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. ;)
6.7.09
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...
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