bunch of stuff in it that I might be able to scrounge some words around. Ok- you've convinced me. Next post- Los Thoughts De Europe!)<br />
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<br />The Indispensable Nobodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03219565013346521343noreply@blogger.com0