When everything is going wrong...

Yes, I've holed up with my bruja books in order to get out of my stupid depression due to my effed-up decisions. Through synchronicity, I was guided to a quick read that is a new favorite of mine: The Game of Life and How to Play It by Florence Scovel Shinn. It's a re-education on Universal law and manifestation.

I was granted some kind of Universal reprieve after feeling like absolute shet from August to mid-November. The game of life was once again replacing the notion of life as struggle. Things were falling into place. This relief, however, was short-lived.

Now everything is going wrong. My cat is very sick. Members of my human family are ailing as well. Worse still, I find myself mired in a malaise again, feeling overwhelmed and devalued. I have nothing to wear to our show on Thursday. It's a very special event, and it demands a stylish outfit, but I haven't had time to shop; I've been tending my cat. I have had little rest because, although I am sleeping normally, my nights are plagued with dreams I shouldn't be dreaming. Former loves and classmates. An elementary school testing situation, even, which my dad suggests is the hallmark of a highly stressful time. Then I awake to the dying cat on my chest, the tiny furry reason Luke and I have been fighting/not talking for two days. It's certainly a challenge to stay centered and to see the good in now.

I don't know how to proceed yet, but I am peaceful in the seeming unhappiness because now is not forever. I've read enough books to know that. Plus, Shinn reassures me, "When one has made his demands upon the Universal, he must be ready for surprises. Everything may seem to be going wrong, when in reality, it is going right." So here's to everything going right!

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

The haircut. It's ritual. Part of recovery. The key is to get one that would really disappoint him. I did exactly that.

I'd gone in for a trim, but, sitting in the chair, I felt restless. "Why not?" a wicked little voice teased. "Get rid of every memory."

I asked my precision cutter what he thought about a Twiggy coif for me. I take his hair opinions pretty seriously, since I've known him longer than I've known Luke. "Strong brow, strong eyes, little neck--perfect for you."



Luke says it's Posh Spice meets Justine from Elastica. It usually feels more Victoria to me, but I have my Justine days, too.

So yeah. My hair was halfway down my back. Now it doesn't touch my neck.

To Thine Own Self Be New

If you've seen Forgetting Sarah Marshall, my trip to Hawaii was just like the beginning of Peter's, except mine held there. I did not go on to fall in love with any disenchanted locals. The only romantic interludes in my scope were between the organic papayas and bananas I threw into the blender. Together they made pudding or, as my sister likes to call it, baby food.

She drove me and the baby to the North Shore to eat at a vegetarian restaurant called Paradise Found. Clever, clever. Their Ginger Basil Quinoa Salad sounded too delicious not to try, and, as there aren't, to my knowledge, any exclusively raw restaurants on Oahu, I was definitely wanting some culinary magic. I made an exception to the raw rule, as I do from time to time, to eat the little scoop of quinoa situated upon the raw veggies and greens, and it was worth it. One of the best salads I've had. Mmm...

Then we went to Waimea Falls. I had to swim alone. I was scared. I wore the little life vest they recommended and made my way to the falling water that was more trickle than torrent. Wasn't sure what to do when I got there, maybe because it mirrored so well my lachrymose mode. Hung out by myself, conscious that I was very much alone, half-appreciating it and half-hating it, and swam back to the rocks wishing it weren't so, fully knowing such a request could not bring me peace. Only acceptance of what is can accomplish that, and I've never been one to relinquish control easily. I can sit in the bargaining phase way too long, combing my story for hope. One of the lifeguards distracted me from my month of wasted wishes by teaching me a song on ukulele.

If you've been keeping up with my blog, you know that I've been reading a lot lately in an effort to heal myself. Yesterday I finished The Voice of Knowledge by Don Miguel Ruiz. He writes, "The voice of knowledge tells us, 'It's not safe to love. I'm afraid to love because love makes me vulnerable. If I love, my heart will be broken.' So many lies. It's not the truth, but knowledge tells you, 'Of course it's true. I have a lot of experience with this. Every time I love, my heart is broken.' Well, this isn't the truth because nobody can break your heart if you love yourself. If your heart was broken in the past, you broke it with the lies you believed about love."

I broke my own heart. Again. I've always broken it by not having the discernment, courage, and self-love to walk away from the fear, selfishness, and control that others have falsely presented as love. That is why I've had to totally retreat from life to grieve and rebuild.

For now, I'm focusing on little things. Taking an inhale down into my toes. Letting the juice of the last of the summer melons drip down my chin. Standing in the shower as a flower during drought, relishing the surprise downpour. Waking early, hat on head, book in hand, to bask on the chaise. Watching the hummingbirds perch in the late afternoon, wondering where they go at night. Misting myself with Raw Gaia's Floral Face Toner, a product I would have on my list of favorite things if I had one, but thus far I've left that to Oprah. I keep the spray on my nightstand and take it everywhere I go. I thought I would stop enjoying it because it reminded me of him, of his saying how good it smelled, of nights that aren't here anymore, but I think I like it even more now because it represents the love I reserved for him expanding into a new, more authentic love for myself. One of many tiny ways I can be good to my body and spirit. Refreshed and soothed at once, I sink into an evening meditation guided by Caroline Myss and shut my eyes.

FIDM-approved Face

There is a reason the word boycott has boy in it. I'm just saying'...

Several weeks ago, when I was out with one, he told me about buying this couch from a hot FIDM girl who seemed minutes away from filming a porn. It's amazing how quickly I went from feeling good about myself to feeling gross. I got lost in my ego, in my visceral reaction to what he was saying, instead of calling him out on it. Thus I entered this date like I'd begun most of ours, with a hefty dose of insecurity and shame, like the time he said he saw Natalie Portman at Urth Caffe. "Her skin's like porcelain." Okay, I get it. Mine isn't. Mine is tan and misbehaves consistently. It glows, though, and has no wrinkles. Give credit where it's due, meanie. Why didn't you invite her to the movies? Why bother with me?

So yeah. The truth's out. Sometimes I am not happy about how I look. Sometimes I want to trade flesh suits with starlets who are constantly fussed over by all brands of aestheticians.

There is absolutely nothing attractive about my self-doubt, and looking for external validation is beyond lame, but oftentimes that which you are seeking finds you in quite extraordinary ways--arriving in perfect dialogue with recent experience.

Before the show on the 11th, I was sitting in the car, half-dead, trying to pep myself up by playing "Breakin' Up" by Rilo Kiley in my head, when a stylish gal approached.

"How tall are you? I know it's a weird question, but..."

"4'11."

"Oh."

"No," I laughed. "It was a joke. I'm not much taller, though. 5'1, the nurse measured me last month, but she wasn't very convincing. I've always thought I was 5'1 1/2."

"Oh, ok. I hope you don't think I'm weird. I was just asking because I go to FIDM, and I was looking at you, and you have the perfect face for fashion. You're really pretty but not in a Hollywood way, you know? I love your eyes. Great eyes. But I guess the height wouldn't work..."

"Yeah, not even with the help of Christian Louboutin," I mourned, holding up my beautiful little doll shoe.

"I want to draw your face, though. I'm memorizing it, and I'm gonna draw it once I sit down."

Contrasting FIDM girl moments. Neat. So maybe my face isn't a waste after all, but you know what is? Letting some comment, however innocent, bring up decades worth of pain over not being good enough.

I've been writing a lot and keeping to myself. This is a pic of me at the studio. I was absorbing an article about release and retreat. It inspired me to make a formal departure from my mess, which is bigger than this body or that boy. I need to get over my horrible childhood. I need to clean up. Now. I'm in Oahu, purging myself of this disappointing life situation, and it's not easy. That said, I have a lot going for me. Quite happily, I find myself directly across the street from the Erewhon of Kailua, Down to Earth, a vegetarian market. Smoothies, juice, salad. Bag piled high with Bodhi Tree books. Hibiscus in my hair. Grass green bikini. White sand. Clear warm water. A group of spirited teen boys clapping and cheering when the waves splash against my ever-deepening bronze (yeah, that really happened.) Perhaps paradise can coax the tears, still flowing, from this FIDM-approved face.

Preggie Brain

Apparently people appreciated my recent status update that I'd rather be pregnant. Got more than a few messages about it. Why did I write it?

Well, Friday night I saw Monsters are Waiting.... at the Getty, mainly because I wanted to see Annalee perform preggie-style. The happiness of this mommy-to-be was obvious and contagious. Having a little bun in the oven can do that, we know.

There, among the whispers about her pregnancy and paternity concerns, I stood in awe. What a dream! For her to be present, playing, pursuing her dream, plumping up in a very sexy way, and preparing for the next phase of her life--I found this inspiring. I wanted to write a million songs. I also wanted to be pregnant.

Not now. Five years from now, ideally. I need to work on my relationships before that. And self-love before that, really.

Seems like only yesterday that I was the Berkeley feminist who scoffed at both marriage and pregnancy. Time always exacts its revenge.

At this moment, I must settle for being preggers the only way I know how: carrying melodic quadruplets.

How It Went

Our first faraway show was super cool. It was part of the birthday festivities held in Katrina's honor. (I <3 K.)

The drive there was cool. We stopped in Pasadena for some vegan fast food at Orean's Health Express. That's always fun. Then we drove. Well, Luke did. He doesn't trust me to drive his car, which is precisely the kind of distrust I can dig. I got to play with his new-ish iPhone. My own phone is geriatric, and that option could be cool, but I hate that I will be forced to get an internet plan I don't really need. I hate when someone tells me what I can or can't do. Eff that! I'm free!!! Oh, maybe I do need internet. Without Luke's iPhone, I would have lost the ebay fray that erupted over these hot shoes I had to have. With it, quite happily, I shopped victoriously.

Our room had nice beds and was across the street from Barneys. I tried on one pair of jeans and oodles of fancy dresses. This one by Miu Miu was my fave.

It has a gorgeous grosgrain bow in the back. In it, I was a perfect present. It filled my brain with images of a certain boy unwrapping me...

Electing not to deplete my savings, I purchased the jeans only.

We ate dinner with Katrina, Kayla, and one of their friends at a raw vegan place that took FOREVER to serve us. They also got my juice wrong. Aargh. Luke and I were very frustrated by the wait, but we were happy that the girls liked their food when it finally arrived.

There was another annoying wait for the sound dude to show up at the club. I was falling asleep because I'd enjoyed a mere 12 hours of rest and about 3.5 meals the previous week. In truth, it was less falling asleep than it was falling apart. Katrina helped by gossiping with me. I'm glad that our fans are so smart and cool. With her assistance and inspiration, I made it through. I hoped I hadn't disappointed her. Once upon my pillow, I passed out.

We exchanged our goodbyes in the morning. Sweet Kayla gave me Skinny Bitch for the ride back. It's a great synthesis of information from all of the important books on vegetarianism and health, presented in the meanest possible way--but mean only because it is honest. These authors tell it like it is, like Dr. Phil, but, if you already know how it is, you can just laugh like I did. These foulmouthed bitches are fo' real. They kind of made me yearn to write a book. I think about such things from time to time, when music is not really happening. I don't know if it's healthy, if it's appropriate...

I don't know how to advance my career, but I know how I want to live. I would rather not fantasize about possible forks in the road. Would prefer a convergence.

Our First Faraway Show

Sooooo I removed my last blog. Apparently I was wrong about that situation. I was freaking out over something very small. I am a drama queen sometimes, and I need to learn how to rein myself in. Truly. If I don't, I will crush every seedling before one has a chance to peek out from the soil.

I finally enjoyed a normal night's sleep. I don't feel as enervated as I probably should feel after days of self-induced craziness. Somehow I am in good health. When I was at the doctor's office yesterday morning, I was in SUCH a state that I was surprised my heartbeat actually registered on the machine. That it was in a healthy range was even more unbelievable to me.

We are getting ready for Vegas. Packing up. Leaving tomorrow. Our first faraway show. The first of many???

Fingers crossed.

Love,
Dramargot

I mean to fill up on this feeling!

Woohoo for last night and the new moon in Leo! All of the bands had me shaking it up in the bowling lanes backstage. Various members of Seasons caught me and a dear friend executing some hilarious dance moves. There were some incredible conversations as well. I even helped a friend of a friend secure a sushi date for Sunday. We were so pleased we squealed.

I don't think I've ever had as much fun playing as I did twenty-one hours ago. People were smiling and dancing straightaway, which was amazing for a 1:20 start. Several people closed their eyes and swayed to better absorb our mellifluousness. Some mouthed the words. I was totally jazzed and fed off of that energy. Such enthusiastic applause, too! I even screamed during the last song, "Portable," which was shocking because it was well past my bedtime, but it was certainly appropriate given the atmosphere. We were all really grooving that new tune so seriously, clapping and rocking out so hard that it didn't seem to be a song no one had ever heard before, nor did it seem to be closing time.

The newbies definitely left an impression. We already have requests for recordings of them, and, as you may have guessed, these do not yet exist. We're on it, peeps!

That fun was followed up with plenty of parking lot socializing. I was in such good spirits that I didn't mind when we got lost on the way back to our new studio. Luke was saying eff this and eff that, but I was in heaven.

I didn't get to bed until 5, but, for some reason, I opened my eyes at 8:48 this morning. I have been too hyper to nap, so now I will attempt sleep.

Hidden Place

I'm feeling very private lately.

I don't want to share any of my details in blogs.

I don't want to jinx the good things, the works in progress.

I leave my friends in the dark as to what I am up to and with whom, even though I know it irks them. They could tarnish the evolution.

I'm in a bit of a cocoon, I think.

My Dream(board) Come True

Some time ago, I started creating dreamboards. For anyone who's ever heard about and laughed at the Secret, it's related to that, to the Law of Attraction. The idea is that you collage pics of your dreams and thereby begin to manifest them in real life. It's sort of out there, but, then again, it sort of isn't.

I've discovered lately that my dreamboard is coming true. I have seen in my waking hours several of the very images I once affixed to the muslin and ribbon rectangles. This is profoundly encouraging. If there's anything in the world you're wanting, find a picture that symbolizes or approximates its essence, and put it somewhere you can see it everyday, and, when your eyes land upon it, understand that it is on its way.

This summer is turning out to be quite extraordinary. I love the heat and, ah, those summer nights. More like the Marianne Faithfull song than the one from Grease, though.



I'm so ecstatic that I'm even considering writing some happy lyrics. I hope you listeners of mine will be okay with that. ;)

I trust you will also forgive my delinquency in posting pics with the last few blogs. I lost the cord to my camera. I suppose it's time for a new one, no?

Bee Medicine Visits my Yoni

What's new with me? Oh, I can't stop giggling. Mortifying things have happened lately, but they only make me laugh because, at an instant, I am able to experience them from afar, thereby finding their overt humor, which is nearly impossible to do if you're taking everything seriously and personally. I am also pleased to report that, despite the crazy stuff that is going on, I feel very much connected to awareness, which, quite happily, is in close proximity to the flow of creativity and even luck.

Saturday morning, I climbed into the car with my mom to attend my bff's sister's baby shower, when I felt something buzzing between my legs. I lifted my dress, as my mom looked on nervously. It was a bee, and it was flying menacingly around my vag.

I knew I would have to thank the bee for its message in order to save my Yoni from disaster, and, before that, I would need the discernment to discover that message.

I believe that animals have wisdom to impart to us. It's part of my Native American heritage. Each animal has its own guidance to offer, and the details of our experiences with them help us to draw forth their specific reasons for visiting. Bees are hard workers who effortlessly communicate. For more background on the bee, please see:

http://www.nativeamericananimalmedicine.com/bee_medicine.html

So when I saw this bee, I immediately thought communication and, due to the circumstances of our interaction, communication regarding my Yoni. I had been dreading an upcoming Yoni talk, and I was looking for ways around it. Being stung on the vag is certainly one way to avoid discussions of what my Yoni wants, but it is arguably not the best way. This bee reminded me to push through my fears and speak up if I ever wanted to partake in the nectar. I silently assured the bee that I'd received his message loud and clear and safely shooed him out the window. He clung to it, as if to say, "I'll come back and sting your Yoni if you don't work on her behalf." I rolled up the window, promising I would. He flew away.

I'm on a winning streak, dudes. ;)

Take note of your animal interactions this week and discover what they're trying to teach you. Visit Dr. Standley's Animal Medicine website:

http://www.nativeamericananimalmedicine.com

Lyrical Lunatic

Luke and I have taken some time off from performing to work on writing. We have a handful of songs in progress. The one I'm most inspired to work on is tentatively called "Portable," a title which, in the tradition of many New Order tracks, cannot be found in the lyrics--at least not literally.

For some reason, I have not been able to finish this or any others from this batch yet, and it's driving me mad. I suppose I'm too distracted. I've upped my meditation time in the hopes of fixing this. Upon rising, I do visualization exercises, and, before bed, Caroline Myss helps me review how I used my energy during the day. Every night she asks, "Did you receive a surprise today?" Um, yes...

At some point, though, I would like the surprise to be that one of the songs has words that I can be proud of. Not that I don't like the surprises I've gotten lately. They're actually quite lovely, only too nascent to use professionally. Actually, maybe, hopefully, I'm wrong about that.

Once I can access these little surprises, I'll be able to pump these suckers out in no time. Could it happen today? That would be amazing. Please, please, pretty please, send some creative and mellifluous vibes my way.

Thank you so much,
Margot

Tantric hangover

We discussed how each of us women carries within her every person who's been sexual with her. No wonder many of us take these things so seriously! We brought the 60s back, forging a sacred reconnection with ancient matriarchal ritual, baring ourselves and identifying the parts of each other we felt to be the most beautiful. Inevitably, we found that the things we were most self-conscious about were often the very source of our gorgeousness, and we heard ourselves commenting on the many facets of beauty the fashion mags leave out. I almost included the list of compliments I was given, but it was sounding too X-rated, so I'll have to leave that to your imagination. Then we dined outside, wearing sarongs, and the fare was, most happily for me, vegan with a lot of raw.

It was in this atmosphere of acceptance and appreciation that we told the stories of our Yonis and proceeded to explore them in the most accurate ways. Our teacher turned us into sticks of butter, and we melted and, becoming sponges, soaked up our surroundings, hummingbirds darting through massive umbrellas of glittering leaves. We exited that secluded Silverlake location radiantly but reluctantly, like the post-coital separation from your partner necessitated by the demands of dental hygiene. You don't want to leave, but you have to. Otherwise, your teeth will rot. And you can't stay in bed forever, can you?

We had never felt from other fingers what our classmates' fingers had so simply brought out--this from a room of women who have, for the most part, had attentive partners who've delighted them with all sorts of tingling touches. I can only imagine what sex with a conscious lover is like. Did I just say lover? Yeah, I did. With conscious fingers. And other conscious parts. It is refreshing to continue on a path of allowance of ever-increasing pleasure, of basking in the orgasmic way of being that is more than sex and certainly more than the boring definition society offers--the meeting of penis and vagina. It is carnal inspiration, then a gaze, heat, touch, and whatever else you dream up. We actually have sex way more than we think.

The event was powerful, and I am grateful to have had the courage to see it through. Turns out I've learned something valuable from the challenging partners who have been unwilling to commit to a real relationship: when we have resistance to something, we have to push through it because that's precisely where the healing is. Björk was right in Five Years when she called out the cowards "who can't handle love." I am more "bored with cowards" than I've ever been because I'm braver than ever. Because I took a chance on the unknown, I feel like I'm recovering from a night of indulging in the perfect amounts of red wine, dark chocolate, and cocaine followed by repeat effings by a partner who loves me intensely, even though I'm a teetotaler who's never done blow and hasn't had a boyfriend since Nixon was in the White House. I do love my chocolate, though.

We are changed. We've seen and been seen. Our society doesn't make room for this kind of seeing. We don't see birth because we've handed that process to doctors, who've kept it in hospitals. If you are present for it, you're often asked not to look too long. We don't really see the bit of nudity that is supposedly available to us. On nude beaches, we have to pretend we're not looking. We live not seeing bodies outside of a sexual context, while dead and dying bodies are shielded from view. It's a spectrum of not seeing, one in which there is little expansion. We don't see what other people are and therefore do not see ourselves. If we're ready to see, though, we can. Any woman should be able to feel the universe that is another woman, that is woman herself, without fear or shame. We should be encouraged to know in a deeper way who we are, that each of us is a universe in the universe, the microcosm to the macrocosm. We are the trees and the birds and the sky. We are breath and energy and life itself.

I am a universe. This realization not only changes every interaction I will ever have but also informs my musical responses to upcoming experiences. Future inhabitants of my universe should start sweating over their resumes.

Tantra teaser

My Tantra teacher sent out an email several weeks ago. It mentioned a special workshop she would be holding for those students who were ready to dive deep into the practice. Nudity would be involved. With my limited experience, I figured this nudity was attached to the gaze, and, because I don't have a problem with being seen, I was fine with it. She said to call her if we felt drawn to do this, and, after putting it off for a week, I did. She made it sound progressive and transformative, so I let a potential yes marinate. It wasn't until she sent out a reminder email, tempting us with a deeper understanding of and release from what was holding us back in our lives and relationships, that it hit me. I enrolled and was stoked that I did until a more detailed explanation of the class was sent out.

It irked me for four reasons: 1) As a raw foodie, I was concerned that I would starve at the potluck. 2) I didn't own a sarong and would have to scrounge around for one. 3) We would be practicing the art of Yoni (vaginal) massage with a fellow student. 4) There were no refunds.

Some of the girls, after hearing about this, dropped out. They thought it was too perverted, too disgusting. It's not like the rest of us didn't share those concerns, but, when we thought about it, we realized our resistance was merely a clinging to comfort, convention, cowardice, and cunt-hatred. None of these represent what I want for myself. I stopped hating and competing with other girls a long time ago, and Inga Muscio's Cunt inspired me to do it. If you have problems embracing women, read it right away. The CliffsNotes version is available via cinema through the brilliant feature Mean Girls. Our power is in our unity.

Thus, I figured, as a true vag-loving woman, how could I refuse advanced Tantric practice on the basis of the fear of another woman's body? Isn't that essentially self-hatred? If I can't embrace myself as my own reflection in another woman, how can I ever love myself? How can I ever love and be loved?

I decided to work through my resistance and fear. Besides, I wanted the distraction. My sister moved to Hawaii on Saturday, taking my 6-week-old niece with her. I could think of better things to do than hanging by the pool in my jammies, remembering her sweet baby cuteness.

More than this, I just had to do something about that tiny spark wishing to burst into a flame, to draw on Björk's Isobel. I had to feed that part of me that thrives on being completely bold and subversive.

Late Saturday night, I made my potluck slaw. The next morning, I gathered my props for the event. Then, cradling my little heart spark, I drove east toward hipster town.

That afternoon and into the night, my teacher guided me and nine other hugely brave women into the unknown. I will tell you all about it next week because this post was turning into a novelette. Stay tuned for the juicy deets. It was an amazing experience!!!

What love should look like

I haven't told too many people, but there is a new boy rocking my world. He has re-educated me on the subject of love and its manifestations.

Sue was the first person to bring my awareness to what love looks like and how it is transmitted through the gaze. Before speaking with her, the information I'd collected from people's eyes had remained mostly unconscious. She explained that I would see love in people's eyes if I were open to it, adding that I could make incredible progress if I actually saw what was really in a look. I left our conversation thinking to myself, "Maybe I've never seen it. Or maybe I'm so used to love, I can imagine it where it isn't."

As it turned out, I did know where love wasn't, and I immediately stopped trying to convince a certain dude to commit to me. It was only after doing this that I realized I didn't even find him remotely attractive or charming. For once, I saw what was; the gaze was selfish and otherwise empty. I wasn't impressed, and the distance was easy to maintain.

So onto the new. We officially met a few weeks ago. He's been my neighbor for years, but we hadn't noticed each other until I commented on his adorable knitted hat. He didn't respond, just rode off on his bike. I hissed at myself, "Great. Scared another one."

To my surprise, he found me working in the garden the next day and started up a conversation. We discussed bicycles, music, and horticulture. He asked if I was a woman or a teenager.

"What do you think?" I answered, testing him.

"A teenager."

We were fast friends. He made plans to plant Russian Mammoth sunflowers with me. Each morning, often during that liminal space between sleeping and waking, he'd show up at my door with a triplicate of singsongy hellooooos and invite himself in to play guitar and feed catnip to Blake. When Luke witnessed our interaction for the first time, he found it achingly cute. The boy's roommates, however, were less impressed. He was calling my name in his sleep and was consequently told to back off.

Two Fridays ago, while I was preparing for my SF getaway, one of his roommates walked by and said, "You know, he looks into your window every time we pass by." That was sweet, I thought, as I returned to watering my wildflowers. Later, in the middle of my composting duties, I spotted him. After the space of two weeks, I spoke.

"Spencer..."

He was on his patio, swimming in his little pool. The cutest, most affectionate look alighted upon me. He held this gaze as if to say, "I did miss you terribly, but I've forgotten the heartbreak of your absence now that we are here again. You look beautiful. When do we plant our sunflowers?"

He sparkled with what I'll fondly dub obese love, though responding with a minimal hello. He's not always the most verbal creature. One of his roommates came out to alert him that dinner was ready. (His roommates, for the record, are his parents and two older brothers.)

It's amazing how much a single look can teach you, and, since Spencer is five, he is better able to transmit this etheric knowledge than most people my age. Children don't have the walls that adults do. There aren't years of hurt to excavate. They are present and respond to your presence. Being his first crush is not merely flattering; it is a blessing. If I am ever wondering what an admirer thinks of me, and I often am, I have only to recall that blushed, shimmery innocence of someone who clearly finds me fascinating, comparing this with the gaze of the suitor in question.

Another reminder of love's ease and simplicity showed up two days later, when my friend and I stopped by her local Kwik-E-Mart. The clerk's long-haired chihuahua pup quickly attached himself to me. He licked every part of my face and softly dug his paws into my shoulder blade, not wishing to let go. After thirty-eight licks, his owner became jealous and pried him off of me while feigning a smile. The puppy's purity and intensity is exactly the energy I am after. Nothing forced, nothing armored.

While children and animals aren't the most sought-after co-stars in Hollywood, I find they make delightful teachers. Other formidably cool single chicas can do like I do, and those of you in a relationship can do this as well: soak up and radiate the true love in this world that lies outside dating and marriage--friendship, flora, fauna, and beyond. We're less invested in conventional romantic payoffs when we keep the real stuff close at hand...and we're less invested in rules and results altogether when immersed in the romance of ourselves.

Turn yourself on,
margot

Flushing toxic chemicals and relationships from your body

Because I've received a lot of questions about my second official cleanse, I thought I'd go into a little more detail for those inquiring minds. My first, the Master Cleanse, brought me to my current way of eating. After completion, my skin was glowing, everything was brilliant, and the only (food) items I wanted in my mouth were crunchy vegetables and juicy fruits, so I went raw. It was very natural, like falling in love, and I've never been happier.

I decided to enhance that happiness through deeper cleansing and began the Ejuva program. The first week was easy: a single round of herbs plus three meals, although, for most people, the meals are decidedly abnormal. They have to be raw vegan meals with organic fruit, vegetables, and freshly pressed juices. Week 2 was a bit harder, fruit for breakfast and a salad for dinner, accompanied by 2 herbal rounds. I also had to play three shows during this time. Fairly exhausting but also fun, especially the Highland Park Music Fest, where we photographed with cute little Erynne. Week 3 sucked at first, offering only one meal per day and 3 rounds of herbs. My late lunch consisted of a large salad, which isn't usually enough to satiate me, but I got used to it surprisingly quickly and quite liked it. I even had enough energy for a quick getaway to SF to watch my dear friend play one of her first shows with her new band. She was so cute and capable. We ate at my fave Bay Area restaurant, Cafe Gratitude. The patio was earthy and beautiful, reminding me of Big Sur, and the food was tres yummers.

Cut to this week, the meal-less one, which began with a rather crippling Monday, most likely due to a scanty (for me) 5 hours of sleep and the prospect of only juice plus 4 rounds of herbs, whose smell was making me rather ill. Once I got some juice in me, I felt way better. Orange-pomegranate was my first concoction. Mmm. I proceeded to make some vitamin D by the pool and had Luke test my blueberries for me, relegated to liquids. He said they were ripe and sweet but also hot and therefore not enjoyable. Well, they were in the sun. What did he expect? He said I should pick some and put them in the fridge. This reminded me of that wonderful William Carlos Williams poem:

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast.

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold.

Sans cool scrumptious fruit, I still felt like a million bucks on Tuesday, when I procured some deliciousness from Beverly Hills Juice. That place is amazing. I'd always wanted to visit, but it's kind of hard to spot. It's on Beverly just east of Orlando. I had tangelo juice that blew my mind. I went back yesterday and bought enough for today, which is Day 4 of my juice fast. I feel reasonably well, despite the fact that I had a fight with a mean boy from my past and was forced to reiterate, this time in even stronger language, that he never talk to me again, and I think I feel great today because I meant it. I'm stoked that this cleanse has become a spiritual detox, just like my first, and that both times I found myself pressured to fully let go of that meanie. Clearly, the universe wants him flushed from my system. My brave words yesterday will accomplish what pouring lemonade on his head at a party nine months ago somehow didn't. Now he can join my beet-colored eliminations in the toilet.

Oprah is on a vegan cleanse, too. I was so excited to hear of it that I posted a really long note to her message boards. Back to music and apple-blackberry juice. Oh, my nerdiness! You know you love it... ;)

The heel that has crushed me

Our dear fan Alex wrote recently of his interest in learning the origin of our name. The short answer is that it came out of my enduring obsession with word, symbol, meaning, energy, and color.

The long answer is that it started with a childhood love of all things purple. Most of my outfits featured some shade of it. It was royalty and eccentricity, defiance and gorgeousness. Grape juice was sensational. The blueberries in the muffins were beautiful and delicious. The invitations to most of my solar return celebrations (birthdays) were purple. The Color Purple will make you cry. It's a magical, transmutative color. J. Mascis noted this alchemical quality when he declared that purple amps just sound better, and he's right, especially if it's a purple Vox. This color and I have a lot of history. At times, though, I have put purple on hold to experiment with other colors, but I always come back eventually.

Luke said that choosing a name would naturally be my responsibility. Initially, when pressed to find one, I got lost in my anger over the fact that I had to label my past, present, and future endeavors in a clever fashion that hinted at our flavor. As an art-for-art's sake gal, I wasn't eager to negotiate the intersection of our sacred art with the commerce outside. I wished I were a solo project, so I could just be my name. Then I started asking Luke questions. What is our intention? How do we feel? Why are we doing this? We aimed to create music of emotional authenticity and power in such a way that could offer catharsis and accelerate healing in its listeners.

At the time, I was deeply involved in natural healing modalities and spirituality, so I decided to thumb through some of my books, spending considerably more time on one by Hildegard von Bingen. The medieval abbess had been an inspiration to me since I first learned of her work as a healer, composer, poet, scientist, philosopher, and visionary (this is the abbreviated list, if you can believe it.) According to her, violets could check the melancholy of anyone oppressed with a sad mind, making them happy and making their breathing healthy. Ah, I liked it!

Violet. "The sky was all violet," and there was that "ocean of violets in bloom." Prince clearly digs purple, and Courtney Love must have an appreciation for it, but Frank Black's interest in the shade is quite serious, as his "Violet" is entirely devoted to fleshing out various aspects of its awesomeness, not least among them its role as the representative color of the crown chakra. This is the point at the top of your head that aligns you with divine guidance. A cool color, literally and beyond. A lovely fit.

So I had violet, but I needed a mode of presentation. In an interview, Sarah McLachlan referred to her songs as little rooms. A neat idea. Little rooms are basically boxes, I thought. Box. There's the larynx, the voice box, that houses the vocal cords. There's also the miniature room in your mouth, a tiny church with the sweeping palatopharyngeal arch as its ceiling that helps produce vocal tone. For my inner social critic, however, box was not just the song, the room, or the voice, but it was also a means of delivering a commodity to the world. Many modern items seem to arrive in a box. Why not us? Thus, box married violet. A divinely inspired mode of communication meant to serve the emotional transformation of its listeners. The name resonated with me, and the other bandmates thought it was swell. Not surprisingly, violet boxes had been around me the whole time. I found that, when observing my primary musical spaces, there they were. I wrote in my bedroom between violet walls, I sang on the freeway in my violet car, and, in our rehearsal space, a square of violet-painted wood was on the wall. It wasn't our decoration; it had been hanging there since we started renting, but I hadn't noticed.

That was a really long answer. Are you sorry you asked, Alex?

I'll close with the words of Mark Twain: "Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it." A lot of our songs have that crushed element, but, increasingly, they are searching for a means to forgive, and, more and more, we are becoming the sweetness that is gleaned from the various glorious messes that have been made.

There is no future for boxViolet.

That was so much fun. Seriously. And I really soaked it up. Thanks to everyone who came out as well as everyone who wanted to come but couldn't make it.

LA Underground put on a delicious show, if I may say so. All boy-girl duos. We understood each other. When a few of us reconvened afterward, we unanimously delighted in a keen remark by Gerardo of Odd Modern: "Two is enough."

At the end of last week, though, I didn't think so. Luke was wearing a wrist brace and was unable to practice that much, and I was getting worn out, too. I had stamped, hand-inked, folded, and glittered dozens of cd's, while becoming accustomed to playing guitar and not looking down too often, not to mention staying on top of everything else, including caring for people and animals in two different households, as my other job is helping out my grandma, who lives with my mom. I was already tired of making cd's, strumming chords, and cutting vegetables when I pulled a muscle in my right arm while capturing my sister's heavy cat when he escaped Friday afternoon. Apparently, I am THAT frail.

I hated being two that afternoon. I felt but a useless half, and a deep malaise quickly descended upon me. I cried the rest of the day and well into Saturday. I almost didn't go to the show Saturday night. I told Luke that I was quitting the band, that two was definitely not enough, that our gear was too heavy, and that I was too ugly to perform. If not for my having promised to give a cd to Gerry, an awesome fan of ours, I might have skipped the evening altogether.

Sonia, another lovely fan, was there to greet me. She wanted to know why I was bummed, and I could read my pain in her face, as I recounted the details of myriad seeming problems. She responded in a very grounded and thoughtful manner that quickly elicited tears. A different brand, but, man, I was sobbing in a club that was hopping. Nevertheless, it was my good fortune to have forgotten to apply mascara.

We went on early because one of the other bands flaked, which made me particularly glad to have gotten over myself enough to have avoided that fate. Performing that night was quite cool. The crowd at the Cocaine was frisky and asked for more. We, of course, left them wanting. We had to; we don't have tons of songs programmed into the computer yet. A bit later, I autographed Val's, um, er...



Cut to last night at the Scene, where I experienced my first few moments of "presence" on stage. When I'd considered stage presence previously, I'd thought it a branch of mere artifice, another distasteful extension of the musical process, but everything changed because of a story Eckhart Tolle told. I'd watched it on Sunday and viewed it again just before the show via iPod. 'Twas of an archer who wanted to win so badly it was hurting his game. An observer asked a fellow observer, who happened to be a Zen master, what the floundering competitor was doing wrong. "His need to win drains him of power."

There is no future moment of fulfillment. There is only now.



I don't remember which song it was, but, at one point, I recalled that. My attention moved from the death of my tiny white amp toward the song's essence, and only at that point was I equipped to deliver the music in its proper form because it wasn't about me or my trying to perform or my concerns over the week's end. It was about letting it be what it is.

I had a breakthrough. There is no going back. I'm so excited. Some of you saw it (Seasons!) and are excited, too.

Thus, there is no future for boxViolet. There is only now.

Sad, sad girl EP Release Update

Thought I’d check in with you very quickly, as I am getting slammed at the moment (keep your mind clean; I only write that because mine isn’t. Ha!) Turns out that the handmade CD thing can get overwhelming at times. I’ve completed the stamping for each of them but have only drawn the outlines for about a fifth of them. I still have to ink all of them.

Practiced today. My fingertips are sore. I think we’re going acoustic for the Friday show at Jax. That night’s a full moon. My horoscope, as charted by Susan Miller, says that I am likely to become very emotional at that time, so if you enjoy seeing smeared mascara, you simply cannot afford to miss that performance. There’s more. This month, my five-star romance night coincides with the date of our La Casa Blue show. (The name of that venue makes me want to move to Mexico and raise peacocks and grow mangos, passionfruit, and sapote. Suppose I’m feeling parenthetical tonight. Roll with it.) Sooo, no romance for me! Only my love for music. Four shows in the next 2.5 weeks to prove my heart.

The other day, we tried to take pics of each other. I put on a dress and some makeup, and Luke started to snap away until he actually snapped at me. He’s easily frustrated as a band photographer, as he’s not a fan of artifice. We will require professional help.

The “Sad, sad girl” EP release party will be held at the Scene on April 8th. Last time we played there, I wore my brown American Apparel shorts, which wasn’t too damaging a decision until I agreed to visit the photobooth (I never say no if someone else is paying) with a friend who decided to plant one on me, nice and sloppy. I feel that the shorts’ strong 70’s vibe contributed to his thinking that I was all about casual kisses. Not so much. It’s like I told my friend the other day: bad things tend to happen when you are hanging out with someone who is essentially unlike you, who has different values. You can both experience the same things and extract from them completely disparate meanings. Someone's french kiss is someone else's anal. (Please quote me on that.) Anyway, I was very upset after the surprise smooch but hid it and ran to the bathroom to thoroughly wash my lips. I will do photobooth with anyone who wants to that night, as long as you promise not to kiss me on the lips. I’m not that kind of girl. You’ll make me cry. Kisses are special to me, and I like to choose them. I’m sensitive and shet (my way of saying s***, of course.)

Yours truly,
margot

10:15 on a Saturday Night

While driving to Whole Foods several nights ago before practice, I finally heard a full song from a band that all the kids have been listening to for many months now. I won’t type their name because it hurts too much. There are few things I am less fond of than the intentional misspelling, unless done well in jest. Later, I asked a friend about them.

“They’re really big. A Warped Tour band. I think they’re Christians or something.”

I giggled, “So is that how people are going to describe my band? ‘They’re really big. A Reading Festival band. I think they’re Marxists or something.’ ”

One can only hope.

…and when we play Carling Weekend, I don’t know who’ll be on what instrument. In fact, the next time you see us, I’ll be on guitar and Luke on drums. Wild, huh? Luke is concerned that people will think the drumming boy/strumming girl setup too Giant Drag, but that version of the band no longer exists, Giant Drag having continued as the awesome Annie Hardy. Outside of the former Leftwing/Retone connection and the lineup evolution, our projects have little to do with each other. boxViolet is Luke + Margot, no matter how the live performance is crafted, so it’s pretty lame to have to consider the possibility that lazy people might describe or label us on these most superficial grounds. My response is: who (the eff) cares what people think? Except when a boy has tricked me into forgetting myself momentarily, I am quite faithful to self-definition and self-actualization. ;)

Put simply, in our search for an awesome and devoted drummer, we find ourselves increasingly reticent to add another personality to this project. It's just Luke and I for now, but we're both incredibly passionate people, our Moons in fire signs. In heart, we do not lack.

Down on dumping a disparate element into a rather tasty blend, we were delighted by a bumper sticker as we left the rehearsal space: "My drum machine has more soul than you."

Purple Reign

Should we find it discouraging that our first show of 2008 will coincide with the arrival of torrential rains upon our parched landscape? Are universal forces conspiring to ruin us?

I will not acquiesce to such a scheme, however much I would like to deliver our several handfuls of devoted followers from the duty of driving through this deluge.

Rather, I find the Romanticism in our cavorting in a former bowling alley while, just beyond its walls, nature mimics the emotional turmoil that inspired most of last year’s dirges, even offering condolence in the form of this deeply purifying and profoundly restorative rain, the liquid manifestation of an ardent albeit unconscious desire. As artists, we couldn’t ask for more than these stormy conditions, which suit perfectly the debut of our newest lament, “Sad, Sad Girl.”

If I must, I will forgo the traditional stilettos and head toward Mr. T’s in my vegetarian Doc Martens to knock the socks off of some unsuspecting bartender. I have no choice because, in the words of a well-known Thomas of great antiquity, "If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you."


See you there,

Margot