"You're sick," Luke declares over dinner at Follow Your Heart. "You're still thinking about that guy?"
My suddenly ruddier complexion offering answer enough for anyone with decent vision, I made my words brief, kept the details to a minimum.
The next day, that of my departure, I had a pre-Paris Sabrina moment in the kitchen. Instead of aiming for asphyxiation in a ten-car garage, I simply imagined what my mother would think if I happened to drop dead while preparing another forgettable salad, what Luke's future might hold, and if the boy would ever find out. I considered if, much like workers whose corporate employers have secretly taken life insurance policies out on them, I am worth more dead than alive. I further considered the brutality of the world, how it has sculpted me into finer and finer delicacy, one that makes me more and more unfit for normal interaction. I forgave myself for these thoughts and finished packing.
Dr. Laura provided the background noise for our ride to the airport, courtesy of my mother. I made a cognitive effort to listen more carefully when she explained that single people are even less content than married couples with problems. Throwing that into the equation with information I had recently gathered about the positive correlation of longevity and social vibrance, my heart sank.
We crossed the ocean. The airline had neglected to make a note of our dietary preferences, which were properly registered in a timely manner, and, in this mode of starvation, I found it difficult to sleep. I ended up watching movies where the lovesick protagonists, of course, get their girls in the end.
Alas, I am no one's girl. And I don't want to be. Not just anyone's, I mean.
A walking tour of Montmartre this morning brought us to the bust of Dalida, France's most treasured pop singer. As our guide explained her unhappiness, I felt a karmic resonance with the statue and its story. She was wildly successful and most cherished by her country, but life for her was far from perfect. Apparently, two of her husbands killed themselves, and she ended up killing herself as well. A string of devastation.
If there are such things as past lives, maybe I had a semi-miserable one like that. Having said that, the present intersections are potent, too. If I am lucky, I will enjoy avalanches of success achieved through perfect self-expression, yet looming is this fear of romantic disappointment.
You see, I have not yet met anyone like last year's boy, and I sincerely doubt the existence of someone better suited for me. The only possibility I currently see is that, out of sheer vanity and practicality, I may one day settle for someone who is not my ideal, so that I may preserve my youth and be more content than I would otherwise be in my solitude.
What a sorry state to enter! To realize someone else's dream while my own goes on unmanifested: truly unacceptable. Mine is the less common goal, methinks: it is all about loving and not so much about being loved. I am not looking for validation. I have enjoyed plenty of male attention, the compliments, invitations, confessions, etc., but I care not for it because I can learn to love anyone, history has shown: the mean, the petty, the vulgar, and even the soul-less, but, when they were done with me, I realized that I hadn't felt the stirrings of romantic passion in the first place. I had only grown to appreciate the little my comrades were revealing. As I proceeded in unconditional love, my love objects grew increasingly unappreciative of what I had always clearly been.
If man's aim is to discard me, then I should at least get to feel something vital and powerful in the beginning. Anything else seems tiresome and wasteful. I want shimmer. I want sparkle.
It is useless to tell me to get over it already when I'm not. The inquisitive, exquisite, handsome, charming, and brilliant men are hard to come by these days. I'm no fool. I would rather accept, for the time being, the dramatic notion that my one true love, like Morgaine's in The Mists of Avalon, was stolen from me, the saga a petri dish on which to culture my talents and my truth.
Thus I've assumed a radical policy of that truth, and it hasn't earned me any new friends. When it comes up, and it always does, I let boys know that I will not be friends with them if they like me more than that, as I am already very much in love--with a ghost, as it may be. It's harsh, but it's for the best. It hurt to have my heart dangling in front of someone, and I will not have any such hearts before me.
Maybe I'm sick like Luke says, but if I am, I'd like to think that I am perfectly sick, as Dalida sings in "Je Suis Malade." If it is quixotic to love pure and chaste from afar, pointless to love in purgatory, ludicrous to love perfectly without the prospect of any return, then I am down for the count.
Maybe one day a certain Linus Larrabee will rescue my inner Sabrina from her fixation on his cad of a brother, thereby setting off nuclear sparkles within me. That is the only acceptable course, really, as love, for me, has to be atomic. Until then, don't be surprised if you find me turning on the ignition of every car in the garage from time to time, coughing, choking, eyes searching for meaning in the mustiness and the metal, not sincerely wanting this way but knowing no other in that moment, but rest assured that, when the door is flung open, I will claim quite casually that I was "just checking the spark plugs."
27.12.09
19.11.09
Gluttony as Gratitude
There is something so unappealing about the holidays. Maybe it's because I'm single and need to get knocked up pretty soon here. Or maybe it's because my family is broken, emotionally and geographically. Or maybe it has something to do with my dissatisfaction with the myriad ways the holiday spirit has been co-opted and commodified into one slick sell. As soon as you've soiled your Halloween costume with a mixture of high fructose corn syrup, dissolved milk solids, and a touch of very processed cocoa powder, the stores have changed their displays, their music. You can't even buy a new toothbrush to stave off imminent cavities from indulgence the night before without hearing a sorry rendition of your least favorite holiday song by your least favorite popular singer. Whatever and whoever that is for you, the store somehow knows. Something changed while you were sleeping. Thanksgiving and, more importantly, Christmas arrived.
So much for all of Tolle's hard work toward helping Oprah's nation witness the "power of now." There is no cultural allowance for it. Even those of us who haven't seen the inside of a church for fifteen years are suddenly encouraged to prepare for the birth of Christ by purchasing as adornment for our mantels and end tables useless trinkets made by tiny or tired or both tiny and tired Third World hands. We must somehow find, out of the pittance left to us in our jobless recovery after our rather extravagant, albeit forced gift of $700 billion to the banks last year, the money to buy lots of food, decorations, and presents. Otherwise the people we love most would finally realize their worst suspicions were correct all along: you never truly loved them. Otherwise you would have forgone extraneous expenditures like clean, healthy food or that new water filter you've been meaning to get. Either that or you would have racked up more credit card debt, not to mention the stress attached to that debt plus the host of diseases tethered to that stress. Oh, your demonstrations of Love.
Our Thanksgiving food comas will present quite a challenge to our waking up early enough in order to score Christmas bargains the next day. But that's post-gorge. First you need to spend a small eternity in the kitchen, cooking away the few nutrients that our selenium-deficient produce has to offer, but that's okay because most of us weren't educated in the nutritional sciences, and, for most doctors practicing today, nutrition was an elective. Never mind that. However devoid of vitamins and trace minerals our banquet may be, ours is a feast nonetheless. We'll gorge ourselves because people who don't are wet blankets. Hey, who cares if caloric restriction is associated with better health and longevity? We'll show our gratitude for life by cutting it shorter. In fact, we'll gorge ourselves any day we want! We are so incredibly lucky not to be those faceless less fortunate others who are hoping for a small bowl of golden rice to avoid going blind that it's cause enough to celebrate, no?
Even without genetically engineered grain, most of us enjoy adequate beta carotene intake and are physically able to see, yet our vision is utterly myopic. We squander our privilege of seeing. We have not found, in all of our decadence, the willingness to extend our circle of compassion beyond ourselves, beyond our families, beyond our country, beyond our species. We do not yet see with global eyes. Or maybe, at some point, we lost the peripheral vision we once had. We have tacitly agreed to deal with the longer term only when it becomes disruptive, which it will, no doubt, because selfishness breeds more selfishness, and ultimately we are breaching contracts with ourselves and our humanity. For some reason, any reason, we cannot acknowledge this today. It's too heavy. We carry on, half-believing that big problems are best solved later.
I was chatting with my Scottish-born neighbor about the holidays. He is a live sound engineer and will be on a European tour in December. He laughed, "Christmas? Ha! In America?!? Your Christmas is in the mall."
I wonder what would happen if each of us could be freed of pretense for a few days or for more than a few days.
I wonder how many of you are thinking, "Sheesh, Margot. Where's your holiday spirit???"
Right now it's in hearing about people who won't be bulldozed by convention into unconscious behavior, like my friend's boyfriend's family, who, instead of indulging in gluttony and sloth on Thanksgiving, will be running a 7K together. That sounds exciting. I want to have a family like that.
For now, I'll try Gandhi's method of being the change I want to see. I'll have a healthy raw Thanksgiving, and I'll be sure to get some good exercise in, and that weekend, I'm starting the raw diva detox. It's free at
http://therawdivas.com
If anyone wants to join me, let me know. We can do it together. We can interact and blog and explore what it's like to live more simply for seven days. And don't forget: for purposes of this detox, boys can be divas, too.
So much for all of Tolle's hard work toward helping Oprah's nation witness the "power of now." There is no cultural allowance for it. Even those of us who haven't seen the inside of a church for fifteen years are suddenly encouraged to prepare for the birth of Christ by purchasing as adornment for our mantels and end tables useless trinkets made by tiny or tired or both tiny and tired Third World hands. We must somehow find, out of the pittance left to us in our jobless recovery after our rather extravagant, albeit forced gift of $700 billion to the banks last year, the money to buy lots of food, decorations, and presents. Otherwise the people we love most would finally realize their worst suspicions were correct all along: you never truly loved them. Otherwise you would have forgone extraneous expenditures like clean, healthy food or that new water filter you've been meaning to get. Either that or you would have racked up more credit card debt, not to mention the stress attached to that debt plus the host of diseases tethered to that stress. Oh, your demonstrations of Love.
Our Thanksgiving food comas will present quite a challenge to our waking up early enough in order to score Christmas bargains the next day. But that's post-gorge. First you need to spend a small eternity in the kitchen, cooking away the few nutrients that our selenium-deficient produce has to offer, but that's okay because most of us weren't educated in the nutritional sciences, and, for most doctors practicing today, nutrition was an elective. Never mind that. However devoid of vitamins and trace minerals our banquet may be, ours is a feast nonetheless. We'll gorge ourselves because people who don't are wet blankets. Hey, who cares if caloric restriction is associated with better health and longevity? We'll show our gratitude for life by cutting it shorter. In fact, we'll gorge ourselves any day we want! We are so incredibly lucky not to be those faceless less fortunate others who are hoping for a small bowl of golden rice to avoid going blind that it's cause enough to celebrate, no?
Even without genetically engineered grain, most of us enjoy adequate beta carotene intake and are physically able to see, yet our vision is utterly myopic. We squander our privilege of seeing. We have not found, in all of our decadence, the willingness to extend our circle of compassion beyond ourselves, beyond our families, beyond our country, beyond our species. We do not yet see with global eyes. Or maybe, at some point, we lost the peripheral vision we once had. We have tacitly agreed to deal with the longer term only when it becomes disruptive, which it will, no doubt, because selfishness breeds more selfishness, and ultimately we are breaching contracts with ourselves and our humanity. For some reason, any reason, we cannot acknowledge this today. It's too heavy. We carry on, half-believing that big problems are best solved later.
I was chatting with my Scottish-born neighbor about the holidays. He is a live sound engineer and will be on a European tour in December. He laughed, "Christmas? Ha! In America?!? Your Christmas is in the mall."
I wonder what would happen if each of us could be freed of pretense for a few days or for more than a few days.
I wonder how many of you are thinking, "Sheesh, Margot. Where's your holiday spirit???"
Right now it's in hearing about people who won't be bulldozed by convention into unconscious behavior, like my friend's boyfriend's family, who, instead of indulging in gluttony and sloth on Thanksgiving, will be running a 7K together. That sounds exciting. I want to have a family like that.
For now, I'll try Gandhi's method of being the change I want to see. I'll have a healthy raw Thanksgiving, and I'll be sure to get some good exercise in, and that weekend, I'm starting the raw diva detox. It's free at
http://therawdivas.com
If anyone wants to join me, let me know. We can do it together. We can interact and blog and explore what it's like to live more simply for seven days. And don't forget: for purposes of this detox, boys can be divas, too.
23.10.09
A Date with Destiny
Sunday afternoon I had a date. He picked me up. That should have been a good start.
"You look very..."
"Very what?" I wanted to know.
"Very...I don't know."
"What word are you looking for?"
"Ummm..."
I couldn't force an answer from him. After my saying we should go to Santa Monica for the best dining options and his firmly stating he was too tired to drive there after having skipped so much sleep due to work, he turned the car toward the beach anyway.
He wasn't dressed up. He'd run out of nice clothes and hadn't done laundry. The visual mismatch carried over into the aural realm. Conversation was strained, decorated only with awkward silences. I resorted to stale topics like weather and hobbies.
"Your lips look juicy."
"Oh, yeah, my lip gloss. It's organic."
"Of course, it is."
"Well, it needs to be pure. Women eat an average of 6 pounds of lipstick over a lifetime, and most of what's sold contains heavy metals, petrochemicals, and other toxins."
He said nothing.
"Do you drink juice?" I tried.
"Yeah. Wine. It's made from grapes."
"You're right about that," I said, laughing, understanding that he had not maintained the dietary changes he'd made, under my influence, some time ago. "I'm just trying to decide where we should go. If you're feeling adventurous, we could go to a raw restaurant. If not, I have another place in mind."
"Why don't we go to a place where you can eat and I can have some real food?"
I knew exactly where to take us for his real food and for my, as was implied, rabbit food. His tone, his everything was reminding me of being out with my last ex. I won't bore you with all the parallels. Let's just say that there were plenty, that it was uncanny.
In Santa Monica, he groaned about having to find parking. I'd already been wanting to either jump from the car or disappear for half an hour, courtesy of our pained dialogue during the traffic on PCH. We found a spot that anyone local would consider great, but he was irritated. In crossing the street, he walked a good two feet ahead, only turning around once to say with disapproval, "Your shoes are very impractical, dear."
"All high heels are impractical," I thought to myself, and there was certainly no need to say that I'd chosen the shoes to look nice for him. I didn't even want to eat with him, but I'd saved my appetite for the occasion. Rather reluctantly, I kept walking in my useless shoes.
Waiting for our table outside Real Food Daily, I asked if he'd like to visit the little bookshop next door, as most patrons do to pass the time. He did not. I, at least, wanted him to see the little Freud, Jung, and Einstein figurines in the store window, as I thought he, as a rocket scientist who named his daughter after Einstein's own and who, on many mornings, enjoys dream interpretation for breakfast, would get a kick out of them. Whenever I've seen them, I've thought of him. Alas, he would only humor me with three steps, a glance, and a brief muffled laugh.
I was uncharacteristically blue when a young woman headed for her yoga class came up to me and remarked with contagious enthusiasm and sincerity, "You look so beautiful! My friend and I saw you while we were looking for parking, and we were like, 'Omg! Look at her shoes! Her dress!' You're really beautiful." I thanked her with equal enthusiasm and sincerity. Ah, the sweet smell of vindication! Take that, impractical!
Once inside, inquiring about his wine, we were told that only the adjoining bakery had a liquor license, and I said I'd be happy to move, but he declined and began perusing the menu.
"Well, maybe they have grape juice," I winked, referring back to our earlier exchange.
"God, you are so strange!" he said too loud for my comfort, while rolling his eyes. "Sometimes I wish you weren't so strange, especially in restaurants."
I wanted to cry.
To make it worse, he kept bringing up how much he could use a glass of wine or a beer, when I'd been more than accommodating. I could only reiterate that I had been willing to move.
"It's fine. Green tea is better for me anyway."
When the people sitting next to us left their table, the woman mentioned that she loved my shoes.
My chaperon replied, "Yeah, it's pretty green."
"No! Not her juice. Her shoes!"
I'd heard her the first time and thanked her. Mmhmm. That's right, dude. Everyone else loves my shoes; you can only see their impracticality. And, lest we forget, my essential strangeness.
We would then visit the homes of two of my uncles, both of whom made a point of telling me how beautiful I am. To him, of course, I was still only very something. Very strange, maybe? Ugh. Those words were on repeat when we reached our first stop. My cousin asked why I was all dressed up.
"Because I have a date with my Dad." A palpable guilt descended upon my father's face.
At the second destination, after all my cousins had left, we were watching Slumdog with my uncle. Dad was staring at me. I looked at him.
"What?"
"Nothing."
I turned my head around to continue watching the movie. A bit later, he was still staring, so I turned around once more.
"What???"
"You look like Grandma, except you have a better nose. I don't know where you got that nose." He even critiques the facial features of the dead, including his dead mother. To be sure, no face in history is beyond careful evaluation.
"How do you know what she looked like when she was young?"
"I saw pictures, dear."
He'd mentioned the resemblance more and more over the years. It was nothing new, so I went back to the movie momentarily, until he put his hand on my cheek. "You're very beautiful, dear."
"You're very beautiful, too," I responded, sliding both of my hands childishly over his face.
"You're so strange."
"What you call strange other people consider cute and charming."
"Oh, do they?"
"Yeah."
"You're a lot like me."
"Oh, is that why you find me so objectionable?"
He half-smiled and drove me home. He walked me to my doorstep with the same teary eyes he's had every biannual visit, reminding me that I, too, could visit him in Florida. I left him with a maybe and the caveat that any visit of mine would be contingent upon a jaunt to St. Augustine as well. Words devoid of meaning. Those plans didn't feel probable, being that our 5-hour date had so drained me. After all, I had found in him that night irrefutable proof of his being the prototype for the boys I have previously loved. At this discovery was a mix of incredible relief and acute loneliness.
I have enough evidence now. I know why I've attracted certain people, and I know I will not get from my father what I've seen other daughters get from theirs, and I am at peace with that. This isn't about getting, anyway. It's more about my feeling particularly conscious, compelled to give at a level beyond what my father and the boys who have masqueraded as him are able to receive.
I am reminded of a time a few years ago when, at Point Dume, my father carried me, his full-grown daughter, uphill on his shoulders. The moment was expansive and eternal. I never wanted it to end. It didn't matter that my step-mother was looking on with jealousy, as she always does; my heart soared regardless. That moment was real. I want more of the real. With all men. With all people. I am interested in giving without obstacle or interference.
Something inside me has opened. I feel very light and very free. I definitely don't want to be, as I've heard it phrased, dragged by my destiny. I would much rather be carried to its apogee. By piggyback, even.
"You look very..."
"Very what?" I wanted to know.
"Very...I don't know."
"What word are you looking for?"
"Ummm..."
I couldn't force an answer from him. After my saying we should go to Santa Monica for the best dining options and his firmly stating he was too tired to drive there after having skipped so much sleep due to work, he turned the car toward the beach anyway.
He wasn't dressed up. He'd run out of nice clothes and hadn't done laundry. The visual mismatch carried over into the aural realm. Conversation was strained, decorated only with awkward silences. I resorted to stale topics like weather and hobbies.
"Your lips look juicy."
"Oh, yeah, my lip gloss. It's organic."
"Of course, it is."
"Well, it needs to be pure. Women eat an average of 6 pounds of lipstick over a lifetime, and most of what's sold contains heavy metals, petrochemicals, and other toxins."
He said nothing.
"Do you drink juice?" I tried.
"Yeah. Wine. It's made from grapes."
"You're right about that," I said, laughing, understanding that he had not maintained the dietary changes he'd made, under my influence, some time ago. "I'm just trying to decide where we should go. If you're feeling adventurous, we could go to a raw restaurant. If not, I have another place in mind."
"Why don't we go to a place where you can eat and I can have some real food?"
I knew exactly where to take us for his real food and for my, as was implied, rabbit food. His tone, his everything was reminding me of being out with my last ex. I won't bore you with all the parallels. Let's just say that there were plenty, that it was uncanny.
In Santa Monica, he groaned about having to find parking. I'd already been wanting to either jump from the car or disappear for half an hour, courtesy of our pained dialogue during the traffic on PCH. We found a spot that anyone local would consider great, but he was irritated. In crossing the street, he walked a good two feet ahead, only turning around once to say with disapproval, "Your shoes are very impractical, dear."
"All high heels are impractical," I thought to myself, and there was certainly no need to say that I'd chosen the shoes to look nice for him. I didn't even want to eat with him, but I'd saved my appetite for the occasion. Rather reluctantly, I kept walking in my useless shoes.
Waiting for our table outside Real Food Daily, I asked if he'd like to visit the little bookshop next door, as most patrons do to pass the time. He did not. I, at least, wanted him to see the little Freud, Jung, and Einstein figurines in the store window, as I thought he, as a rocket scientist who named his daughter after Einstein's own and who, on many mornings, enjoys dream interpretation for breakfast, would get a kick out of them. Whenever I've seen them, I've thought of him. Alas, he would only humor me with three steps, a glance, and a brief muffled laugh.
I was uncharacteristically blue when a young woman headed for her yoga class came up to me and remarked with contagious enthusiasm and sincerity, "You look so beautiful! My friend and I saw you while we were looking for parking, and we were like, 'Omg! Look at her shoes! Her dress!' You're really beautiful." I thanked her with equal enthusiasm and sincerity. Ah, the sweet smell of vindication! Take that, impractical!
Once inside, inquiring about his wine, we were told that only the adjoining bakery had a liquor license, and I said I'd be happy to move, but he declined and began perusing the menu.
"Well, maybe they have grape juice," I winked, referring back to our earlier exchange.
"God, you are so strange!" he said too loud for my comfort, while rolling his eyes. "Sometimes I wish you weren't so strange, especially in restaurants."
I wanted to cry.
To make it worse, he kept bringing up how much he could use a glass of wine or a beer, when I'd been more than accommodating. I could only reiterate that I had been willing to move.
"It's fine. Green tea is better for me anyway."
When the people sitting next to us left their table, the woman mentioned that she loved my shoes.
My chaperon replied, "Yeah, it's pretty green."
"No! Not her juice. Her shoes!"
I'd heard her the first time and thanked her. Mmhmm. That's right, dude. Everyone else loves my shoes; you can only see their impracticality. And, lest we forget, my essential strangeness.
We would then visit the homes of two of my uncles, both of whom made a point of telling me how beautiful I am. To him, of course, I was still only very something. Very strange, maybe? Ugh. Those words were on repeat when we reached our first stop. My cousin asked why I was all dressed up.
"Because I have a date with my Dad." A palpable guilt descended upon my father's face.
At the second destination, after all my cousins had left, we were watching Slumdog with my uncle. Dad was staring at me. I looked at him.
"What?"
"Nothing."
I turned my head around to continue watching the movie. A bit later, he was still staring, so I turned around once more.
"What???"
"You look like Grandma, except you have a better nose. I don't know where you got that nose." He even critiques the facial features of the dead, including his dead mother. To be sure, no face in history is beyond careful evaluation.
"How do you know what she looked like when she was young?"
"I saw pictures, dear."
He'd mentioned the resemblance more and more over the years. It was nothing new, so I went back to the movie momentarily, until he put his hand on my cheek. "You're very beautiful, dear."
"You're very beautiful, too," I responded, sliding both of my hands childishly over his face.
"You're so strange."
"What you call strange other people consider cute and charming."
"Oh, do they?"
"Yeah."
"You're a lot like me."
"Oh, is that why you find me so objectionable?"
He half-smiled and drove me home. He walked me to my doorstep with the same teary eyes he's had every biannual visit, reminding me that I, too, could visit him in Florida. I left him with a maybe and the caveat that any visit of mine would be contingent upon a jaunt to St. Augustine as well. Words devoid of meaning. Those plans didn't feel probable, being that our 5-hour date had so drained me. After all, I had found in him that night irrefutable proof of his being the prototype for the boys I have previously loved. At this discovery was a mix of incredible relief and acute loneliness.
I have enough evidence now. I know why I've attracted certain people, and I know I will not get from my father what I've seen other daughters get from theirs, and I am at peace with that. This isn't about getting, anyway. It's more about my feeling particularly conscious, compelled to give at a level beyond what my father and the boys who have masqueraded as him are able to receive.
I am reminded of a time a few years ago when, at Point Dume, my father carried me, his full-grown daughter, uphill on his shoulders. The moment was expansive and eternal. I never wanted it to end. It didn't matter that my step-mother was looking on with jealousy, as she always does; my heart soared regardless. That moment was real. I want more of the real. With all men. With all people. I am interested in giving without obstacle or interference.
Something inside me has opened. I feel very light and very free. I definitely don't want to be, as I've heard it phrased, dragged by my destiny. I would much rather be carried to its apogee. By piggyback, even.
17.9.09
Larval Locomotion
I had a spiritual experience in my garden this evening. Now don't act surprised. You know I'm an odd one.
The pertinent background info is that I fought with Luke today. Recording vocals with him is worse than a round of tooth extractions with a pap smear chaser. I'm sure it's no cakewalk for him either, especially now that I've started my new book, Tantric Orgasm for Women by Diana Richardson, and I'm prancing around like a child, hurdling quotes at him like there's no tomorrow, largely on the subject of man's "lost ability to speak meaningfully to the female body." We haven't had to work this way in years, but my usual engineer was stolen for the month, and we didn't want to wait to finish the EP. Now it seems that we may have to.
After such a day of singing and crying and arguing, I found myself in my garden, foraging for tomatoes, as the green market tomatoes were somewhere in Luke's belly. I eyed two orange ones and deemed them good enough, as my salad could not wait. In searching out additional ingredients, I happened to spot a massive green caterpillar covered in ants. I love butterflies and the thorough transformation they signify (see Dr. Stanley's Native American Animal Medicine,) so I took it upon myself to assist the little creature. Ants would not devour my future butterfly friend. Not on my watch! I moved him near the eggplant, so he'd have its pretty purple flowers to admire.
After preparing my meal, I remembered that I'd meant to research the whole caterpillar/ant situation. To my horror, I came across one of the Animal Communication Project's pages, discovering that, without going into great detail, the species have a symbiotic relationship and that, in fact, the ants are very much critical to the survival of the caterpillars; the chance of one getting by without its ant protectors is zero.
I, in my limited understanding, had moved this very happy caterpillar from a good situation because I thought I could improve upon it, give it a nice view, shelter it from its seeming enemies. Marianne Williamson would say, "What arrogance to have assumed that you are better equipped to handle what nature orchestrates perfectly on its own!"
I had been so afraid for the future, for the next step, that I interfered in the metamorphosis of this would-be butterfly.
The ants also figure beautifully in this story, as they represent patience, cooperation, and community. My impatience is disrupting the natural flow, blocking the blossoming I seek. No wonder the fuzzy guy had looked so confused as I carried him across the yard. (Well, he did. I don't make this shet up.)
"No more meddling." That's my message from the universe. "We don't need your rescue efforts, Margot. We're taking care of it. It's all good."
I suppose I needed to be told twice, though, because, walking around in the dark, searching for him, wanting to make it right, I was reminded that this, too, lies outside my jurisdiction. It had already been made right. The caterpillar had moved, but it was too dark to determine where. Back to his friends, I trust. The ants that gladly blanket him tonight.
The pertinent background info is that I fought with Luke today. Recording vocals with him is worse than a round of tooth extractions with a pap smear chaser. I'm sure it's no cakewalk for him either, especially now that I've started my new book, Tantric Orgasm for Women by Diana Richardson, and I'm prancing around like a child, hurdling quotes at him like there's no tomorrow, largely on the subject of man's "lost ability to speak meaningfully to the female body." We haven't had to work this way in years, but my usual engineer was stolen for the month, and we didn't want to wait to finish the EP. Now it seems that we may have to.
After such a day of singing and crying and arguing, I found myself in my garden, foraging for tomatoes, as the green market tomatoes were somewhere in Luke's belly. I eyed two orange ones and deemed them good enough, as my salad could not wait. In searching out additional ingredients, I happened to spot a massive green caterpillar covered in ants. I love butterflies and the thorough transformation they signify (see Dr. Stanley's Native American Animal Medicine,) so I took it upon myself to assist the little creature. Ants would not devour my future butterfly friend. Not on my watch! I moved him near the eggplant, so he'd have its pretty purple flowers to admire.
After preparing my meal, I remembered that I'd meant to research the whole caterpillar/ant situation. To my horror, I came across one of the Animal Communication Project's pages, discovering that, without going into great detail, the species have a symbiotic relationship and that, in fact, the ants are very much critical to the survival of the caterpillars; the chance of one getting by without its ant protectors is zero.
I, in my limited understanding, had moved this very happy caterpillar from a good situation because I thought I could improve upon it, give it a nice view, shelter it from its seeming enemies. Marianne Williamson would say, "What arrogance to have assumed that you are better equipped to handle what nature orchestrates perfectly on its own!"
I had been so afraid for the future, for the next step, that I interfered in the metamorphosis of this would-be butterfly.
The ants also figure beautifully in this story, as they represent patience, cooperation, and community. My impatience is disrupting the natural flow, blocking the blossoming I seek. No wonder the fuzzy guy had looked so confused as I carried him across the yard. (Well, he did. I don't make this shet up.)
"No more meddling." That's my message from the universe. "We don't need your rescue efforts, Margot. We're taking care of it. It's all good."
I suppose I needed to be told twice, though, because, walking around in the dark, searching for him, wanting to make it right, I was reminded that this, too, lies outside my jurisdiction. It had already been made right. The caterpillar had moved, but it was too dark to determine where. Back to his friends, I trust. The ants that gladly blanket him tonight.
10.9.09
The Nasties
I'm done. I'm so over your nastiness, you nasty boys!
Wanna know why? Lemme share.
Last weekend I was getting ready for a birthday party. I put on a pretty little mod dress and experimented with a makeup concept demonstrated in the classic eyeliner video on the MAC website, using a natural mineral liner from Larenim instead. Yeah, I looked good, but whatever. I look good a lot.
So, the cable guy reached the door just as my mom was walking out, and she was audibly irritated that his timing threatened to interfere with her vacuum shopping. I told her I would stay until he was done, even though it would make me late. Why not? Well, as Mom can tell you, I have a history...
We had this conversation as she was downstairs in the foyer, and I was upstairs in my room, so I hadn't seen the man until he was done fiddling with some wires in the living room. He asked for permission to come up. Right away, he was ALL about me. It's always obvious. He asked if my internet was okay, glanced at the router, and peered through the window, mentioning he'd have to climb that pole down the street.
Okay, dude. Climb it.
When he came back in, he called me downstairs, and pulled that typical shet. There I was, counting the minutes until he would leave, while being bombarded with boring questions like "How old are you?" and "Do you have a boyfriend?" and "What are your plans this weekend?" Of course, I was leery from the start--that is, until the moment he revealed he had a wife, whereupon the reasoning mind suggested that my intuition pipe down. "He's married, see? Not a problem."
Well, this is why I'm not so fond of the reasoning mind: it was a problem. At one point, he walked over to me from across the room, grabbed my hands, gazed deeply into my eyes and told me how beautiful I am, and suddenly the ten feet that had separated us became two and then none. Yes, before I knew it, he'd gone in for a hug, and then he proceeded to SQUEEZE MY ASS. That's right.
I pulled away.
"You're married!!!"
"I know, but if I weren't, I'd take you away."
Take me away?!? Omg, no! No!!! It was disgusting, and, for a minute there, it threw me off. Then I remembered the self I'd momentarily forgotten. My posture conveyed a new message: I am no doormat. It was easy enough to decipher, even for someone so ridiculous as to engage in such unscrupulous behavior on Time Warner's dollar. I silently requested that the situation wouldn't escalate, and, except for an absolutely repellent request that I turn around in order to enhance his admiration of my curves followed by an ew-ewww yucky exiting kiss on the cheek and still more mumbling on my gorgeousness, it really didn't get any worse, and, in truth, he's lucky it didn't. A black eye would have upset his boss, and his broken ass would worry his wife.
And this was not the first time, either. Only a few weeks ago, Mom hired a plumber to fix Grandma's shower. It was a stressful time, and we were very grateful that he was able to do the work for us. He had been at our house for exactly one week when his birthday arrived. We'd told him to take the day off, but he refused, so when he showed up that morning, I apologized for my mother's not having made him a birthday cake. I mean, if it had been my birthday, I'd want my employer to give me a sweet treat or make a gesture of some sort.
"I thought YOU were gonna make me one," he tested.
"Oh, well, I meant to bake something, but I've been so busy."
"I thought you were gonna be in it." Straight-faced.
"That would present some logistical difficulties, no?"
"I could help you."
Awkward! Another married man, btw. Or at least that's what he told my Mom initially; his story happened to evolve as the days went by. Needless to say, after that, our interactions were certainly strained. He went on to ignore me, as I had not responded positively to the idea of popping out of a giant birthday cake I had baked for a stranger with a steady lady.
I can't believe what dudes do, but maybe I should start because it happens ALL THE TIME.
Even on the job. Among my personal faves is that time I recorded a song for some quirky project, and the engineer bought me a salad afterward, which I thought nothing of, as Luke and I used to share meals with our former manager quite regularly. I thought more of it, of course, when he called me early the next morning, hoping for a date. There wouldn't be one, I assured him, as we'd already discussed over lunch my re-connecting with an ex. In return, he refused to give me a copy of the song I'd worked on, so I had to buy it on iTunes when it was released two years later. And it doesn't end there, folks. Even some of my fans have sent me nasty mail. No, I'm not talking about those sweet compliments and silly flirty things. I'm talking digits and propositions. Yeah.
No more unwanted attention, s'il vous plaît! Ugh. I must evaluate my vibration. The boy hair is not making me invisible to the average man, as I'd hoped it would. Am I going to have to start being a bitch? Nah, I guess not, but some serious changes must be made, as I will not be entertaining such shenanigans in the future. I'm curious how all of you women out there steer clear of this manure, and I wonder if any of my more testosterone-driven readers can offer any insight on fending off the undesirables, but do NB: these recommendations should not come in the form of several prurient thoughts plus contact info. Merci beaucoup!
Wanna know why? Lemme share.
Last weekend I was getting ready for a birthday party. I put on a pretty little mod dress and experimented with a makeup concept demonstrated in the classic eyeliner video on the MAC website, using a natural mineral liner from Larenim instead. Yeah, I looked good, but whatever. I look good a lot.
So, the cable guy reached the door just as my mom was walking out, and she was audibly irritated that his timing threatened to interfere with her vacuum shopping. I told her I would stay until he was done, even though it would make me late. Why not? Well, as Mom can tell you, I have a history...
We had this conversation as she was downstairs in the foyer, and I was upstairs in my room, so I hadn't seen the man until he was done fiddling with some wires in the living room. He asked for permission to come up. Right away, he was ALL about me. It's always obvious. He asked if my internet was okay, glanced at the router, and peered through the window, mentioning he'd have to climb that pole down the street.
Okay, dude. Climb it.
When he came back in, he called me downstairs, and pulled that typical shet. There I was, counting the minutes until he would leave, while being bombarded with boring questions like "How old are you?" and "Do you have a boyfriend?" and "What are your plans this weekend?" Of course, I was leery from the start--that is, until the moment he revealed he had a wife, whereupon the reasoning mind suggested that my intuition pipe down. "He's married, see? Not a problem."
Well, this is why I'm not so fond of the reasoning mind: it was a problem. At one point, he walked over to me from across the room, grabbed my hands, gazed deeply into my eyes and told me how beautiful I am, and suddenly the ten feet that had separated us became two and then none. Yes, before I knew it, he'd gone in for a hug, and then he proceeded to SQUEEZE MY ASS. That's right.
I pulled away.
"You're married!!!"
"I know, but if I weren't, I'd take you away."
Take me away?!? Omg, no! No!!! It was disgusting, and, for a minute there, it threw me off. Then I remembered the self I'd momentarily forgotten. My posture conveyed a new message: I am no doormat. It was easy enough to decipher, even for someone so ridiculous as to engage in such unscrupulous behavior on Time Warner's dollar. I silently requested that the situation wouldn't escalate, and, except for an absolutely repellent request that I turn around in order to enhance his admiration of my curves followed by an ew-ewww yucky exiting kiss on the cheek and still more mumbling on my gorgeousness, it really didn't get any worse, and, in truth, he's lucky it didn't. A black eye would have upset his boss, and his broken ass would worry his wife.
And this was not the first time, either. Only a few weeks ago, Mom hired a plumber to fix Grandma's shower. It was a stressful time, and we were very grateful that he was able to do the work for us. He had been at our house for exactly one week when his birthday arrived. We'd told him to take the day off, but he refused, so when he showed up that morning, I apologized for my mother's not having made him a birthday cake. I mean, if it had been my birthday, I'd want my employer to give me a sweet treat or make a gesture of some sort.
"I thought YOU were gonna make me one," he tested.
"Oh, well, I meant to bake something, but I've been so busy."
"I thought you were gonna be in it." Straight-faced.
"That would present some logistical difficulties, no?"
"I could help you."
Awkward! Another married man, btw. Or at least that's what he told my Mom initially; his story happened to evolve as the days went by. Needless to say, after that, our interactions were certainly strained. He went on to ignore me, as I had not responded positively to the idea of popping out of a giant birthday cake I had baked for a stranger with a steady lady.
I can't believe what dudes do, but maybe I should start because it happens ALL THE TIME.
Even on the job. Among my personal faves is that time I recorded a song for some quirky project, and the engineer bought me a salad afterward, which I thought nothing of, as Luke and I used to share meals with our former manager quite regularly. I thought more of it, of course, when he called me early the next morning, hoping for a date. There wouldn't be one, I assured him, as we'd already discussed over lunch my re-connecting with an ex. In return, he refused to give me a copy of the song I'd worked on, so I had to buy it on iTunes when it was released two years later. And it doesn't end there, folks. Even some of my fans have sent me nasty mail. No, I'm not talking about those sweet compliments and silly flirty things. I'm talking digits and propositions. Yeah.
No more unwanted attention, s'il vous plaît! Ugh. I must evaluate my vibration. The boy hair is not making me invisible to the average man, as I'd hoped it would. Am I going to have to start being a bitch? Nah, I guess not, but some serious changes must be made, as I will not be entertaining such shenanigans in the future. I'm curious how all of you women out there steer clear of this manure, and I wonder if any of my more testosterone-driven readers can offer any insight on fending off the undesirables, but do NB: these recommendations should not come in the form of several prurient thoughts plus contact info. Merci beaucoup!
3.9.09
Comme une Fée
When we last spoke, I was down in the dumps. Its cause was more chemical than psychological, though, as I discovered several days later.
I'm mercurial for sure because the next day I felt wonderful again. Elements of joy and synchronicity began to repopulate my hours, and that's the way I like them. Certainly this is why I cannot tolerate anything less; I've grown accustomed to fantastic.
Perhaps it was a darkest-before-dawn scenario. Having released my fears, regrets, and resistance, there was an incredible freedom, a high I am still relishing.
I am happy. Electric. When I see butterflies and hummingbirds in my garden, I get even bigger chills than I used to. I'm letting people come and go as they please. I'm not engaged in molding and crafting a specific path and, in fact, have altogether abandoned my once religious interest in this. I'd rather chisel my insides and witness how the outside responds in kind. I am at peace with the present moment. In loving what is, I am able to savor small things in a much more intense way than I ever have. Last night, for instance, a simple brushing of my hand brought me such wildly enormous pleasure that I couldn't move, except to giggle like a schoolgirl. Such innocence. Such thorough surrender.
Perhaps my tantric practice has deepened without overt attention. My teacher does say that tantra has nothing and everything to do with sex. My now is so rich, so deep compared to what it used to be. To think it's only a tiny fraction of what it is quickly becoming...
When Mom is giving me shet, or Luke's parents are being unsupportive, I have instant compassion for them, and I don't take things personally anymore. If something rubs me the wrong way, I address the internal situation it brings up. Progress is made.
Before, when I thought I was living magically, I found myself taking life litmus tests at regular intervals. If something "bad" happened, I blamed myself for stepping out of my flow momentarily and cutting off my good, but that idea is out of alignment with real magic, which does not give the seemingly bad any power or credibility. A big breakthrough.
I recently recounted the following story to a dear friend who was in need of inspiration. As it begins, Mom and I are picking up one of my two adoptive Jewish grandmas from LAX. When we arrive, Grandma 3 is farklempt. She's been crying for hours, devastated over having lost some very precious jewelry given to her by her late husband. As she lamented the clumsy luggage search in waves of palpable grief, I sat in the backseat, wondering why I'd brought this into my experience. Like I said, my life's fantastic, and I don't need to hear about unpleasant things!
That was my first thought, emerging from my former misunderstanding of magic. Then the new magic asked a question. Why am I here right now? The answer was loud and clear. I am here to act on behalf of good.
As Mom was soaking up the drama, which, of course, is easy to do when you are surrounded by it, I was enveloped in clarity. I sent out a silent request that Grandma 3's jewels would be discovered, forming a clear mental picture of her being reunited with her pearls and her diamond watch. Sure enough, by trip's end, my intuition was shouting at me to check her bag. Once inside her home, we did just that, and, after having examined almost every inside pocket without success, we had a single zippered pouch left, and bingo!
Had I taken the situation as an indication that I was being a bad attractor, I wouldn't have had the sense to check her bag. Instead, I would have left bummed out by the episode after having said some sad goodbyes, under the assumption that Grandma 3 was effed, which she was not. Eventually, I'm sure, she would have found the jewels anyway, but her belief in their being gone forever was so strong, she wasn't open to finding them, and it would undoubtedly have cost her several sleepless nights. I fixed it in fifteen minutes.
So this is the newish me. But some things may not soon change.
Luke likes to point out that I don't move like an adult. I jump onto my bed at night like a child or plop down into it like a whale into foam, depending upon how tired I am. My speech is distinctly melodic. My hands are no bigger than a girl's, and I have the same body that I did when I was fifteen. My skull is miniature, so hats tend to cover my eyes. I don't walk normally either. I bounce and flit about like a fairy, but it's much more fitting now that I am light and free. My connection to experience has entirely shifted. To cull a memory from childhood as explanation, I am a young girl at her swingset, admiring her life in the breeze-borne parachute seed before her, crowned in buoyant silky tufts, delighting in its flight, in its alighting on the precise place for its thriving.
I'm mercurial for sure because the next day I felt wonderful again. Elements of joy and synchronicity began to repopulate my hours, and that's the way I like them. Certainly this is why I cannot tolerate anything less; I've grown accustomed to fantastic.
Perhaps it was a darkest-before-dawn scenario. Having released my fears, regrets, and resistance, there was an incredible freedom, a high I am still relishing.
I am happy. Electric. When I see butterflies and hummingbirds in my garden, I get even bigger chills than I used to. I'm letting people come and go as they please. I'm not engaged in molding and crafting a specific path and, in fact, have altogether abandoned my once religious interest in this. I'd rather chisel my insides and witness how the outside responds in kind. I am at peace with the present moment. In loving what is, I am able to savor small things in a much more intense way than I ever have. Last night, for instance, a simple brushing of my hand brought me such wildly enormous pleasure that I couldn't move, except to giggle like a schoolgirl. Such innocence. Such thorough surrender.
Perhaps my tantric practice has deepened without overt attention. My teacher does say that tantra has nothing and everything to do with sex. My now is so rich, so deep compared to what it used to be. To think it's only a tiny fraction of what it is quickly becoming...
When Mom is giving me shet, or Luke's parents are being unsupportive, I have instant compassion for them, and I don't take things personally anymore. If something rubs me the wrong way, I address the internal situation it brings up. Progress is made.
Before, when I thought I was living magically, I found myself taking life litmus tests at regular intervals. If something "bad" happened, I blamed myself for stepping out of my flow momentarily and cutting off my good, but that idea is out of alignment with real magic, which does not give the seemingly bad any power or credibility. A big breakthrough.
I recently recounted the following story to a dear friend who was in need of inspiration. As it begins, Mom and I are picking up one of my two adoptive Jewish grandmas from LAX. When we arrive, Grandma 3 is farklempt. She's been crying for hours, devastated over having lost some very precious jewelry given to her by her late husband. As she lamented the clumsy luggage search in waves of palpable grief, I sat in the backseat, wondering why I'd brought this into my experience. Like I said, my life's fantastic, and I don't need to hear about unpleasant things!
That was my first thought, emerging from my former misunderstanding of magic. Then the new magic asked a question. Why am I here right now? The answer was loud and clear. I am here to act on behalf of good.
As Mom was soaking up the drama, which, of course, is easy to do when you are surrounded by it, I was enveloped in clarity. I sent out a silent request that Grandma 3's jewels would be discovered, forming a clear mental picture of her being reunited with her pearls and her diamond watch. Sure enough, by trip's end, my intuition was shouting at me to check her bag. Once inside her home, we did just that, and, after having examined almost every inside pocket without success, we had a single zippered pouch left, and bingo!
Had I taken the situation as an indication that I was being a bad attractor, I wouldn't have had the sense to check her bag. Instead, I would have left bummed out by the episode after having said some sad goodbyes, under the assumption that Grandma 3 was effed, which she was not. Eventually, I'm sure, she would have found the jewels anyway, but her belief in their being gone forever was so strong, she wasn't open to finding them, and it would undoubtedly have cost her several sleepless nights. I fixed it in fifteen minutes.
So this is the newish me. But some things may not soon change.
Luke likes to point out that I don't move like an adult. I jump onto my bed at night like a child or plop down into it like a whale into foam, depending upon how tired I am. My speech is distinctly melodic. My hands are no bigger than a girl's, and I have the same body that I did when I was fifteen. My skull is miniature, so hats tend to cover my eyes. I don't walk normally either. I bounce and flit about like a fairy, but it's much more fitting now that I am light and free. My connection to experience has entirely shifted. To cull a memory from childhood as explanation, I am a young girl at her swingset, admiring her life in the breeze-borne parachute seed before her, crowned in buoyant silky tufts, delighting in its flight, in its alighting on the precise place for its thriving.
3.8.09
I hate this band, and I want it to die
Today I am feeling BAD. No, not the MJ way. Like crying for 30 minutes at a time.
I've been putting off blog entries because I've been too busy with halfhearted attempts at weaving lyrics to write something meaningful for you. This evening I don't have anything productive to say, but it's long overdue, and procrastination sucks, so if you're sensitive and don't want to read of my silly woes, then stop now. Come back when I post something happier. Today I'm going to be real.
I am lonely. I am hungry but too tired to prepare anything for myself and way too tired to drive half an hour to get any takeaway that I would deem edible. I miss my sister. I want a dog. I don't want to make meals for my grandma anymore. I don't want to care for two cats when only one is mine. Post-fraud, I am waiting for a new ATM card, and my credit card bill is astronomical because the famous raw guru David Wolfe is being a big jerk and trying to screw me out of hundreds of dollars for a "30-day risk-free" program that I canceled within 48 hours of purchasing, having read some info on the program forum that made me seriously doubt his integrity, and over a week before he decided to ship it out anyway. I'd recently made some big purchases, so, for the first time in a very long time, I am having to pinch pennies--and I'd have been happy to do it for something beneficial but certainly not for the best scam ever, not because this douchebag can't make money in an honorable way. This weekend I bought a pair of sunglasses and returned them the same day only to buy another pair the next day that I am already unhappy with and will probably return. I blame my face. 'Tis the season for leggings and my only pair has a big hole. I hate clothes. I'd rather be naked. I need a new place to live. My ex-beloveds won't release me fully. My jing is depleted. I need new friends. Judging from the external stagnation, I can only conclude that I am an ugly, crazy, talentless piece of poo. I don't want to complete our EP. I hate our video for "Portable." I want to move to Iceland.
I was thinking I would drive to the desert tonight by myself to sit and cry and wait and see how long it would take for Luke and Mom to notice I wasn't around. Or go on a road trip and not tell anyone where I went. I want to disappear.
And I really want to quit music. I'm not canceling any scheduled engagements. In fact, I'm happy to play them. We have some new songs, and they're great. We've never played the Echo before, and we've never performed on a boat. But this is my truth today.
I have to water my garden daily.
I am tired of it.
If I were a garden, I'd be dried up and brown.
No one is watering me.
It sounds very pathetic, I know, but one can only flourish so long without love. I feel quite inadequate and bored at a core level. Yeah, self-love, blah blah blah. There are people with far less self-love than I have who are getting banged RIGHT NOW--and not just getting banged but being made love to and getting married and having babies.
I don't know what internal blocks of mine are staving off success in what should be vital areas of my life, and I don't know how to fix them. I have read the books and seen the healers. I have worked on my shet. I am so lost. And even if my sister were here, she probably couldn't fix it anyway.
I've been putting off blog entries because I've been too busy with halfhearted attempts at weaving lyrics to write something meaningful for you. This evening I don't have anything productive to say, but it's long overdue, and procrastination sucks, so if you're sensitive and don't want to read of my silly woes, then stop now. Come back when I post something happier. Today I'm going to be real.
I am lonely. I am hungry but too tired to prepare anything for myself and way too tired to drive half an hour to get any takeaway that I would deem edible. I miss my sister. I want a dog. I don't want to make meals for my grandma anymore. I don't want to care for two cats when only one is mine. Post-fraud, I am waiting for a new ATM card, and my credit card bill is astronomical because the famous raw guru David Wolfe is being a big jerk and trying to screw me out of hundreds of dollars for a "30-day risk-free" program that I canceled within 48 hours of purchasing, having read some info on the program forum that made me seriously doubt his integrity, and over a week before he decided to ship it out anyway. I'd recently made some big purchases, so, for the first time in a very long time, I am having to pinch pennies--and I'd have been happy to do it for something beneficial but certainly not for the best scam ever, not because this douchebag can't make money in an honorable way. This weekend I bought a pair of sunglasses and returned them the same day only to buy another pair the next day that I am already unhappy with and will probably return. I blame my face. 'Tis the season for leggings and my only pair has a big hole. I hate clothes. I'd rather be naked. I need a new place to live. My ex-beloveds won't release me fully. My jing is depleted. I need new friends. Judging from the external stagnation, I can only conclude that I am an ugly, crazy, talentless piece of poo. I don't want to complete our EP. I hate our video for "Portable." I want to move to Iceland.
I was thinking I would drive to the desert tonight by myself to sit and cry and wait and see how long it would take for Luke and Mom to notice I wasn't around. Or go on a road trip and not tell anyone where I went. I want to disappear.
And I really want to quit music. I'm not canceling any scheduled engagements. In fact, I'm happy to play them. We have some new songs, and they're great. We've never played the Echo before, and we've never performed on a boat. But this is my truth today.
I have to water my garden daily.
I am tired of it.
If I were a garden, I'd be dried up and brown.
No one is watering me.
It sounds very pathetic, I know, but one can only flourish so long without love. I feel quite inadequate and bored at a core level. Yeah, self-love, blah blah blah. There are people with far less self-love than I have who are getting banged RIGHT NOW--and not just getting banged but being made love to and getting married and having babies.
I don't know what internal blocks of mine are staving off success in what should be vital areas of my life, and I don't know how to fix them. I have read the books and seen the healers. I have worked on my shet. I am so lost. And even if my sister were here, she probably couldn't fix it anyway.
6.7.09
Pack Your Bags; They're Leaving
My heroine Flossie, author of The Game, says that you must prepare for the thing you want, even when there isn't the slightest sign of it. Dig those ditches. Deep. Expect to find them one morning, sparkling and overflowing, lapping at your feet.
Expect it as children expect their presents on Christmas Eve. Kids don't stay up late each December night wondering if their parents have scrounged up enough money to purchase their toys. Any insomnia would most likely reach a crescendo the very night Santa comes to town, the result of the potent excitement of having their desires fulfilled quite effortlessly in just a few short hours, after weeks of harboring an unshakable belief and nurturing an expectant wait. Insert a neurotic adult brain here to dilute the obvious magic of this process.
That is where my psychological efforts are centered these days. Becoming childlike in the best sense of the word. Reclaiming my magic. I haven't lost as much of it as many have, which is rather impressive given my life story, but there is still a lot more for me to accomplish in this regard.
I am happy these days, soaking up summer, munching watermelon, breathing slowly, relishing a mini-sabbatical from performing, but even in this more balanced state I have had my adult moments, alien thoughts besieging me, removing me from the present into a distant past or future, pointing out that I'm ridiculous for pursuing music, for not having a normal life, for using the bulk of my energy to create and expand and enjoy while many are still using their own to decompress or escape or crazymake.
Recent weeks have reinforced the divide between my new life and my former. There is respect for what came before, but, to be fully invested in the now, I can only visit certain situations and people tentatively and temporarily. It's lonely-ish because, having watched my speed dial contacts dwindle, I have not been able to type in any new ones; they haven't yet appeared.
Ah, the mid-air space to which I must surrender. I am very aware that one must get rid of the old to make space for the new. I am also aware that my personal needs will be fulfilled in the process of making my contributions to the world.
In this space of no-space, a new me is being born. She'll make different demands, so the desires of the earlier versions of Margot must dissolve.
Perhaps this is why my mid-air time has been so lengthy. Vestiges of a previous me are pestering me about old connections and rusty memories. I need to release all hope, holding on, and hanging around in order to create change. Leaving the old safe stuff completely behind is not the easiest, but none of that is mine anymore. Now to untie those last little knots, to nip those last little threads...
I'm treating myself well. I'm showering myself with little gifts, like natural skin care products from Simply Divine Botanicals and clothing and accessories. I'm exercising and drinking green juice every day, and I'm showing up for music in a big way.
I'm treating others well, too. I'm being generous. I'm tithing.
That boring, whining former self is being laid to rest.
The fresh one is buying fashionable luggage. She's filling the cases with her new cosmetics and treasures and habits and dreams. She's preparing for her avalanche of good.
She's packing her bags; they're leaving.
On a related note, I'm about to fly to NYC. 9:30 departure. ;)
Expect it as children expect their presents on Christmas Eve. Kids don't stay up late each December night wondering if their parents have scrounged up enough money to purchase their toys. Any insomnia would most likely reach a crescendo the very night Santa comes to town, the result of the potent excitement of having their desires fulfilled quite effortlessly in just a few short hours, after weeks of harboring an unshakable belief and nurturing an expectant wait. Insert a neurotic adult brain here to dilute the obvious magic of this process.
That is where my psychological efforts are centered these days. Becoming childlike in the best sense of the word. Reclaiming my magic. I haven't lost as much of it as many have, which is rather impressive given my life story, but there is still a lot more for me to accomplish in this regard.
I am happy these days, soaking up summer, munching watermelon, breathing slowly, relishing a mini-sabbatical from performing, but even in this more balanced state I have had my adult moments, alien thoughts besieging me, removing me from the present into a distant past or future, pointing out that I'm ridiculous for pursuing music, for not having a normal life, for using the bulk of my energy to create and expand and enjoy while many are still using their own to decompress or escape or crazymake.
Recent weeks have reinforced the divide between my new life and my former. There is respect for what came before, but, to be fully invested in the now, I can only visit certain situations and people tentatively and temporarily. It's lonely-ish because, having watched my speed dial contacts dwindle, I have not been able to type in any new ones; they haven't yet appeared.
Ah, the mid-air space to which I must surrender. I am very aware that one must get rid of the old to make space for the new. I am also aware that my personal needs will be fulfilled in the process of making my contributions to the world.
In this space of no-space, a new me is being born. She'll make different demands, so the desires of the earlier versions of Margot must dissolve.
Perhaps this is why my mid-air time has been so lengthy. Vestiges of a previous me are pestering me about old connections and rusty memories. I need to release all hope, holding on, and hanging around in order to create change. Leaving the old safe stuff completely behind is not the easiest, but none of that is mine anymore. Now to untie those last little knots, to nip those last little threads...
I'm treating myself well. I'm showering myself with little gifts, like natural skin care products from Simply Divine Botanicals and clothing and accessories. I'm exercising and drinking green juice every day, and I'm showing up for music in a big way.
I'm treating others well, too. I'm being generous. I'm tithing.
That boring, whining former self is being laid to rest.
The fresh one is buying fashionable luggage. She's filling the cases with her new cosmetics and treasures and habits and dreams. She's preparing for her avalanche of good.
She's packing her bags; they're leaving.
On a related note, I'm about to fly to NYC. 9:30 departure. ;)
1.6.09
Ungrateful Little Besh
Every night before I go to bed, I write down at least 5 things that make me warm and fuzzy inside.
I made the change from regular diary to gratitude journal in February after listening to an Oprah podcast. She said that jotting down these simple things changed her life, and that was, of course, enough to get a pen in my hand for several minutes of vespertine venerating.
It's been working. Massive changes are occurring, mostly from within. The unexpected happens again and again. My connection to all that is has bloomed. I am very much in tune with everyone I love and anything I think about. Almost psychic. Sometimes it is difficult feeling so much, especially because I am still learning how to identify certain energies that come up.
Yesterday, for example, I woke up with a sense of urgency. I knew I had to go south and east. There was a plan in my head that I would certainly not have put there and that, in fact, I very much disliked. I worried that it had been planted by the ego, that I was being duped into an act of self-sabotage. It was a crazy idea, but there it was. I jumped into the shower, got dressed, and carefully crafted a makeup concept, and I don't usually wear makeup outside of parties and shows.
It was a weird wanting, and I rationalized it by reminding myself that this is a really weird time in my life. The weirdest, even. In that sense, it was very much in the flow of the times, so I had no reason to disobey.
I drove straight to my old apartment. Haven't been there in a year. I looked for Spencer. Yes, the little neighbor boy (of a May '08 post) who loved me and whom I carelessly abandoned without a word, even though his father had asked me to give him a proper farewell before my move. I hadn't because, at the time, I was busy attaching myself to someone my own age, and I let Spencer slide.
Yesterday, all dolled up, I stood on the sidewalk, looking straight past my former bungalow toward his home. There wasn't a peep. Having exchanged the innocent joy of watching Spencer frolic on his toy scooter for the riskier rushes of what was supposed to have had more substance, for Vespa rides with a dashing gentleman, fellow Francophile, opera aficionado, and sybarite, I had finally returned to the real. I felt silly. Lonely. Very lonely. Selfish. So silly.
I was there to atone, and I couldn't. There were absolutely no scooter boys to admire, no young one blushing in my presence, no grown one blowing me kisses upon parting. Oh, I was very much alone. There was more to my plan yesterday, but I started feeling worse about it, and, deciding that maybe it wasn't in my best interest, I dined and went shopping and bought nothing and dined again. My favorite dessert was not available. Out of season. Then I cried for a couple of hours, bemoaning my face, my body, my family, my career, my free fall into a future of forced abstinence--all the shet that is wrong right now or could be wrong tomorrow. I got it out. Phew! Once composed, I returned a phone call, and, quite magically, it seemed less a conversation with a good friend than a thorough lecture to myself. I was saying all of the things I needed to hear that I wasn't hearing enough these days.
Late last night, as exhaustion tugged on my eyelids, I picked a pink pen. It was dry, so I scooped up a second pink pen. Also dry. I gave green a try, and it wrote successfully: "Thanks for a very dark couple of hours of tears, confessions, and insecurities, followed by a sense of relief. For the understanding that my controlling approach toward my circumstances has earned me little. For knowing that I must surrender completely to what is. For my friendship with Luke. For a chat with a friend that became a challenge to myself to move more deeply into fearless faith, nonresistance, and love. For 118˚. For South Coast Plaza. For Au Lac. For kelp noodles. For durian's being out of season, so I can savor it more come summer. For finding happiness in letting go. Ahhh. For another way."
I made the change from regular diary to gratitude journal in February after listening to an Oprah podcast. She said that jotting down these simple things changed her life, and that was, of course, enough to get a pen in my hand for several minutes of vespertine venerating.
It's been working. Massive changes are occurring, mostly from within. The unexpected happens again and again. My connection to all that is has bloomed. I am very much in tune with everyone I love and anything I think about. Almost psychic. Sometimes it is difficult feeling so much, especially because I am still learning how to identify certain energies that come up.
Yesterday, for example, I woke up with a sense of urgency. I knew I had to go south and east. There was a plan in my head that I would certainly not have put there and that, in fact, I very much disliked. I worried that it had been planted by the ego, that I was being duped into an act of self-sabotage. It was a crazy idea, but there it was. I jumped into the shower, got dressed, and carefully crafted a makeup concept, and I don't usually wear makeup outside of parties and shows.
It was a weird wanting, and I rationalized it by reminding myself that this is a really weird time in my life. The weirdest, even. In that sense, it was very much in the flow of the times, so I had no reason to disobey.
I drove straight to my old apartment. Haven't been there in a year. I looked for Spencer. Yes, the little neighbor boy (of a May '08 post) who loved me and whom I carelessly abandoned without a word, even though his father had asked me to give him a proper farewell before my move. I hadn't because, at the time, I was busy attaching myself to someone my own age, and I let Spencer slide.
Yesterday, all dolled up, I stood on the sidewalk, looking straight past my former bungalow toward his home. There wasn't a peep. Having exchanged the innocent joy of watching Spencer frolic on his toy scooter for the riskier rushes of what was supposed to have had more substance, for Vespa rides with a dashing gentleman, fellow Francophile, opera aficionado, and sybarite, I had finally returned to the real. I felt silly. Lonely. Very lonely. Selfish. So silly.
I was there to atone, and I couldn't. There were absolutely no scooter boys to admire, no young one blushing in my presence, no grown one blowing me kisses upon parting. Oh, I was very much alone. There was more to my plan yesterday, but I started feeling worse about it, and, deciding that maybe it wasn't in my best interest, I dined and went shopping and bought nothing and dined again. My favorite dessert was not available. Out of season. Then I cried for a couple of hours, bemoaning my face, my body, my family, my career, my free fall into a future of forced abstinence--all the shet that is wrong right now or could be wrong tomorrow. I got it out. Phew! Once composed, I returned a phone call, and, quite magically, it seemed less a conversation with a good friend than a thorough lecture to myself. I was saying all of the things I needed to hear that I wasn't hearing enough these days.
Late last night, as exhaustion tugged on my eyelids, I picked a pink pen. It was dry, so I scooped up a second pink pen. Also dry. I gave green a try, and it wrote successfully: "Thanks for a very dark couple of hours of tears, confessions, and insecurities, followed by a sense of relief. For the understanding that my controlling approach toward my circumstances has earned me little. For knowing that I must surrender completely to what is. For my friendship with Luke. For a chat with a friend that became a challenge to myself to move more deeply into fearless faith, nonresistance, and love. For 118˚. For South Coast Plaza. For Au Lac. For kelp noodles. For durian's being out of season, so I can savor it more come summer. For finding happiness in letting go. Ahhh. For another way."
11.5.09
Vintage Buzz
I had a blue-black A-line helmet with heavy fringe when I met my cutter.
My sister and I had dragged Luke to a store called Vintage Buzz, recycled clothing in the front, boutique cigarettes in the back. My sister started chatting up these very hip adults while I searched the racks for hidden treasures. One of her cool conversational partners was a stylist. He wanted to work with my hair. Of course, I was interested.
I started visiting him after school, and he would do my hair for free. Then I'd go to first period and dazzle all of my classmates with the next phase of a mutating bob that would have cost thousands of dollars to maintain. Bangs, no-bangs, wildly colored bangs, layered, highlighted, lowlighted, brown with blond racing stripes, etc. I spent many hours at the Sebastian pyramid in the West Valley testing out new cuts and products, and it was great, except for that time when the company's master stylist poured a gallon of hairspray on me, let it dry, and then insisted on combing it out. Ouch!
After high school, I had to leave my precision cutter for months at a time. Funny thing: the scholarship money didn't cover fancy coiffures. Plus, I was in hippie central, and it was rubbing off on me. One of my fave professors was a Marxist, and she scoffed at department store purchases. She bought all of her clothes at Salvation Army. Her genius was evident, and I greatly admired her, so I wasn't eager to blow all of my extra cash on the Marc Jacobs dresses I'd try on at Macy's in SF. Add to this my being in a long-term relationship and my having grown accustomed to walking Telegraph in my jammies.
Thus, the years at Berkeley proved a bit taming. I returned to LA with my sense of style in the sewer. I was a poet and a composer, and I had no intention of buying into superficial shet, but boxViolet was growing, and our look was becoming more and more of a consideration.
Our former drummer, Nate, wasn't into flash either. He had a little ponytail when we met him. As soon as I could, I sat him down in my bathroom and lopped that off for him. This made him far more appealing to women, and he started dating a fashion-conscious lass, who one day remarked, "You guys are artists. You should be dressing up."
This girl with a very boring bob sans bangs or color or any kind of product was calling us lame. It was a bit of a wake-up call.
Since then, I have been re-birthing a braver version of myself, the girl who is down for anything, like Lil' Kim in Magic Stick. Ohhh, I, too, have a magic box, except mine is purple because it's a band, not a vajayjay.
When I was at the salon last weekend, I was planning on getting trimmed back into my Twiggy do, but when I showed him some pics of Jean Seberg for next time, he got excited. Apparently, his enthusiasm was contagious, as I remember hearing him say, "Well, judging from your hair history..." but I forgot to listen to the rest, my being so appreciative for having such shared experience to go on. He continued, "Most people do it backwards. Now's the time to have short hair--when you're young and beautiful, not later." I asked how long it would take to grow out if I hated it. "Six months."
"Ok. Let's do it."
A gamine, mere millimeters away from a buzz, entered into my hair history.
My sister and I had dragged Luke to a store called Vintage Buzz, recycled clothing in the front, boutique cigarettes in the back. My sister started chatting up these very hip adults while I searched the racks for hidden treasures. One of her cool conversational partners was a stylist. He wanted to work with my hair. Of course, I was interested.
I started visiting him after school, and he would do my hair for free. Then I'd go to first period and dazzle all of my classmates with the next phase of a mutating bob that would have cost thousands of dollars to maintain. Bangs, no-bangs, wildly colored bangs, layered, highlighted, lowlighted, brown with blond racing stripes, etc. I spent many hours at the Sebastian pyramid in the West Valley testing out new cuts and products, and it was great, except for that time when the company's master stylist poured a gallon of hairspray on me, let it dry, and then insisted on combing it out. Ouch!
After high school, I had to leave my precision cutter for months at a time. Funny thing: the scholarship money didn't cover fancy coiffures. Plus, I was in hippie central, and it was rubbing off on me. One of my fave professors was a Marxist, and she scoffed at department store purchases. She bought all of her clothes at Salvation Army. Her genius was evident, and I greatly admired her, so I wasn't eager to blow all of my extra cash on the Marc Jacobs dresses I'd try on at Macy's in SF. Add to this my being in a long-term relationship and my having grown accustomed to walking Telegraph in my jammies.
Thus, the years at Berkeley proved a bit taming. I returned to LA with my sense of style in the sewer. I was a poet and a composer, and I had no intention of buying into superficial shet, but boxViolet was growing, and our look was becoming more and more of a consideration.
Our former drummer, Nate, wasn't into flash either. He had a little ponytail when we met him. As soon as I could, I sat him down in my bathroom and lopped that off for him. This made him far more appealing to women, and he started dating a fashion-conscious lass, who one day remarked, "You guys are artists. You should be dressing up."
This girl with a very boring bob sans bangs or color or any kind of product was calling us lame. It was a bit of a wake-up call.
Since then, I have been re-birthing a braver version of myself, the girl who is down for anything, like Lil' Kim in Magic Stick. Ohhh, I, too, have a magic box, except mine is purple because it's a band, not a vajayjay.
When I was at the salon last weekend, I was planning on getting trimmed back into my Twiggy do, but when I showed him some pics of Jean Seberg for next time, he got excited. Apparently, his enthusiasm was contagious, as I remember hearing him say, "Well, judging from your hair history..." but I forgot to listen to the rest, my being so appreciative for having such shared experience to go on. He continued, "Most people do it backwards. Now's the time to have short hair--when you're young and beautiful, not later." I asked how long it would take to grow out if I hated it. "Six months."
"Ok. Let's do it."
A gamine, mere millimeters away from a buzz, entered into my hair history.
13.4.09
Learning My Lines
One of the major issues facing people like me, who are constantly dreaming up ways to feel better, is finding your flow and then staying in alignment. The way to gauge this is simple enough: monitoring how you're feeling while taking a good look around...
I will not vomit all over my blog, as I know better, and I do realize things are great enough that I am magnetizing super cool circumstances, like winning a raffle at Euphoria Loves Rawvolution's anniversary party. My main concern is that I'm anxious when I'm supposed to be poised, which only exacerbates emotional tensions. I'm mostly up, but the tiniest departure from magic takes me to places that feel gross, so bad that, from such a vantage point, I am tempted to wonder if the pleasant parts represent a flimsy default mode donned last fall when less-than-ideal arrangements left me in fetal position but auspiciously plopped next to a pair of rose-colored glasses. I crawled away with sweeter vision and eventually danced, but it was a rough road.
And it's not just the little bad things. I overreact to little good things, too, which makes basic living a bit weird. For example, I was at the piano several weeks ago when Blake jumped up and began to observe my tinkering. He seemed very involved in the music, and his expression was so cute and the moment so precious I started to cry. I do this all the time. I'll listen to Dinah Shore's "Like Someone in Love" and join in for most of it until the end, when, overcome, I collapse. "It's Magic" by Doris Day will also do me in. Or I'll hear Callas' Tosca and weep while driving. What hope do I have of surviving the live performance of La Traviata this June? I mean, these are daily episodes, people.
I asked Luke what he thought. "It's fine. It's like you're on mushrooms all the time. Permafried."
Sometimes, when music doesn't appear to be moving linearly and exponentially, I question my purpose and passion. The madness of such lines of reasoning is obvious when taken to the sphere of love. I don't think that because I haven't had a boyfriend in five years I won't have one soon; I must proceed as if he's already here, awaiting my recognition. I send out more love, trusting it will come back somewhere, sometime, giving without needing that return. This is a learned procedure that only started to click recently. I make music harder than love, though both deserts are difficult to endure. Will my songs boomerang, too? I ask for a sign and wait.
I get one while stepping out of the shower. Having mulled over potential forays into health or food or writing or anything else, a bigger thought unearths itself. "Uncooking doesn't bring me joy. I'm not jonesin' for experiments in haute gastronomy. I don't even like getting my hands wet. So eat that, poopy guy who told me I had a cookbook in me. I mean, you're nice enough, but that's so not my calling. I'm perfectly happy eating delicious food prepared by people who get boners from smidgens and dashes. Music makes me happy. Love makes me happy."
I am happy, despite the volatility, and ready to be happier and happier. I just don't know what to do, and I have been advised, in such situations, to instead concentrate on who I am and how I'm thinking. At some juncture, though, you've got to make a move. My beloved life manual, Shinn's Game, says to follow your hunches and do what you feel like doing. Well, the past few weeks I have felt like sunning myself, drinking honey mango smoothies, planting seedlings, petting my cats, and reorganizing my living space, this while the band has enjoyed a surprisingly fruitful existence on the side. The challenge is believing that lounging will get me where I need to be, when the distance between that treasured tomorrow and this passable present can, at times, seem so daunting. I feel like I should be at the studio all the time, but when it isn't where I want to be, I stay home.
Am I hibernating? Am I nesting?
There's not much connecting me to the outside. I am increasingly turned off by invitations to parties for people I rarely see, as my idea of friendship is a lot more than being one among a roomful of warm bodies used semiannually to appease a needy ego. I understand which events will be a waste of my energy, and I choose to sit those out. Besides, the bar scene has nothing I want; my idea of a drink is a freshly pressed organic kale apple lime juice.
There is a solitude here, as I carve a creative and loving space for myself in a world that doesn't seem to honor this consistently.
I've bet everything on this journey. The best of me is precariously situated upon a cliff. I've cast off convention to reach upward. The world would remind me of the price I pay to continue, when many women my age have already hurled themselves toward husbands, houses, and Huggies, but I am clear enough on the penalty paid for not doing what is yours to do. I won't drive within the lines, as I am eager to draw my sustenance elsewhere.
I will not vomit all over my blog, as I know better, and I do realize things are great enough that I am magnetizing super cool circumstances, like winning a raffle at Euphoria Loves Rawvolution's anniversary party. My main concern is that I'm anxious when I'm supposed to be poised, which only exacerbates emotional tensions. I'm mostly up, but the tiniest departure from magic takes me to places that feel gross, so bad that, from such a vantage point, I am tempted to wonder if the pleasant parts represent a flimsy default mode donned last fall when less-than-ideal arrangements left me in fetal position but auspiciously plopped next to a pair of rose-colored glasses. I crawled away with sweeter vision and eventually danced, but it was a rough road.
And it's not just the little bad things. I overreact to little good things, too, which makes basic living a bit weird. For example, I was at the piano several weeks ago when Blake jumped up and began to observe my tinkering. He seemed very involved in the music, and his expression was so cute and the moment so precious I started to cry. I do this all the time. I'll listen to Dinah Shore's "Like Someone in Love" and join in for most of it until the end, when, overcome, I collapse. "It's Magic" by Doris Day will also do me in. Or I'll hear Callas' Tosca and weep while driving. What hope do I have of surviving the live performance of La Traviata this June? I mean, these are daily episodes, people.
I asked Luke what he thought. "It's fine. It's like you're on mushrooms all the time. Permafried."
Sometimes, when music doesn't appear to be moving linearly and exponentially, I question my purpose and passion. The madness of such lines of reasoning is obvious when taken to the sphere of love. I don't think that because I haven't had a boyfriend in five years I won't have one soon; I must proceed as if he's already here, awaiting my recognition. I send out more love, trusting it will come back somewhere, sometime, giving without needing that return. This is a learned procedure that only started to click recently. I make music harder than love, though both deserts are difficult to endure. Will my songs boomerang, too? I ask for a sign and wait.
I get one while stepping out of the shower. Having mulled over potential forays into health or food or writing or anything else, a bigger thought unearths itself. "Uncooking doesn't bring me joy. I'm not jonesin' for experiments in haute gastronomy. I don't even like getting my hands wet. So eat that, poopy guy who told me I had a cookbook in me. I mean, you're nice enough, but that's so not my calling. I'm perfectly happy eating delicious food prepared by people who get boners from smidgens and dashes. Music makes me happy. Love makes me happy."
I am happy, despite the volatility, and ready to be happier and happier. I just don't know what to do, and I have been advised, in such situations, to instead concentrate on who I am and how I'm thinking. At some juncture, though, you've got to make a move. My beloved life manual, Shinn's Game, says to follow your hunches and do what you feel like doing. Well, the past few weeks I have felt like sunning myself, drinking honey mango smoothies, planting seedlings, petting my cats, and reorganizing my living space, this while the band has enjoyed a surprisingly fruitful existence on the side. The challenge is believing that lounging will get me where I need to be, when the distance between that treasured tomorrow and this passable present can, at times, seem so daunting. I feel like I should be at the studio all the time, but when it isn't where I want to be, I stay home.
Am I hibernating? Am I nesting?
There's not much connecting me to the outside. I am increasingly turned off by invitations to parties for people I rarely see, as my idea of friendship is a lot more than being one among a roomful of warm bodies used semiannually to appease a needy ego. I understand which events will be a waste of my energy, and I choose to sit those out. Besides, the bar scene has nothing I want; my idea of a drink is a freshly pressed organic kale apple lime juice.
There is a solitude here, as I carve a creative and loving space for myself in a world that doesn't seem to honor this consistently.
I've bet everything on this journey. The best of me is precariously situated upon a cliff. I've cast off convention to reach upward. The world would remind me of the price I pay to continue, when many women my age have already hurled themselves toward husbands, houses, and Huggies, but I am clear enough on the penalty paid for not doing what is yours to do. I won't drive within the lines, as I am eager to draw my sustenance elsewhere.
20.3.09
Sleeping on the Bathroom Floor
A few weeks ago, I bought a new uncookbook, and to my loyal readers it should come as no surprise that it made me cry--or that it's the second raw uncookbook to do so, as I've demonstrated time and time again what a sensitive creature I can be. The tears actually made a bit more sense this time around because this culinary project was the lovechild of an attractive, intelligent foodie pairing. A classic tale of taster meets chef. They fall in love, move in together, enter veggie paradise hand-in-hand, open a restaurant, and publish the recipes they likely spoonfed each other in the buff.
Instructions for deliciousness are interspersed with adorable episodes between the lovers, delightful stories that suggest a deeply authentic, even karmic, bond. You should have seen me on the lounge chair, in a green bikini and huge black hat; you would have thought I was poring over some juicy Danielle Steel.
No, no, no. This was the story of a handsome couple who found their life's work in each other. I particularly appreciated the account of the woman's drinking too many sake-tinis and having to spend the night on her bathroom floor. Completely tossed and therefore fearful she'd make a mess of her bed, she lay by the toilet and passed out. In the morning, to her surprise, her beloved was curled up beside her. He obviously couldn't bear any sort of distance, even for a few hours. Oh, vomit is nothing in the face of love! How precious!
It reminded me of "Cocoon," when Bjork wakes up with her lover "still inside" her. Um, wow. I wonder if that really happened. I mean literally. It sounds incredibly romantic, and I'm a sucker for that shet. And I know. I always relate everything to Bjork. I'm a fan.
Heavens yes. That kind of love.
Thus the question arose: "Have I ever been the recipient of such thorough adoration?"
I confronted my ex later that week. "You never loved me that much. You never would have spent the night on the bathroom floor with me. You would have said the tile was too cold or the situation was too unsanitary. Actually, you wouldn't even have considered it in the first place." He didn't have a comeback, really, except to say, "If that's how you feel..."
It was kind of emo, which I'm not proud of, but sometimes I like testing the waters.
A few nights later, curiosity took hold, and I had to know how the couple was faring, and, after a bit of research, I discovered that the poopy chef from hell had brought another woman to their book release party. Getting through that night must have taken many more sake-tinis than ever before. In the wake of cheffy's remarkably bad move, the restaurant's investors sided with jilted taster woman, who, after a rough patch, is doing great. She has a new boyfriend, and her restaurant, still thriving, was recently voted the #1 raw restaurant in the world. Yay for resilience!
Yeah, I do want to wake up in an odd place next to someone who can't stand being ten feet away from my body, perhaps with his stuff still inside me when the sun comes out, but, like, it has to be real. I don't understand how one can go from you-can-puke-on-me seeming love to here's-the-new-girl-I'm-banging seeming hate within such a short period of time. That's totally foreign to me, and I'd like to keep it that way. As you know, I'm too sensitive for that.
Instructions for deliciousness are interspersed with adorable episodes between the lovers, delightful stories that suggest a deeply authentic, even karmic, bond. You should have seen me on the lounge chair, in a green bikini and huge black hat; you would have thought I was poring over some juicy Danielle Steel.
No, no, no. This was the story of a handsome couple who found their life's work in each other. I particularly appreciated the account of the woman's drinking too many sake-tinis and having to spend the night on her bathroom floor. Completely tossed and therefore fearful she'd make a mess of her bed, she lay by the toilet and passed out. In the morning, to her surprise, her beloved was curled up beside her. He obviously couldn't bear any sort of distance, even for a few hours. Oh, vomit is nothing in the face of love! How precious!
It reminded me of "Cocoon," when Bjork wakes up with her lover "still inside" her. Um, wow. I wonder if that really happened. I mean literally. It sounds incredibly romantic, and I'm a sucker for that shet. And I know. I always relate everything to Bjork. I'm a fan.
Heavens yes. That kind of love.
Thus the question arose: "Have I ever been the recipient of such thorough adoration?"
I confronted my ex later that week. "You never loved me that much. You never would have spent the night on the bathroom floor with me. You would have said the tile was too cold or the situation was too unsanitary. Actually, you wouldn't even have considered it in the first place." He didn't have a comeback, really, except to say, "If that's how you feel..."
It was kind of emo, which I'm not proud of, but sometimes I like testing the waters.
A few nights later, curiosity took hold, and I had to know how the couple was faring, and, after a bit of research, I discovered that the poopy chef from hell had brought another woman to their book release party. Getting through that night must have taken many more sake-tinis than ever before. In the wake of cheffy's remarkably bad move, the restaurant's investors sided with jilted taster woman, who, after a rough patch, is doing great. She has a new boyfriend, and her restaurant, still thriving, was recently voted the #1 raw restaurant in the world. Yay for resilience!
Yeah, I do want to wake up in an odd place next to someone who can't stand being ten feet away from my body, perhaps with his stuff still inside me when the sun comes out, but, like, it has to be real. I don't understand how one can go from you-can-puke-on-me seeming love to here's-the-new-girl-I'm-banging seeming hate within such a short period of time. That's totally foreign to me, and I'd like to keep it that way. As you know, I'm too sensitive for that.
18.2.09
Oops, I bit it again!
My calendar has been, um, crammed and jammed with activities.
Last Monday, for example, if you had Truman Show-style access to my life, you would have seen me wake up at 6:15 for my job. I fed two cats, sanitized their dishes, cleaned their litter boxes, let one outside to play, unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher, did laundry, worked on the garden, picked and juiced lemons, exercised, took out recycling, composted food scraps, made lunch for Grandma J, processed and jarred some garlic, made lemon-shallot salad dressing, prepared from scratch two raw organic lunches, placed them in Pyrex containers for two violets to enjoy at the studio, bagged these plus utensils, snacks, and drinks, cleaned the kitchen, showered in a hurry, and tried to make my overgrown hair look decent before driving for 45 minutes under the gorgeous post-rain sky while listening to some KUSC fundraising programming, only to cry when Puccini came on. I vowed to make a pledge once at the studio.
I ended up making that contribution later in the week because, when I arrived, I immediately started recording backups for "Star Stuff." Silas and I kept our traditional banter to a minimum so as to maximize our four hours together. I sneaked some food in when I was not behind the mic layering extra prettiness on the track. He would not try the raw cheesecake I made the night before, even though it was the best I've made thus far, and Luke told him so. Silas left at 7:30. We grabbed some dinner at Cru and were at Spaceland in time for Blank Blue. The power went out during their set, which was cool as a member of the audience, left to wander in the dark, waiting, wondering, but less cool for the band on the stage, who could not complete their set, and even less cool for the following band/our new friends, Vaudeville, who weren't able to play at all. We stayed until LeSwitch's impressive impromptu blackout performance was over, and I drove Luke back to the studio. Then I drove my own ass back home.
So, ahh, I am in bed by 2:30 and awake at 6:15 Tuesday morning to do more of the same, except this time, instead of watching a show, I am the show. I have not practiced enough; I don't feel good about it. We load in. We play. It's fun. We have our pictures taken. I am grateful to have some new images, but I am also freezing, and I can't look cold. I am in bed by 5. I sleep in until 9:30, so I am behind on everything.
Needless to say, important things like sleep, exercise, and food slipped off my calendar, and I woke up with a runny nose on Sunday. I didn't tell anyone because I didn't want bad vibes: I had to be well. I made time to get my hair cut in Santa Monica, walked briskly by the dog adoptions and the farmers' market, and drove home via the PCH to get started on some food prep for the busy week ahead, but, by Monday afternoon, I wasn't fooling anyone; my breathing was officially compromised.
Even though many people live like this, the kind of schedule described above is not ideal for me. It's what I consider burning the candle at both ends, but I hadn't thought of it that way because I hadn't the time to consider it. Plus, I was feeling so good I figured I was immune.
Alas, I am not. I'm not a robot. I have corporeal requirements.
Although I am not in-bed-can't-move sick, my vocal clarity isn't good today, and it was not great yesterday either. That was the trouble: I was certainly up for a performance, emotionally poised and enthusiastic, but my sinuses were not in agreement. Neither was Luke. He told me to stay home, and he kept me posted on things that I missed via text, email, and pics, so I was there in spirit.
I lost my balance. I fell off health and bit it. I caught the sniffles. I had to cancel two shows in one day, and, apart from the disappointment of not being able to keep my musical commitments, what really irked me was the shame of being the "healthy" girl who caught a mild cold. It made me feel like a you-know-what.
I need to be more accepting of myself. I am so eager for the good-to-perfect end of the spectrum that I don't make room for the not-so-good. It's still not natural for me to just say, "Oops!"
I don't want to be such a hardass when I could instead be honoring myself for the improvements I've made. Two years ago, I was performing with sniffles regularly. I was a mess, but these days I am doing way better. I've got to give myself a little credit. I have to tame that abrasive inner parent of mine into a kinder, more compassionate character, perhaps a grandparent. Maybe Grandma Katie. If she were still around, she would have simply said, "Whoopsie daisy!" and offered to make me a sandwich.
Last Monday, for example, if you had Truman Show-style access to my life, you would have seen me wake up at 6:15 for my job. I fed two cats, sanitized their dishes, cleaned their litter boxes, let one outside to play, unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher, did laundry, worked on the garden, picked and juiced lemons, exercised, took out recycling, composted food scraps, made lunch for Grandma J, processed and jarred some garlic, made lemon-shallot salad dressing, prepared from scratch two raw organic lunches, placed them in Pyrex containers for two violets to enjoy at the studio, bagged these plus utensils, snacks, and drinks, cleaned the kitchen, showered in a hurry, and tried to make my overgrown hair look decent before driving for 45 minutes under the gorgeous post-rain sky while listening to some KUSC fundraising programming, only to cry when Puccini came on. I vowed to make a pledge once at the studio.
I ended up making that contribution later in the week because, when I arrived, I immediately started recording backups for "Star Stuff." Silas and I kept our traditional banter to a minimum so as to maximize our four hours together. I sneaked some food in when I was not behind the mic layering extra prettiness on the track. He would not try the raw cheesecake I made the night before, even though it was the best I've made thus far, and Luke told him so. Silas left at 7:30. We grabbed some dinner at Cru and were at Spaceland in time for Blank Blue. The power went out during their set, which was cool as a member of the audience, left to wander in the dark, waiting, wondering, but less cool for the band on the stage, who could not complete their set, and even less cool for the following band/our new friends, Vaudeville, who weren't able to play at all. We stayed until LeSwitch's impressive impromptu blackout performance was over, and I drove Luke back to the studio. Then I drove my own ass back home.
So, ahh, I am in bed by 2:30 and awake at 6:15 Tuesday morning to do more of the same, except this time, instead of watching a show, I am the show. I have not practiced enough; I don't feel good about it. We load in. We play. It's fun. We have our pictures taken. I am grateful to have some new images, but I am also freezing, and I can't look cold. I am in bed by 5. I sleep in until 9:30, so I am behind on everything.
Needless to say, important things like sleep, exercise, and food slipped off my calendar, and I woke up with a runny nose on Sunday. I didn't tell anyone because I didn't want bad vibes: I had to be well. I made time to get my hair cut in Santa Monica, walked briskly by the dog adoptions and the farmers' market, and drove home via the PCH to get started on some food prep for the busy week ahead, but, by Monday afternoon, I wasn't fooling anyone; my breathing was officially compromised.
Even though many people live like this, the kind of schedule described above is not ideal for me. It's what I consider burning the candle at both ends, but I hadn't thought of it that way because I hadn't the time to consider it. Plus, I was feeling so good I figured I was immune.
Alas, I am not. I'm not a robot. I have corporeal requirements.
Although I am not in-bed-can't-move sick, my vocal clarity isn't good today, and it was not great yesterday either. That was the trouble: I was certainly up for a performance, emotionally poised and enthusiastic, but my sinuses were not in agreement. Neither was Luke. He told me to stay home, and he kept me posted on things that I missed via text, email, and pics, so I was there in spirit.
I lost my balance. I fell off health and bit it. I caught the sniffles. I had to cancel two shows in one day, and, apart from the disappointment of not being able to keep my musical commitments, what really irked me was the shame of being the "healthy" girl who caught a mild cold. It made me feel like a you-know-what.
I need to be more accepting of myself. I am so eager for the good-to-perfect end of the spectrum that I don't make room for the not-so-good. It's still not natural for me to just say, "Oops!"
I don't want to be such a hardass when I could instead be honoring myself for the improvements I've made. Two years ago, I was performing with sniffles regularly. I was a mess, but these days I am doing way better. I've got to give myself a little credit. I have to tame that abrasive inner parent of mine into a kinder, more compassionate character, perhaps a grandparent. Maybe Grandma Katie. If she were still around, she would have simply said, "Whoopsie daisy!" and offered to make me a sandwich.
28.1.09
At Your Beck and Call
I've been stalling, I know. I wanted to post some AMAZING stills from the "Portable" video and tell you all about it, but I don't have them yet, so I'm saving that for later. For the time being, I am writing to say that everyone on Twitter should add us ASAP: http://twitter.com/boxviolet
At first, I was like, "What? Do people really want to know what I'm doing?" Then I was like, "What? Do I actually want people to know where I am?" I'm not in the position to answer the first question, so I'll leave that to you, but the second one, after an extended lukewarm period, gets a hells yes.
Last night, I Twittered my first pic. My subject: Les Blanks at the Echo. They were rad. I also sent out my precise location on the globe, and it wasn't my first time! You can totally track me down.
We had a meeting with the video editor at 10:30, so we had to leave after the Monolators' ferocity. We missed The Voyeurs, whom we've never seen, and Go West Young Man, with whom we played Rococo Rendezvous in December. As consolation, the editor offered up some raw footage that made me giggle with delight.
I got home late, as usual, and left my phone in the car, which means I was missing out on all my glorious new ringtones, one of these being "Tipsy Dancer" by Odd Modern. If you like us, you'll like them, too. Vanina is a smart cookie, and she's sooo talented. She also makes me want to go blonde. No dye has touched this scalp since I attempted platinum 9 years ago. I looked like I was wearing a Martha Stewart wig made of wire and straw, and, as soon as I could, I got a boy cut to get that nasty beige-yellow crap off of my head. Vanina's hair, by contrast, looks fantastic. Her lyrics are similarly wonderful, and I'm a lyrics girl, in case you didn't know, so check them out: www.myspace.com/oddmodern
I forgot to tell cute little Vanina about my adventures in Ringtone Land when I ran into her last night. Darn. I get such a kick out of that shet. Every time. I should tip her.
I won't neglect to mention to you, however, that I've made a "Portable" ringtone. I bet you're thinking, "What? Do I really want to hear her singing when my phone rings?"
In the event you do want such a thing, I'll link you. You never know...
At first, I was like, "What? Do people really want to know what I'm doing?" Then I was like, "What? Do I actually want people to know where I am?" I'm not in the position to answer the first question, so I'll leave that to you, but the second one, after an extended lukewarm period, gets a hells yes.
Last night, I Twittered my first pic. My subject: Les Blanks at the Echo. They were rad. I also sent out my precise location on the globe, and it wasn't my first time! You can totally track me down.
We had a meeting with the video editor at 10:30, so we had to leave after the Monolators' ferocity. We missed The Voyeurs, whom we've never seen, and Go West Young Man, with whom we played Rococo Rendezvous in December. As consolation, the editor offered up some raw footage that made me giggle with delight.
I got home late, as usual, and left my phone in the car, which means I was missing out on all my glorious new ringtones, one of these being "Tipsy Dancer" by Odd Modern. If you like us, you'll like them, too. Vanina is a smart cookie, and she's sooo talented. She also makes me want to go blonde. No dye has touched this scalp since I attempted platinum 9 years ago. I looked like I was wearing a Martha Stewart wig made of wire and straw, and, as soon as I could, I got a boy cut to get that nasty beige-yellow crap off of my head. Vanina's hair, by contrast, looks fantastic. Her lyrics are similarly wonderful, and I'm a lyrics girl, in case you didn't know, so check them out: www.myspace.com/oddmodern
I forgot to tell cute little Vanina about my adventures in Ringtone Land when I ran into her last night. Darn. I get such a kick out of that shet. Every time. I should tip her.
I won't neglect to mention to you, however, that I've made a "Portable" ringtone. I bet you're thinking, "What? Do I really want to hear her singing when my phone rings?"
In the event you do want such a thing, I'll link you. You never know...
8.1.09
Inaugural Blog
Shinn was right. My cat survived. The dark dreams dissipated. Those December shows were archived. I am centered again and feeling fabulous. Phew!
This year is already fantastic. Amazing people are lending support to our cause. An incredible mixer is helping us get our shet together. Woot! Also, Desiree gave us our first residency ever at Mr. T's. Yay! We're working our buns off. I've been at the Steakhouse all week with Silas, chatting and re-recording vocals for "Portable," which, by the way, is getting its own video as I type. We started filming last Sunday, while I was on a water fast, part of a 28-day detox that ended Tuesday--ahh. This is a pic of me in the parking lot at Whole Foods after our K-town guerrilla shoot. It's rough walking miles in sky-high heels on a cold night, mouthing lyrics as SARS-masked passersby break their necks pretending not to stare, particularly after my having abstained from solid food for five days and from any food for 26 hours, but I'm happy to do it, so you have something pretty to look at. I'll share stills as soon as I get them.
I find myself surrounded by geniuses, and I am in awe. Truly. I'm such a hippie. These days I see the power and magic in everyone. I don't get out enough, though.
That's my only complaint, but I'm not really complaining as much explaining. I'm a busy bee. That's why I haven't been posting as frequently.
Rest assured that, as your resident songstress, I will do what I can to make this year the best year ever. This is my solemn oath.
Luke will do the same.
We love you.
2009!!!
This year is already fantastic. Amazing people are lending support to our cause. An incredible mixer is helping us get our shet together. Woot! Also, Desiree gave us our first residency ever at Mr. T's. Yay! We're working our buns off. I've been at the Steakhouse all week with Silas, chatting and re-recording vocals for "Portable," which, by the way, is getting its own video as I type. We started filming last Sunday, while I was on a water fast, part of a 28-day detox that ended Tuesday--ahh. This is a pic of me in the parking lot at Whole Foods after our K-town guerrilla shoot. It's rough walking miles in sky-high heels on a cold night, mouthing lyrics as SARS-masked passersby break their necks pretending not to stare, particularly after my having abstained from solid food for five days and from any food for 26 hours, but I'm happy to do it, so you have something pretty to look at. I'll share stills as soon as I get them.
I find myself surrounded by geniuses, and I am in awe. Truly. I'm such a hippie. These days I see the power and magic in everyone. I don't get out enough, though.
That's my only complaint, but I'm not really complaining as much explaining. I'm a busy bee. That's why I haven't been posting as frequently.
Rest assured that, as your resident songstress, I will do what I can to make this year the best year ever. This is my solemn oath.
Luke will do the same.
We love you.
2009!!!
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