"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.
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