The Other Woman

Being a temp is a little like being "The Other Woman." I found that in a journal from nearly ten years ago, when I moved to Boston and was temping--and man, IT IS SO TRUE. I got a job offer from the place I was working at, but then they called me on Friday and said they wanted to give the woman I was replacing another chance. So the employer that promised me the moon--well, a great salary and incredible benefits, not to mention a piece of mind--has decided they can't leave their wife. So what's a girl to do? Stay home and wait for the phone to call? I don't THINK SO.

Although I wasn't surprised, I was seriously bummed. This is only adding to my stress now that I am STILL not working. I am needing some abundant thoughts here folks. Right now I am grumpy & not believing in anything. It's so crappy being unemployed. I HATE IT.

Luckily, it's gorgeous out in New York and my friend Glenn just bought me lunch. Also, I have enough money to pay my rent tomorrow. Things could be worse and worrying about them getting worse just doesn't add up to much accept frightening IMAGINARY scenarios. Nothing real.

And here I am STILL LIVING THE DREAM. Apparently, the dream can include boredome, fear, nausea, loneliness, and anxiety. Very exciting, dreamy stuff indeed.

I'm off for more coffee.

The Assignment

Greetings from Melrose, Massachusetts! It strikes me intensely how quiet this neighborhood is. Usually at this hour, I am listening to the footsteps of my neighboors upstairs and the enchanting sounds of wooping car alarms. Here, I am looking out on the deserted street, at enormous houses that seem to be still asleep.
I made it to Boston last night. No fires errupted on the bus--just cellphone conversations and discussions about how emotions and a sense of morality are actually biological factors that occur first in the brain. I overheard the latter from behind me, and I got the feeling that the young woman who was describng these facts, would best be called a jive-ass talker. I could sense that at first she was confident in this new information, but as questions were asked of her, her knowledge disintegrated into phrases that began with "It's like, you know, totally true..."

I saw the Boss play an excellent show last night. We had great seats about 30 rows back and up--so the view was clear and not that far away. It was warm and moving. I really hope that he comes out with a live acoustic CD from all these performances. I sat listening, realizing this is the TRUEST and PUREST his songs get--and that's how I prefer them. Songs I usually hate--like the Rising--bring me to tears when he does it solo and acoustic. His voice is stronger than ever and I sat there both moved by his incredible gifts and yearning for that part in me that wants to play music. I just want to ask him so badly how he has kept the pump of songwriting going for 35 years. Not all of his songs are great, but all of them have a strength in them that ANYONE would find envious. How the hell does he do it? I'm jealous and yearning and moved and hurting when I listen to him. He's a GENIUS and a spiritual SAGE, and he touches me deeply with his work--but it also is a little unnverving. As the creators of Learning to Love You More have said, great art is like an assignment. You feel called to complete something yourself. Seeing Springsteen is like an assignment for me, but I'm still tangled up in my own doubt that I feel sealed off from the tools it would take to complete that task. Oh well, the least I can do is write something down--I haven't lost that.

I'm getting back on the bus today bound to New York. It's a cold and fall day. I'll watch the scenery and think about songs and probably hear a few more conversations that strike me as funny. This is a good time of year. A time to go inward and see what is there.

Everybody Fung Wah Tonight

Well, it looks as if I am managing a second visit to the wonderful, soothing environment of the CUNY library. I can see Graham in the corner reading probably the Washington Post, still wearing his peacoat. I say this with absolute honesty, and not a smidgen of drama, he is friggn' ADORABLE.

I came here to wrangle an e-ticket for the Chinatown Express bus bound for Boston. I'm off to see BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN in concert tonight with my dear friend Kathryn. The Chinatown Express--otherwise known as Fung Wah Bus Lines--is the cheapest way to travel--only $30 smackers to go to Boston and back. It's also cheap for a reason--no frills, no kindness, no cute logo of a dog running or a green clad Peter Pan along the side of the bus. It's literally, get on and shut up. And although I've never had any issues thus far, you have this feeling they should say to you "Enter at Your Own Risk." When I talked to Kathryn and told her of my travel plans, she informed me that Fung Wah recently has been afflicted with fires.

"Fires? As in plural?" I asked.
"Yeah, like two or three in the last month or two." She said, as if the ominous information was nothing but a bag of laundry she was tossing off. "Well, see you tomorrow!"

I debated whether or not to take the cute dog line of a bus, just for safety sake. I mean, this is Bruce Springsteen we are talking about--I don't want to be delayed because I'm stuck on the Pike waving down a fire truck. Then, I considered the fact that I haven't worked all week--as in the making money kind of work--and the saving $70 round trip, kind seemed like a good idea.

So, maybe I should say, I am TRYING to go to Boston to see Bruce Springsteen; or I am going to ATTEMPT to go to Boston to see Bruce Springsteen. Nay, I am riding on a WILD HOPE that I will make it to Bruce Springsteen.

I'll say hello for you.

Amazing Feat of Activity

Hey there gang of my heart--I've been suffering frim withdrawls of interet/blogging, so I crawled my may towards the CUNY library where my man Graham let me in so I could reunite with y'all.

So far I am unemployed this week. Maybe I am in complete denial, but I am not worried. If I don't work next week, THEN I'll be worried--but today I stayed in bed reading until 9:00am, drinking coffee, and enjoyed myself immensely. The last 5 days have been a mixture of the regular life, and the spectacular magic that you can create for yourself easily, if you just let it happen.

Saturday evening I had this strange, easy inspiration to do a collage. This is something that I've thought about doing a million times, but always put it off, for more important endeavors like watching Woody Allen's Hannah and Her Sisters for the bajillionth time, or lying on the floor bemoaning that I'm not artistic enough. For some amazing reason, I didn't second guess myself and I simply went into my studio and started doing it. I've never done a collage--but I am ALWAYS inspired by Keri Smith's practices. The result: IT WAS SO FUN! I created it on a small canvas as a dare--something small, but OUTSIDE my journal. At first it was going to be square images on a grid, but then I got really into all the colors overlapping, and then taking old photos or book pages. THEN I took out my black Sharpie and it was ALL OVER. I drew an encompassing frame around it and these little scribble designs I make all the time over all the squares. THEN I took colored pencils and colored in various spots. The minute I stopped "playing it safe" and risked a little by drawing on it, I couldn't stop myself. I liked the result a lot. Also, through looking for scraps of paper I found this tiny picture of Ethel Merman, and was inspired to do a portrait of her. And usually I put it off, or file the image away, but for some AMAZING FEAT OF ACYIVITY I didn't--and I finished it on Sunday night!

One thing I love about doing visual art, is that suddenly you have this thing in your hands that didn't exist before--and it reflects something immediately in your inner world. I looked at my collage above my desk this morning and the portrait of Ethel Merman up on the wall and just felt happy about my life and excited to create more. So I started a new, larger collage this morning. I swear, I love color so much, it makes my mouth water. I love taking whole sheets of paper that I have thickly painted with shades of color and cutting it up to various sizes and then "reassembling" those pages in a picture--the different shades act differently against one another and create something entirely new and textural.

Other wondeful things from the last few days:
*more walks in Central Park, with the cold air, and dogs finding sticks, and leaves all gold, and then a harty breakfast out.
*Baked my first pie of the season--apple and blackberry. We ate it hot, with melting vanilla icecream!
*I saw my best friend Jenny Sue for 4.5 hours on Monday. It felt like a surreal dream to sit in a cafe and talk at length after 3 months. I cried when I saw her off at the subway.
*Yesterday, in the rainy morning, I went to the Natural History Museum and sketched the totem poles in the Western Indian Wing. Afterwards, I got a cup of coffee and walked with my umbrella in the Upper West Side, blowing steam clouds from my mouth.

Art makes everything good--or rather, when we make art it is JUST GOOD. Maybe that's why I'm not worried about a job right now--I'm walking around with all these riches just pouring into my pockets.

Okay, Because I am Obsessed, and Have 38 Minutes Left with the Scanner

This is one of my all-time favorite pictures of my mother. I love the pride inwhich she wears her Davy Crocket T-Shirt in the summer of 1955.

It sits in a frame above my desk, and inspires the tough girl in me, who sometimes feels the most beautiful in a t-shirt and jeans.

Have a great weekend everybody.

Poor Ricky

Well, you plan for things and then the unforseen happens. I was going to participate in Danny Gregory's sketchcrawl this weekend, but it's postponed due to the rainy forcast. AND, just when I was planning on spending next week missing my friends, my BEST FRIEND is coming and I will see her Monday, yipeee!

There's other stuff I wish I could tell you, but it has to do with employment and so mums the word. What I can tell you is that due to some interesting developments, that must be left vague, I've been put back into that line of hard questiong: I know my time on this planet is limited--just what the heck do I want do to with my time here? Instead of getting depressed and scared in the face of this question--which is what I usually do--I got to work. This is the best medecine. I got home last night and drew a picture.

I've been wanting to do a zine or mini book for awhile--I put it on my list of things I want to do in the next 6 months. The problem is--what's the theme? What's the subject? Then with all this talk of the past, I got this great idea to draw portraits of the heart-throbs of my youth. So VOILA! I give you: RICKY SCHRODER! He made my heart melt when I was 11 years old. I never missed an episode of Silver Spoons--even though it never once made me crack up. I was too busy FAWNING over his Izod shirts and his topsider shoes and the way--OH!--he stood hooking his thumbs in his back pocket.

Looking at the picture now, he looks like he has a horribly chapped face--like he went skiing and burned the hell out of his fair skin. Poor Ricky! Oh well, the picture isn't entirely done anyway, but since this is my last day with the beloved scanner, I thought I'd post it. It wasn't a perfect relationship anyway--all it could do was balck & white scanning. Somewhow, I don't think they were planning on vintage photos from the 70's and drawings of Ricky Schroder when they added the scanner to copy room. But still: Scanner, I salute you! Thank you for your great effort. Come back to the five and dime, my scanner, my scanner.

The departure of the scanner also signals the end of me with a constant computer, so I don't know when my next blog entry will be. It sounds like I am hitting the road or trying to shake you off in some romantic way ("you don't want to get mixed up with a blogger like me--I'm a loner. A rebel."). I wish I was doing something EXCITING like hitting the road--but I'm actually just HITTING THE PAVEMENT. I'm going back into the UNKNOWN world of temporary work, and unlike everyone else in the world, I am still too financially unstable to get internet access at home.

See you soon, I hope.

In Defense of Nostalgia

Crooked scans of Blake, my brother, on our old street corner in 1982!

I am SO EXCITED and INSPIRED by the lists people have posted and the general response to the last post. Here I was thinking that it was a dumb & boring post & who is going to care about how I chased toads when I was five? Let this be a small example of how we don't have a clue how to measure what is "good" or "bad" about what we create. Also, never underestimate how everyone's experience is not only universal, but so funny and human and inspiring. Your lists make me want to make more lists. Like listing 5 years of Halloween costumes (which would include Princess Leah and Laura Ingalls Wilder!); or listing my favorite foods as a kid(which would include mini-pizzas made on English Muffins)! SO GREAT!

People often speak very negatively about nostalgia. I think it's because there is this idea that you are "living in the past" and that IS SO BAD. While I think it is absolutely important (and sometimes much harder) to honor what we love in the lives we live now, there is something so wonderful about also noting what touched us in the past. It's not only about honoring our experience, but about connecting to the things that delight us, and ultimately STILL DO delight us.

One of the things that is really hard about living in New York is to see how kids are treated on the subways. Some of this is poverty and some of it is cultural. I can't tell you how many times I've sat across an indifferent (at best) mother and her children, who are small and filled with energy and laughter and buzzing, natural effervescence. When the mother regards them at all, it is with such out and out hate or rage, it is sickening--yet, the children continue to withstand this. I can't help but look at the mother and know she was like her daughter son at one point--small and naturally full of life. How long did it take for her to shut down, to become embittered, to become angry and completely closed off to empathy or tenderness? How long before her children will also be chipped away at and succumb to shutting off the natural beating of their hearts?

As kids we know nothing but our nature and the environment we are given. As we age, no matter how successful or unsuccessful we are, our natures have become shaped by those environments. Yet underneath these folds of adulthood and experience, WE ARE STILL THOSE KIDS. There are a million things that I know ANY ONE OF US could complain about AND RIGHTLY SO about our childhoods. Some of us, had very painful childhoods, but among that there were still things we loved. So no matter how discouraged or depressed I get, when I hear the word, SHRINKY DINKS, my heart warms up like the electric oven in the kitchen which made paper drawings into plastic pictures. It reaches out to the purist parts of myself that didn't need to be taught how to love something. It also shows me how that can never be lost--as long as I choose to remember.

10 Things I Loved to Do Before the Age of 10

Groovy dad and his butchy daughter--fresh with a haircut from mom (notice the diagnal bangs) at Rincanada Park in 1974!

1. Watch Spiderman cartoons--although the spooky music and psychadelic colors in the "interlude scenes" freaked me out.

2. Play with Barbie Dolls and Tonka Trucks--it was always "Moving Day" for the Barbies--which, come to think of it, must have looked like a bizarre harem of blonde quintuplets and the one guy, Ken, in the back of a pickup, always shirtless.

3. Draw pictures of ladies standing next to short, quare houses, sheltered by a lovely rainbow nestled into two twin clouds and a sun.

4. Play with the brown and white rats that lived in the classroom. I can't do this now. Time has made me squeamish over their tails.

5. Listen to Disney Records. My first turntable and record, Cinderella, was given to me by my stepdad, Gary. When I remember how I wore out the needle in a matter of weeks, I must have driven the household crazy with playing that record over an dover again. At a garage sale my mother acquired Lady and the Tramp and Fantasia. I'd do this weird torturous thing, by putting on the music of Fantasia (which scared the wits out of me) and then run and hide.

6. Make "milkshakes"--which consisted of milk, vanilla extract and an egg, blended in a blender. I can't believe I never got salmanilla.

7. Make up plays about a girl who lived on an island with only her animal friends. I'd give out tickets to the adults and say, "Show at eight! Show at eight!" The shows were mostly improvised with stuffed animals and a basket. VERY minimalist, stuff. Way ahead of its time.

8. Fantasize about living with Pippi Longstockings. She had my dream life: living in a giant house with a horse! She was also the strongest girl in the world!

9. Play with toads in the creek in the back of our house. They were huge and fat and fun to catch. There were so many in that area that cars used to run them over in the street. Then their skins would dry fly against pavement and stay there for weeks.

10. Search for a place called "kid island," where only kids lived. Every park with a pond, a creek, a lake, a large puddle, I'd search out the islands and hope I'd finally discovered Kid Island. When that failed, I started scouting out locations for starting my own "Kid Island." I think I had some issues with the adults around me.

A thing I Didn't Question, or Hem and Haw About

These women were a sister act in the Vaudville Days. I'm unclear what exactly their act was--but their entire costumes were made of pearl. I love the absurd headresses and the heavy eye make-up of the day that made every woman look sad and soft.

I don't really have much to say today--it's monday and it feels like fall. I'm chewing on lots of ideas. This is the last week of this job assignment. I have no idea where I'll be next week. This makes me nervous, but it's all part of the deal. Kerstin had a great post about finding out what your life's purpose is. I'm thinking today about the obsticles that hold me back, the things that are keeping me from truly following my heart's desire. I'm baffled by it continuously. I'm baffled because I was always so clear, and now why is it so much harder?

I remember when I was 9 years old I went to a party with my aunt and uncle and cousins. Like everywhere else, I took out my pens and paper and drew a picture--some scene with people. It caused a stir among the adults: My! You are a good drawer! This was nothing new. I gave the host my picture when I was done and she took it gladly, but before I left she said, "Please don't ever stop drawing. I used to beable to sing, but I stopped and now I can't do it so well anymore. So don't YOU ever stop." I didn't get it at the time. Why would I ever stop drawing? I was 9 and she was a lady. Adults had their own reality, why did they always have to press it upon me?

And now I think about that lady, living in the suburbs of San Diego--her name I don't remember--and my stomach does a lurch. I never stopped drawing, but I stopped believing that I could do it the way you breathe or eat or sleep. It has taken on another meaning, just as I am sure singing for this woman had taken on another meaning. She probably wasn't even that old. My aunt and uncle were in their 30's, so I imagine she was too. I won't ever stop drawing or singing or writing, but the trick I am learning--perhaps that we are all learning as we age--is to try to conjur up what it is to be a beginner again, where time and meaning have no meaning. At most, it was just fun, a thing I didn't question or hem and haw about. The question isn't how to get get back to that, but HOW TO GET THAT BACK.

Liz Phair: an Essay

I just found out that Liz Phair came out with a new album last week. This is unbelievable that I am finding this out so late. I am just going to out myself and say the whole reason I picked up a guitar began when I listened to Liz Phair's Exile in Guyville, an album I still think as one of the GREAT CONTRIBUTIONS to the History of Rock.

Before Liz Phair, I was just a listener--and not a passionate one at that. Sure, I liked music--I had tapes and CDs--but I didn't feel I BELONGED to music the way that some listeners do. In high school I went through a devout Mowtown and Oldies phase, but I secretly also listened to the Violent Femmes and Madonna. In college I went through a brief classic rock phase, which melted into the Indigo Girls/Kate Bush phase. And yet, STILL, I went around unattached. The first inklings to attachment were Tori Amos' Little Earthquakes, where I felt something was afoot--and STILL the attachments slid off me, as if I were a very easy to please non stick pan. Then I heard Liz Phair and everything changed. I didn't know that music could have the affect that poetry or writing had on me. I RELATED to her work profoundly. I didn't know that a woman could rock out to the things she experienced so deeply. That album literally changed my life.

A year later I was writing my own songs, discovering a new way to be happy. Music was now an intimate relationship. Through that first gate, held open to me by Phair, I discovered so much amazing music: punk rock, folk, and everything in between.

A LOT of stuff has happened since then. Three more albums and an albumette (an ep) have been released by Liz. The first two CDs and the EP remain my favorites, but the third also had some gems (anyone familiar with the song 'Perfect World'?). Years passed. I started a music career and then sunk it. Liz Phair came out with her fourth CD, Liz Phair. I ran out the DAY it came out and bought it. I don't consider myself a purist when it comes to Liz Phair's works--she is the mother of so much that I have done, how could I have been a purist? And YET, I had VERY mixed feelings about her last album. There are some great songs (Little Digger, Friend of Mine are my favorites). Then there are some songs that aren't exactly bad, but ingenuine. Of course, the hype has been that she is sheading her indie roots and going commercial (known to the purist as selling out). This doesn't bother me--a girl has got one life to live and she wants to be a rockstar. So be it. Then make a GOOD ALBUM. Don't do what Machines tell you is "hip" or in the "now." The CD was a pose at something she already was--sexy, rocking, and honest. Yet a POSE at that is not the same as BEING that.

Then I saw her in concert.

How do I say this? It blew. She was trying SO HARD that there were moments that made me literally cringe. When she took the mic away from the stand and leaned in, a la Steven Tyler, and sang in stunted, wooden tones: "Rock. Me. All. Night." She was as fluid as Chris Penn learning to dance in Footloose. There was something terribly wrong in thsi picture. She wasn't supposed to be Chris Penn, she was supposed to KEVIN BACON, showing us ALL how shake our thing! On the way home I did something I thought I'd never in a million years do: I made fun of her. I reenacted the "Rock Me" moment with my friend, Jen. I felt sad and disenchanted. It was the end of an era for me.

Now, I am faced with choice: to buy Liz Phair's new album or to not buy Liz Phair's new album? Will I? Won't I? Ah, who am I kidding? I'll let you know how it sounds.

Fambly

Summer, Luke, Lily, Jake, & Janae at the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, Winter 2003

My dad has complained about how I never mention him in my blog (Hi father!). I say, well, you should, um, maybe CALL MORE OFTEN. Or better yet, COME VISIT. Then many posts will be riddled with juicy morsels about said father. Barring that, I thought I'd share a little tale tale about THAT WING (there are many wings) of my family.

First, some background: My dad has been married to his wife Janae for about eight years and they have two small kids--my brother Luke (age 5) and my sister Lily (age 2.5). This is the part where I mention that THEY ARE AMAZING and FUNNY and I LOVE and MISS THEM. Dad & Janae met and got married while I was living in Boston. Part of the reason I moved back to California was that I wanted a relationship with my brother Luke, who looked at me everytime I came to visit like, "Oh, someone new, how quaint. Too bad I don't go for chicks--NEXT."

One of the hardest parts about reentering my dad & his family's life was that most of Janae's friends didn't know who I was. At every gathering, birthday party, I went through the strange eyeing and then the inevitable, uncomfortable question of, "..and you are...?" When I said I was Jake's daughter, they were shocked and said, "Oh, I didn't REALIZE that Jake had a DAUGHTER." To be frank, it was more than a little depressing and a somewhat exhausting. The final straw came a year and a half later after my sister Lily's first birthday party. My dad said, "You know, Mr. & Mrs. So-and-so thought you were my SISTER."
"Oh, REALLY?" I said, not masking my UTTER DISMAY.
"No, no, it's a GOOD THING." My dad said.
"Yeah, for YOU. You look young enough to have a 30 year old sister, but apparently I look like HELL. I look old enough to be a sister of a FIFTY-SEVEN YEAR OLD MAN." When I complained about this story to someone they pointed out that I was closer in age to my dad than I was to Luke or Lily. I responded very calmly by shouting: Um, NOT HELPING.

For awhile I considered making a children's book for Luke and Lily entitled "Who is That Lady?: a guide for kids and adults." It would map out how once, in a free wheeling time, "DAD" lived in a converted chicken coop in Pescadero, painting psychadelic rock posters and making furniture out of driftwood. His hair was REALLY long (yes he had hair!) and he was called a HIPPIE. Can you say the word HIPPIE? Very good.

It would tell the tale about how life is LONG and there are things that you can never prepare for. One day, you're neighbors with Ken Kesey, another day you're living in the suburbs just south of San Jose. OR in my case, one day you believe your life is made up of this one picture, only to see that it has MORFED AGAIN. And when Luke and Lily look at me, years from now, like oh, THEY KNOW IT ALL, and why doesn't that old sister of ours just GET IT THAT SHE DOESN'T GET IT, I'll say very calmly, "You want to see an example of something TOTALLY UNEXPECTED and LIFE CHANGING? Look in the mirror."

This Has Nothing to Do with Sojourner Truth---but it's Prettier Than the Image of Me Totally Losing it Last Night

Well, I had quite a shocking evening--it turned out not at all as I was expecting--and it was BAD BAD BAD. Picture this: young woman walking innocently to her apartment building, swinging an umbrella, and carrying a sack. She stops at her mailbox and finds a package. Inside the package is all the mail that has been piling up at her old address. She goes upstairs, into the apartment, says hello to her boyfriend, who is sitting in the bedroom writing a paper on the defenition of terrorism. She opens the package only to find TWO PARKING TICKETS ON HER OLD CAR, which should have been transferred OVER TWO MONTHS AGO, the amount equalling $140 bucks.

This is how the little nightmare begins. You see, I had someone else sell my car for me after I left. She not only forgot to get the release of liability, she didn't write the purchaser's name down on the bill of sale she sent me. After a few thousand calls to the DMV, to Katy (who sold the car), and to the Santa Cruz Police Department, this is what I discovered: A guy named Jesse (no last name) legally owns the car, but ALL THE RESPONSABILITY is still mine. So, as it seems to be unfolding, I am responsable for a car which is now being driven without insurance, which is parking illegally, and I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO REACH OR GET IN TOUCH WITH. Can you see the terror in the situation? This guy has all the power and I have all the responsability and no rights.

Katy searched for his number to no avail, and it wasn't looking good. The most we knew was that he was a student at UC Santa Cruz. So I asked her to go to the adress on the tickets--they were the same address on both. An hour, many freak outs, and prayers, and more freak outs, later she called me triumphantly. She had gone DOOR TO DOOR and found him. She said that he didn't want to talk to me, but that she would be the go-between. Apparently, the reason he hadn't transfered it over was that he was going to sell it again to his friend--who was DRIVING IT AND GETTING THE TICKETS. I said emphatically, who CARES ABOUT THE TICKETS. I need his FULL name and address and the transfer of liability. He was worried about the ticket. I DIDN'T CARE ABOUT THE TICKETS--I just wanted my name out of it. Well, he "couldn't find" the pink slip just then--but his girlfriend had seen it, so it would turn up soon and he would call the DMV, etc. I couldn't express to him enough how him calling the DMV didn't matter, what mattered is that he WENT TO the DMV and transferred the ownership over, BEFORE he sold the car. At the very least, I had what I needed: his name and address. So now I can fill out another release of liability and send it in myself.

The whole thing was so sketchy I still don't feel entirely safe from it. The thing that I can't believe is that he wouldn't take care of it. Because here's a guy who called me FIVE TIMES to ask me little questions about every single issue there might or might not be with the car, and took it to TWO DIFFERENT places to have it checked out--all for a crappy $500.00 car. He was very high maintenance about the whole decision to buy the car. I said all this to Katy after she had left him. I asked her I wonder why he had been so irresponsible and why he had left it hanging. She said, "Oh because maybe he got a girlfriend right away and her new car to drive."

I am learning (the hard way) that even when you THINK you have things covered, it is best to keep checking and keep your hand in it until the bitter end. I think Katy learned some things too. I am just so grateful that Santa Cruz is a small town and that if anything else happens, JESSE SMITH, we KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE, so you can't go FAR. Katy will find you, and if she doesn't. I will.

Stop and Smell the Markers

I forgot a picture to bring in, so I whipped up this one. Now I am typing this with black ink marks on my finger tips. I kind of like them. I remember as a kid having multi colored stains running the length on the side of my left index finger from all the markers I used. It was from missing the cap, as I recapped the markers I used on a daily basis.

Do you remember days where you just sat with your friends and drew pictures or made things? I can remember sitting with my friend Andromeda in third grade, at her desk with the biggest set of Mr. Sketch scented markers. I was fascinated by the smell of a deep pink marker labeled "Melon." My favorite marker scents were light green--"mint," red--"cherry," and purple--"grape" (which still makes my mouth water to this day). I have this warm feeling thinking of the lamp light and the window going dark, and the hours flying by as we sat with paper and all those delicious colors. Nowadays I 'll use the excuse that my house needs to be cleaned or dinner needs to be made in order to procrastinate to get to my desk. Back then, it was such a DISAPPOINTMENT when we had to clean up and eat dinner.

I can remember us chatting about our pictures, as we created them:
"Are you going to draw Taya with a blue bathing suit or a purple one?"
"Blue. What kind of horse is that?"
"It's an Apaloosa."

I am lucky enough to still know Andromeda and to still own Mr. Sketch Markers. I still get a thrill from both, but it's so easy--as we all know--to get lost, not in drawings, but in adult time where we are competative and fearful, or short on time for a nice long visit with either friends or markers. Sometimes, as they say, you need to stop and smell the roses. Well, tonight I want to stop and smell the markers--the yellow-lemon and the brown-cinammon. I've learned also, that Mr. Sketch mean what they say, when they say they are "Water Color Markers." If you bring a brush and water, you can wash at the drawings you've made, and make them into paintings. And maybe I'll make a card for Andromeda that says, "Wish You Were Here."

Life Infusing

I had a really great weekend. Rain, poets, lunch with new friends, dinner with old friends, Hitchcock movies, and a life-infusing walk in Central Park. The temperature has finally started going down and I am thrilled. I love brisk weather. I look better in jackets and scarves than I do in sweat and tanktops. Note to self: everytime I resist something it means I should absolutely do it. Yesterday Graham wanted to get out and do. I had already gone out and done a lot on Saturday, and had intentions to stay at home and do arty & homey stuff. Yet, something pulled at me. Reluctantly, I gave in and we went for a long walk in Central Park. Ah, CENTRAL PARK! There is something seriously expanding to this place. Not only is it old, but there is something about it--I hesitate to use the word 'magic' because I use it so often in here--but it is filled with an incredible energy to it.

The leaves are beginning to change. I picked some up and put them in my journal. Schoolbus yellow and fiery red. We watched two small, white dogs greet eachother and then run with such gusto, muzzle to muzzle, we were doubled over cracking up at the sight. On the way out, we pass by the throngs at the Strawberry Fields memorial, and then the flickering lamps of the Dakota. We go to our favorite diner and eat the best cheeseburgers and onion rings on the planet. After a long, cold walk the salt and greese is heaven.

On our way to the subway, I delight in the easy bubble blowing of Bazooka Joe bubble gum--all hail Bazooka Joe! He is a cheap thrill--free at the diner, and only lasting in flavor for about fifteen minutes, but I blow such bubbles, and suck them back in, that it reminds me of those pleasures you did as a kid, like jumprope, or the swings. It STILL feels good to swing and it still feels good to blow a big bubble.

These are the things that I am thinking lately: Have I been risking enough in my creative endeavors or have I been playing it safe? It seems to me, the happiest I've ever been creatively, are the times I have been involved with a community of artists, who share their work--not these last years that I have been mostly alone. Do I want to go back to school? What would my ideal day job be?

And so I come back to work today, and there are things to be done. The rain is going to fall and I am going to love it. Graham and I may go back to the park next weekend to follow the leaves' progression. I remember last year I came to visit Graham in October, and we walked in Central Park, at the peak of color. It was like a painting or a storybook. We couldn't believe how bright and surreal it was. Did I know then I was going to be in New York? No, I didn't know. I was trying it on inside, thinking, would this fit? And for some reason it eventually did seem like a good fit and so here I am. What will next October look like? God only knows.

Break on Through to the Other Side

Good morning! I woke this morning like it was a sort of Christams--I couldn't wait to figure out what to bring to scan! Ha-ha! I do feel like the world's energy towards you fluxuates, contracting and expanding, depending on your own energy. The world has kind of exploded this morning in little events. Like how at 6:15 this morning, I sat writing at the kitchen table, when what should I see? A little mouse! EEEEEEEEEEK! I wish I didn't get immediately like a cartoonish woman, who yelps and pulls up her skirt at the sight of a mouse--but I CAN'T HELP IT. I don't want a mouse in my kitchen! I went to the bedroom where Graham was asleep and told him about our new roommate and he said, "Summer, it's NEW YORK. Of course we have a mouse." Waaah.

THEN I heard it's going to rain for the next coupe of days, which is so inspiring to me. I love LOVE the rain--perfect for creativity!

THEN I get in this morning and there you all are, saying the nicest things on the planet. The blood had already returned to my cheeks, but it made me want to give the internet a GIANT HUG. You guys rule--WE ALL RULE. Sally Jane just graduated! Kerstin just moved to the US! There is lots of change and accomplishment afoot!

So today I offer you Alice Walker, Miss February 2006! This is the fourth calendar I have created. It is an absolute labor of love. As you can see from February's days page, there is a birthday EVERY SINGLE DAY OF THE YEAR:

It has taken a lot of reasearch. In the past there were a few days here and there where I could not find birthdays, so I made up holidays. Like for this year today is Go See a Movie By Yourself Day. In 2006, I actually managed to fill every single day. So the made up holidays went by the wayside.

Posting these pictures is so inspiring to me--I feel like I have broken through to the otherside. I'm a very visual person, so having these up makes me feel like I really do a lot of work and I am alive like everyone else. Lots of answered hope to all of you too out there.

My Mood Just Got 1000% Better

I went to the copier down the street at lunchtime and got an estimate for the calendars to be printed up. Unfortunately, Village Copiers (as suggested by a dear NYER) is prohibitavely more expensive than Kinko's and also doesn't carry the right binding, so I can't use them. Anyway, I brought a copy of the 2005 Calendar to use as an example, so they could get a clear picture of what I wanted. When I got back to the office, I decided to try to train myself on the scanner that is here--and lo and behold--KAPOW! Joni Mitchell! She's Miss November 2005! Do you know what this means?? It means I can scan pictures! It means you can see the artwork I've been doing! It means that I feel useful again! It means that ALL IS NOT LOST! It means that I feel there are reasons for everything!

Other women from 2005 include Anais Nin, Dolly Parton, & Julia Child. The Joni picture remains my favorite. Did you know that she started smoking when she was nine? Do you know that her artwork is jaw-dropping? Did you know that it was her art teacher who encouraged her to write, saying that if you can create pictures with paint, you can create pictures with words?

2006 includes Alice Walker, Marie Curie, & Amy Sedaris--among others.

Oh, just you wait! I'll be scanning anything I can get my hands on! Artwork! Photos! Appliances! The POSSIBILITIES ARE ENDLESS!

I think scanning may be my new anti-depressant.

Drudgery and Daydreams

I'm not doing so good these days. I'm kinda depressed. I think it's because I spend 8 hours a day in a box with very little contact and very little to do. The bird in me has wings that are getting warped with the cramped quarters and the lack of use.

There are people who are better at these kinds of jobs because that's all they want. I can do the work, efficiently, and with skill, but I whither. This is problematic. I stop caring and I yearn and yearn and yearn as a plant must yearn for real sunlight under a lamp. There has got to be a better way. And I have come to New York to discover that elusive better way. There are people everywhere who are doing that better way--or so I am told. I certainly haven't figured it out yet.

One of my upset thoughts when I was in the throws of the Jealousy Bender was why did God show her (Miranda July) how to make a life entirely of her art and not me? The older I get the more I see how there are pieces of my development that are weak or entirely undeveloped. I don't know how to really build a foundation in order to live a life fully well. I can squeeze the "well lived" parts in for an hour or so in the morning and sometimes in the evening, but that huge bracket of time--the 8-6, the EVERYDAY is sucked up by drudgery and daydreams. I've been making this work, thinking SOMETHING WILL HAPPEN for 10 years. I've come to understand, thinking something will happen is different than believing something will happen.

I've been trying a new way to do affirmations lately. Affirmations have never really worked on me. I've never been able to get the hang of them. I always think "Yeah right..." after every uttered or read affirmation. I read a phrase in SARK'S Prosperity Pie last month that said something along the lines that we want changes in our money situations and our jobs, but we don't try anything new because we think it's hopeless. We need a new window to look through. I liked that phrase, so I wrote down in my journal: look through a new window. You can. Then I looked at it and crossed out "you can" and replaced it with "you are." Something clicked. Instead of saying "it is okay" to do something, I am saying "you are" doing something. It's more immediate and it makes me feel like I am right where I am supposed to be.

So today, in my little box, sad, and lonely I am writing I believe that something will happen and I am writing I am making something happen. and suddenly, I feel my wings have a bit more room, and I am doing just what I am supposed to be doing.

Jealousy Hangover

I'm not going to lie to you, I had a huge coniption fit of jealousy and despair yesterday. I feel its hangover today, and I am at that point where I am wondering what to do when I feel TOTALLY SCREWED. I know the rules of jealousy: use it as a map of where you want to go, there's room for everybody, etc. etc. I'm tired having to use the rules, I just want to feel good about myself and what I do.

I think I've been over-indulging on the internet. Sometimes that happens: too much input and not enough output. I was discovering all kinds of good things yesterday and then like every bender, it seems like a good idea at the time and then, well, you just GO TOO FAR. My breaking point happened when I reached Miranda July's web site and blog. She's everywhere right now thanks to her new movie, Me and You and Everyone We Know. I actually didn't like the movie that much (I know, I know--so many of you did). I went to her site because I realized she was co-founder of one of my favorite creative sites ever, Learning to Love You More. It's such a wonderful and fantastic idea. I want everyone to do something on it! Well, then I discovered that she not only has made a movie, but she's published a short novel, released 4 CDs on Kill Rock Stars (my favorite label), published short stories in the Paris Review, participated in an installation at the Whitney Museum, and basically is a creative genius, and rail thin, and very beautiful, all at the tender age of 31.

I went a little over the edge.

Here's the thing: I've been told so many times that I need to concentrate on ONE THING ONLY to be a success, and that message alone has really tripped me up a lot. I'm one of those people that is good at a number of things and feels equally about them all. So, I do feel incredibly inspired by July's example that you CAN do it all. Yet, that icky part of me looks at her example and spits out an ugly barriage of accusations: I've wasted time, I can't focus, I'm too mentally ill, I can't seem to accomplish ANYTHING, no there ISN'T ENOUGH ROOM, blah, blah, blah.

Of course, the only cure for this is work. Sit your ass down and do the work. I raced home last night and did 5 pages of art and writing. It was a good coniption fit, because it really inspired me to take to the trail. Today, I feel tender and sad and vulnerable, wounded by my own tyranny. I must remember that sometimes just because I feel something is true, doesn't mean it is. Just because I FEEL I haven't accomplished anything, doesn't mean that I haven't--it just means a button has been pushed, and the raging siren is blaring. The person at the driver's wheel needs to pull off to the right and just let it pass by.

[PS You know what really REALLY helped? Going to the Learning to Love You More Site--OMG, that place is inspiring! I know, I already linked it, but I had to link it again because I just LOVE IT!]

The Real International Language

Last night, after a delicious Italian dinner of penne and red sauce, with the rockstar Felicia, I began the 12 block walk to the subway. It was dark, and the streets in the East Village were busy with people. I was walking fast, making long strides with my legs, and feeling a little flighty. Sometimes you can feel fine in a neighborhood and sometimes you don't want to dally. I was at 7th and 2nd, when a young woman caught me eye and began matching my pace. She said, "Excuse me!" I didn't stop, but eyed her, warily. The last time I was followed like this, someone was trying to sell me something. I didn't want to buy anything, or hear a sale's pitch, so I kept walking. But the young woman followed me for a few paces and then called to me in a German accent, "I just want to know--do you know--?" so I stopped, thinking she wanted directions. She said with such an urgency in her face, with sweat beading above her lip, "I just want to know where you buy tampons in America."

Empathy flooded me. I immediately told her that drugstores like CVS will have them. Then I noticed a corner market, and pointed it out to her, suggesting that sometimes they'll have a box of them near the counter. She thanked me and we parted ways, but I wished I had gone with her or helped find another store if that one didn't work out.

I remember all too well, ten years ago, banging on a dispenser that had eaten my change, in the women's bathroom at the MoMA. I was half laughing, half crying in panic, when I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to find a Japanese woman, who didn't speak a word of English, holding two pads. I remember the relief and the gratitude in that moment. I also remember being struck that even though we didn't speak the same language we understood each other perfectly.

Casting Call

This weekend Graham and I went and saw the movie Capote, starring Philip Seymour Hoffman as Truman Capote. It isn’t so much about Truman Capote, as it’s about the writing of his most famous and celebrated work, In Cold Blood. It was one of the best movies I’ve seen in awhile—especially out of Hollywood. I’d like to just give it up to Philip Seymour Hoffman. Granted not all his movies have been great, but when have we ever said, “Well, he phoned it in on that one”? He RULES. He’s the MAN.

I have to admit that upon hearing that Hoffman was playing Capote, I was thrilled. Physically it wasn’t going to be a far stretch and he has kept the goods coming for ten years on film. If anyone could do it, he could. Usually, I HATE the casting they do for famous people. Don’t get me started on Gwenyth Paltrow as Sylvia Plath (couldn’t they have at least given her brown contacts, so she looked a LITTLE like Plath?). My latest stomach ache was brought on by finding out that Nicole Kidman is playing the photographer Diane Arbus—that ain’t a good match, folks. Diane Arbus was a dark, Jewish girl from New York. Kidman is as WASP-y as they come—her skin is so pale it’s nearly translucent. Then again she DID win me over as Virginia Woolf, but I still maintain that the prosthetic nose she wore should have gotten a nomination for best supporting role—because it really helped TRANFORM her in front of our very eyes.

The moment of real relief and delight for me was that Catherine Keener was SO GREAT as Harper Lee. Going in, I wasn’t sold on that casting call. Don’t get me wrong—I love the Catherine, the Keener. She does neurotic-sexy better than anyone. She is razor sharp in her nuttiness. She was lovely and amazing in Lovely and Amazing. Has anyone seen Kicking and Screaming? You will leave the theater kicking and screaming! I just couldn’t see her as a boyish, understated, Southern woman. Yet, she was SO GOOD! I believed her! She looks different, taller, more grounded than zany. I would say that Keener played this role with gravity and poise.

All this, and the aesthetic of the 1950’s done Hollywood style, which I absolutely ADORE. If I could, I would take a vacation in the 1950’s or 1940’s. Politically and socially, not the greatest time period, but aesthetically, it is Heaven to me! I would go shopping! I would travel! I would look up people who are now long gone and say, “What’s for dinner?”

So, regardless of a few factual inaccuracies, Capote is an hour and a half well spent. I left the theater inspired and wanting to read everything Capote ever wrote. Graham and I are both convinced that Hoffman will get an Oscar for his performance. Unless, of course, Tom Hanks comes out with an epic film about Jimmy Stewart, or Walt Disney himself. Then we’re SCREWED. I haven’t heard anything, so maybe it’s all good.

All Before 10:15

10:15 and so far the morning has been one hazard after another! I thought I set my alarm an hour earlier than I thought I did, so I woke up late and didn't get any writing in. THEN, I stepped into the bathroom and there was an inch of water on the floor! Our upstairs neighbor had some sort of water situation and it leaked through our ceiling. EGADS! As a result (don't gag people), I wasn't able to take a shower, so I feel totally CRUDDY.

THEN, the subway was SLOW. It took 15 minutes longer than it usually does, which means something when you're a temp. THEN the train was so crowded, I reached for a bar to hold on to, but realized I was going to have to hold on to the bar on the other side, so I put my arm down and proceeded to elbow a lady in the ear. I apologized profusely, but she was non impressed.

THEN, I get to work and have to make 60 copies of a handout and the stapler runs out in the machine. So I go to fill it, but the directions are hard to follow, so when I put the refill in, I do so apparently incorrectly, because the remaining 32 copies go unstapled! THEN, I reach to use the manual stapler and it's OUT of staples! SO I go to fix the stapler in the copier--because I just can't leave it--and see what the problem is--I didn't take the strip of paper off that holds the staplers together. So as I try to take the strip off the tightly packed cube of staple sheets, the staple sheets decide to eject themselves and GO FLYING EVERYWHERE. I am hoping and praying that no one walks in and sees me--the temparary worker, who by sheer assocition with temping, has to prove that she has any intellegence at all. I scramble to get the little sheets of straight staples and try to figure out how the heck to put them into the copier machine. Finally, through many different attempts, trying and then trying again, I figure it out and PRESTO! The stapler in the copier is working again!

THEN I get back to my desk and begin manually stapling the copies, when i look at the clock and I realize it's 10:02m! My time sheet was supposed to be submitted no later than 10:00! This is possibly a catastrophe, because of the mishap of last week's time sheet (not my mistake), was no approved in time, so Ialmost didn't get paid, which means my rent almost didn't get covered. As it is, I am literally going to be shuffling thing around to make sure I have enough for food this week until I get paid--hopefully--on Friday. PLEASE let them accept a timesheet submitted at 10:06! PLEASE! Or else this will be the morning that will last until next week!

SCREW IT. I'm going to mix hot chocalate into my coffee and have a poor girl's mocha! Sugar free diet be damned!