I 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
And therein lies the rub.
Because, I can take any sort of action to try to achieve the un-shitty state. Say:
1. Drink more coffee
2. Go for a run
3. Stand on my head
4. Sing something
5. Write something
6. Find someone in my neighborhood and talk to them
7. Eat something sweet
8. Eat another piece of that sweet thing
9. Meditate
10. Watch TV
11. Facebook. Twitter. TEXT. CALL SOMEONE -
CONNECT! TURN IT AROUND!
SOMEHOW!
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."
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.
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.
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?)
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.
!!
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.)
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.
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.
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.
sigh sigh sigh.
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?
Well, I hope you've gotten something out of this.
I still feel a bit shitty.
Though perhaps a little less so.
Same time next week?
Friday, October 4, 2013
Monday, September 23, 2013
It Keeps You Running
I 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.
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.
Endorphins, for me, apparently work like magic fairy dust. Or PCP or something.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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:
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...
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.
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.)
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. )
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.
And now I've just passed mile marker 1.2. And my inward wordy philosophical rant turns a bit angrier.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.)
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.
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.
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.
And then the spell is broken.
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.
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.
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.
And that's what keeps this ol girl running.
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.
Endorphins, for me, apparently work like magic fairy dust. Or PCP or something.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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:
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...
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.
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.)
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. )
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.
And now I've just passed mile marker 1.2. And my inward wordy philosophical rant turns a bit angrier.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.)
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.
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.
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.
And then the spell is broken.
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.
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.
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.
And that's what keeps this ol girl running.
Friday, September 20, 2013
in fashion
There was never any way I was going to be in the fashion industry.
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.
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.)
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.
Which I think mainly meant- 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.
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.
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.
"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!"
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.)
I was making my fashion plates. I was writing my copy.
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 commercial. 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.)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Anyone who knows anything about the world of the fashion designer knows this.
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.
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.)
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.
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.
Some days are Chrissie Hynde. Tight leather pants. Mens shoes, tailored jackets. Ripped up rock concert Tshirts. Black eyeliner. Red lips.
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.)
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.
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.
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?
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.
Play. Imagine. Fun. That's what fashion has been for me. That's what it continues to be.
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.
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.
After all, if I did move in, I might have to change my name to Horatio Langely.
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.
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.)
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.
Which I think mainly meant- 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.
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.
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.
"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!"
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.)
I was making my fashion plates. I was writing my copy.
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 commercial. 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.)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Anyone who knows anything about the world of the fashion designer knows this.
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.
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.)
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.
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.
Some days are Chrissie Hynde. Tight leather pants. Mens shoes, tailored jackets. Ripped up rock concert Tshirts. Black eyeliner. Red lips.
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.)
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.
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.
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?
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.
Play. Imagine. Fun. That's what fashion has been for me. That's what it continues to be.
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.
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.
After all, if I did move in, I might have to change my name to Horatio Langely.
Friday, September 13, 2013
Just a Little Space
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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...
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.
So death goes.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I guess I just need a little space.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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...
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.
So death goes.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I guess I just need a little space.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
alone time
My husband left yesterday for 48 hours.
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.)
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Turns out- here's what I do when I'm given a bunch of alone time:
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.
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.)
3. Go on long guilty run after indulging so viscerally in sugar bomb princess cupcake. Also Windex remains from counter.
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.)
5. Come home- watch two episodes of "Twilight Zone" with son along with popcorn. Consume two glasses of wine.
6. Give dog medicine, put her out for final evening pee, close all windows. Retire about an hour after son has gone to sleep.
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.
So far, so good! A great summer afternoon and evening. Not so much generating artistry, but certainly setting the stage for it.
Day 2:
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
9. Fix yourself entire box of macaroni and cheese for late lunch to make yourself feel better. Eat most of it. Feel worse.
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.
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.
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.
14. Turn off amp. Unplug guitar. It wasn't the sustain pedal after all.
15. Sit down to write an email- a Facebook update- ANYTHING.
16. Write the beginnings of three Facebook updates before eventually logging off.
17. Decide to start writing blog, though you have nothing really to write about except what you've done for the past 24 hours....
18. Start writing blog.
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.
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.
Alright honey. You can come home now--
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.)
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Turns out- here's what I do when I'm given a bunch of alone time:
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.
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.)
3. Go on long guilty run after indulging so viscerally in sugar bomb princess cupcake. Also Windex remains from counter.
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.)
5. Come home- watch two episodes of "Twilight Zone" with son along with popcorn. Consume two glasses of wine.
6. Give dog medicine, put her out for final evening pee, close all windows. Retire about an hour after son has gone to sleep.
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.
So far, so good! A great summer afternoon and evening. Not so much generating artistry, but certainly setting the stage for it.
Day 2:
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
9. Fix yourself entire box of macaroni and cheese for late lunch to make yourself feel better. Eat most of it. Feel worse.
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.
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.
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.
14. Turn off amp. Unplug guitar. It wasn't the sustain pedal after all.
15. Sit down to write an email- a Facebook update- ANYTHING.
16. Write the beginnings of three Facebook updates before eventually logging off.
17. Decide to start writing blog, though you have nothing really to write about except what you've done for the past 24 hours....
18. Start writing blog.
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.
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.
Alright honey. You can come home now--
Thursday, July 4, 2013
i am a stalker
So I was just trying to find this guy's email.
This guy I had recently met, and whom I vaguely knew through the tendrils of my west LA music connections.
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.
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.
"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.)
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.
"I'll email you," I get from him.
"Great. Talk to you soon." I wave goodbye.
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.
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Ok. Ok.
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.
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!
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...
See- I'm looking for the buzz without all the responsibility. And this guy and his band seems like just the right soda flavor...
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.
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.
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.
Sigh.
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.
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!
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.
Not the right guy.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Who knows- if my musician writer's block lasts much longer-- there's no telling WHAT I'll do....
This guy I had recently met, and whom I vaguely knew through the tendrils of my west LA music connections.
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.
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.
"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.)
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.
"I'll email you," I get from him.
"Great. Talk to you soon." I wave goodbye.
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.
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Ok. Ok.
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.
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!
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...
See- I'm looking for the buzz without all the responsibility. And this guy and his band seems like just the right soda flavor...
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.
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.
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.
Sigh.
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.
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!
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.
Not the right guy.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Who knows- if my musician writer's block lasts much longer-- there's no telling WHAT I'll do....
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Facebluck
It'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.
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.
Whoo Hoo!
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!
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!
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.
Right after I check Facebook.
And you'd think by NOW I'd know not to do this. Because it happens every time.
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.
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.
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.
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!"
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.)
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:
After all, no one is posting the grueling eight-hour traffic laden drive home from picking up their daughter's horse.
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.
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.
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.
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.
There's my status report for all yalls. Enjoy feeling vastly superior to at least one person on Facebook today!
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.
Whoo Hoo!
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!
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!
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.
Right after I check Facebook.
And you'd think by NOW I'd know not to do this. Because it happens every time.
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.
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.
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.
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!"
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.)
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:
After all, no one is posting the grueling eight-hour traffic laden drive home from picking up their daughter's horse.
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.
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.
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.
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.
There's my status report for all yalls. Enjoy feeling vastly superior to at least one person on Facebook today!
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