Three-strap mary janes got nothin' on you, kid. Here's to your uber-precious pearly white fangs.
27.5.10
Kitten Heels
Three-strap mary janes got nothin' on you, kid. Here's to your uber-precious pearly white fangs.
8.5.10
I Am Everybody
Jay told me. He is right. In a cosmic sense, I am everybody. You are, too.
When I make declarations of my unimportance arising from an overwhelmed mind, it is at once dehumanizing and arrogant. This simultaneous denigration and elevation of experience really misses the mark. My life and your lives are of inherent value, a richness external definitions cannot contain.
It's not our job to subject ourselves to constant evaluation. Examination? Yes. Embodiment. YES.
Moments, I want to immerse myself in you. I know that if I'm placing each droplet of my day on a spectrum from good to bad that I am not being truly present. I could be in paradise. Wading in the water. A perfect climate. In silent conversation with an electric blue dragonfly perched on an effulgent leaf nearby. The second I call this good or bad, I forget that I am in paradise. I miss the shimmery feel of the water. The temperature loses its balm. A luminous dragonfly sails away, taking every sparkle with it.
I am going to make a conscious effort to step out of the muck, to remove myself from the relative and to enter into the essential. That pattern of separating and sorting is old and tired and has nothing to offer me or anyone else.
Our words and thoughts etch themselves into our lives. My yucky words and worse thoughts have left me in an experiential rut, and I am ready to exchange them all for a new groove. The universe is asking me to create a new and beautiful record, and I am starting today. My heart can steer.
Thank you, Jay.
When I make declarations of my unimportance arising from an overwhelmed mind, it is at once dehumanizing and arrogant. This simultaneous denigration and elevation of experience really misses the mark. My life and your lives are of inherent value, a richness external definitions cannot contain.
It's not our job to subject ourselves to constant evaluation. Examination? Yes. Embodiment. YES.
Moments, I want to immerse myself in you. I know that if I'm placing each droplet of my day on a spectrum from good to bad that I am not being truly present. I could be in paradise. Wading in the water. A perfect climate. In silent conversation with an electric blue dragonfly perched on an effulgent leaf nearby. The second I call this good or bad, I forget that I am in paradise. I miss the shimmery feel of the water. The temperature loses its balm. A luminous dragonfly sails away, taking every sparkle with it.
I am going to make a conscious effort to step out of the muck, to remove myself from the relative and to enter into the essential. That pattern of separating and sorting is old and tired and has nothing to offer me or anyone else.
Our words and thoughts etch themselves into our lives. My yucky words and worse thoughts have left me in an experiential rut, and I am ready to exchange them all for a new groove. The universe is asking me to create a new and beautiful record, and I am starting today. My heart can steer.
Thank you, Jay.
7.5.10
I'm a Nobody
Lately, no matter what I do, I cannot be seen. My skin may glow more than ever thanks to regular green veggie juicing, a renewed dietary emphasis on omega-3's, and religious astaxanthin supplementation, but I'm a nobody (oh, Monsters Are Waiting.....) When your ostensible life purpose depends upon your being seen more and more, this is particularly problematic.
I am not even being acknowledged by the precious few people I have kept in my circle. My sister and my best friends have been very busy these days, and, truly, they need to be. There is perfection here.
This does mean, however, that I am having to address on my own an intense inner dialogue. Am I really supposed to be a musician? Am I living in the right city? In the right country? Should I be making big changes in my life?
Some of the big changes are deciding to happen to me. Like my grandma. She is very much a mother to me, and, in gratitude to her for all those pancake breakfasts, paper bag lunches, and enchilada dinners she lovingly prepared some 17 years before I left for college, I figured that being present when she needed me was the least I could do. I have been her caretaker for about 3 years now.
The battery in her pacemaker is about to run out, and her doctor believes that the most compassionate decision, given the extent of her dementia and her very poor health overall, is to finally let her die a natural death. We spoke to medical ethicists who agree. I believe it is the right decision as well, but it's still very stressful. Daily I get up, not knowing if she's going to be breathing. Mom cries uncontrollably every evening. She second-guesses herself and me and the doctors and the medical ethicists and takes it out on anyone in her path, most often me. It's been a month of this drama. Needless to say, I haven't been able to write any music. There is simply no room for it.
So I feel very disconnected as a creator. My little wall geniuses must be very upset with me, though I still get invitations. Charming little melodies will pop in--a whole lush track played last night--only to be ignored by the girl who doesn't know which papers to sign, which leads to follow, which relationships to nurture. I am totally empty and lost.
It is no wonder, then, that I am such a ghost in the world.
Maybe I just need a Facebook profile.
I was discussing this possibility with a fan of ours late last night when I should have been sleeping off this stress-induced spring cold. He assumed I didn't have an account.
"I feel like you're better than that."
Interesting comment.
I've avoided Facebook thus far. I've made use of it for the band (and some extra tidbits for me) through Luke's account. The real Margot doesn't want one.
She lives in a dream world where her friends have her phone number and use it regularly to call her to meet up or, if they must, they will text or email her.
I, on the other hand, am faced with the reality that all of my peers, save my best friend who already has a serious boyfriend, are on Facebook.
So this invisible Margot beats on, a boat against the current, borne ceaselessly into a past of handwritten letters, of telephone calls, of face-to-face interactions, of songs capturing such moments in the flesh. I really can't imagine Debbie Harry sweetly singing, "it'll mean you want to see me on Facebook." It's so unappealing. My heart is not ready to buy into this dependence upon computers. Even for my social survival. Thus I remain on the fringes.
Our fan suggested that I create a page and use it sparingly. Oh, I don't know...
Being pressured to sing tonight, by the way, is the pits and yet another symptom of my invisibility. I can tell my boys that I can't sing, but they don't even hear me. They say to drink tea, but tea cannot clear a serious blockage. My left sinus is utterly noncompliant. I can't sing without sounding like a dying frog or a screeching cat. Maybe I should stay home tonight.
I am not even being acknowledged by the precious few people I have kept in my circle. My sister and my best friends have been very busy these days, and, truly, they need to be. There is perfection here.
This does mean, however, that I am having to address on my own an intense inner dialogue. Am I really supposed to be a musician? Am I living in the right city? In the right country? Should I be making big changes in my life?
Some of the big changes are deciding to happen to me. Like my grandma. She is very much a mother to me, and, in gratitude to her for all those pancake breakfasts, paper bag lunches, and enchilada dinners she lovingly prepared some 17 years before I left for college, I figured that being present when she needed me was the least I could do. I have been her caretaker for about 3 years now.
The battery in her pacemaker is about to run out, and her doctor believes that the most compassionate decision, given the extent of her dementia and her very poor health overall, is to finally let her die a natural death. We spoke to medical ethicists who agree. I believe it is the right decision as well, but it's still very stressful. Daily I get up, not knowing if she's going to be breathing. Mom cries uncontrollably every evening. She second-guesses herself and me and the doctors and the medical ethicists and takes it out on anyone in her path, most often me. It's been a month of this drama. Needless to say, I haven't been able to write any music. There is simply no room for it.
So I feel very disconnected as a creator. My little wall geniuses must be very upset with me, though I still get invitations. Charming little melodies will pop in--a whole lush track played last night--only to be ignored by the girl who doesn't know which papers to sign, which leads to follow, which relationships to nurture. I am totally empty and lost.
It is no wonder, then, that I am such a ghost in the world.
Maybe I just need a Facebook profile.
I was discussing this possibility with a fan of ours late last night when I should have been sleeping off this stress-induced spring cold. He assumed I didn't have an account.
"I feel like you're better than that."
Interesting comment.
I've avoided Facebook thus far. I've made use of it for the band (and some extra tidbits for me) through Luke's account. The real Margot doesn't want one.
She lives in a dream world where her friends have her phone number and use it regularly to call her to meet up or, if they must, they will text or email her.
I, on the other hand, am faced with the reality that all of my peers, save my best friend who already has a serious boyfriend, are on Facebook.
So this invisible Margot beats on, a boat against the current, borne ceaselessly into a past of handwritten letters, of telephone calls, of face-to-face interactions, of songs capturing such moments in the flesh. I really can't imagine Debbie Harry sweetly singing, "it'll mean you want to see me on Facebook." It's so unappealing. My heart is not ready to buy into this dependence upon computers. Even for my social survival. Thus I remain on the fringes.
Our fan suggested that I create a page and use it sparingly. Oh, I don't know...
Being pressured to sing tonight, by the way, is the pits and yet another symptom of my invisibility. I can tell my boys that I can't sing, but they don't even hear me. They say to drink tea, but tea cannot clear a serious blockage. My left sinus is utterly noncompliant. I can't sing without sounding like a dying frog or a screeching cat. Maybe I should stay home tonight.
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