Two Pieces of String

I have written in here before that me and my mom have one of those classic mother-daughter realtionships, where we drive each other NUTS. I'd like to blame it all on her, but sometimes I catch how unbelievably ADOLESCENT I get when I am around her. I all but roll my eyes dramatically and cry out "SHU 'UP!" Like every California teenage girl of the 1980's.

When I was in my twenties, I was so busy being wronged and tormented by her that I neglected to notice how much I tormented her. Now we are like that old image of two porcupines trying to embrace. We do it carefully.

Today, I sent her this postcard because it's an old joke between us. The joke itself is one of those jokes that is so bad you don't laugh. I cannot remember how it started, but years ago, when I was in high school, and I would call her and swear the world was coming to an end, my mom would quietly start telling this joke. It would make me CRINGE and then I would roll my eyes and say SHU'UP!

Now, this joke has taken on a life of its own. I've said it to my brother in moments of crisis and so has she, and it makes us all WRIGGLE and WRITHE so much that we can't help but laugh and feel better. Each of us likes to pull it out when everyone least expects it. So today I sent one to each of them. I didn't sign it, but somehow, I think they'll get the joke.

Reunions

30 years ago, my stepfather, Gary, my mother, Bee, and my father, Jake, and I all lived (in various combinations) on a commune called (with some subtlety) THE LAND. It has been a bookmark in all of our personal histories--more so of my parents, of course, who have memories that are steeped with such misty-eyed nostalgia, that the moment you heard the words, "When we were living on THE LAND..." you could swear there was the smell of reefer and incense in the air, and a dim soundtrack of Joni Mitchell singing: "And we've got to get ourselves back to the garden..."

On Sunday, during my weekly conversation with my parental units, Pam and Gary, Gary said rather excitedly, "I just filled your e-mail box." With what, I wanted to know. It turns out that through the easy access of the internet and e-mail, a reunion chain has been spawned for the far flung members of The Land. Gary included me on the correspondence. I thought, "Oh how cool." Some people I have only made up memories of through the various purple haze stories I have heard through the years, and others, who I remember very clearly from my childhood. It seemed to me a very interesting cultural example--where are all these people now?

I go off line 4 days a week--partly because I don't have easy internet access outside the office, but I also FEEL better when I am not constantly logging on, checking on things, and scanning the interactive TV that is the internet. I am used to a small collection of e-mails awaiting my response, but was not prepared for the NINETY-SIX forwarded e-mails from this little reunion chain that could! GEEZ LOUISE! Retired hippies can e-mail, people!

I haven't had time to read through everything, but from what I have read, it's been interesting to see where people have scattered to since 1977. Some are documentary filmmakers, some are editors, some went to prison, some are dead, some are in Canada, some are grandparents. I am very curious to see what happened to the other kids that were affiliated. I guess I'll have to wade through the FIFTY or SO remaining e-mails. One thing that seems evident just from the limited reading I did, is that no matter how diverse the paths of these people are, all of them have been through it, all of them are still making their lives by hand--something that drew them all to The Land in the first place.

Reunions are weird things--they can either be welcomed events filled with connection and recognition or they can be prickly, inasive, painful things. Either way, they are filled with stories. I can't wait to hear them all.

Magic

This has been a miraculous week. I am not kidding. Last week, at this time, I was feeling so pent up and so frustrated with my lonely self. I wrote in my journal: PLEASE SEND PEOPLE.

At the end of the week I got an e-mail from a friend who was coming into town from Michigan. My friend Nate got back from tour and called me. On Tuesday, I came into the office and there was an e-mail from an old friend, with opportunities for a show and for visiting (Hi Diane!), an e-mail from my friend Vitali, who is coming to New York next week, and an e-mail from Kim Wood, a writer & filmmakerI met a couple fo months ago, and who I have been trying to get together with ever since, with an invitation to join her for a book reading this week. As if that wasn't enough, my friend Kirstin called me OUT OF THE BLUE, and just HAPPENED to be in New York(from California), and wanted to introduce me to her OTHER childhood friend in New York, who happens to be an artist.

HELLO!

I love meeting new people who are friends of people that I consider very dear to me, and who also happen to be nice and warm and easy to talk to. If they are an artist, it really UPS the EXCITEMENT. Alise Spinella, my friend Kirstin's "other childhood artist friend" was all the above. I like meeting artists that I haven't seen their artwork yet, because when you go home and get to look them up, the surprise of their work is often a total DELIGHT. I had no idea that I was sitting across from someone who created something as beautiful as this:
I've also been a bit worried about money lately, and as part of Chinese New Year, my friend Chin gave me good luck money, I got taken out to a lovely dinner (see above), and Graham got a long awaited paycheck.

Also, a couple of plans that I thought were falling through, BOTH came through.

To continue the magic that is my week, yesterday I was feeling very TIGHT and FRUSTRATED about the novel I am working on, thinking I need more information about a couple of areas. One of the areas I feel insecure about is that one of my characters is a jockey, and I just don't know enough about jockeys and horse racing to flesh his life out. This morning I JUST HAPPENED to overhear my co-worker (who literally sits in the office across from me) talking about Belmont Stakes. It turns out her husband has been in the horse racing business his entire life. He used to MANAGE JOCKEYS (for pete's sake!). He comes from a horse racing family (his father is a footnote in the book Seabiscuit--for pete's sake!).

Last night I also had a breakthrough in writing, which has instilled in me a much needed sense of confidence.

So, whatever is next--I am READY! BRING IT AWN.

(Oh yes, and thank you thank you thank you!)

See you Tuesday, people!

Four Things I Find Beautiful in the Work Place

At work, every sunny morning, the light comes through and leans heavily on all the cups that sit on the dishrack ready for use. There is something so warm and comforting about it--and I look at them every morning I go to get coffee. This morning I stood looking at them and thought, what else do I find beautiful in an office environment--something I don't always associate with beauty. It took some DEEP looking, but I found a number of things, which teaches me (AGAIN) that once you look, the pleasure can be found. skirt.

cups.

lemons.

plant & buildings.

Now I am Myself

One of the things I may NEVER get tired of living in New York is having the random well-known person spotting. It sometimes MAKES MY DAY. Yep, I am that uncool. I get a little BUZZ from it. I actually have come to believe that notable sights are a sort of GOOD LUCK omen.

I remember coming to visit Graham and us going to the International Center for Photography. I was standing in line, confused, mulling over if I could indeed move to New York to be with Graham. Graham wasn't the issue, New York was. I was literally asking myself, "Could I like it here?" when the guy in front of me, turned around after buying tickets and it was literally ONE OF MY FAVORITE PHOTOGRAPHERS, Lee Friedlander. It took my BREATH AWAY.

As if it wasn't enough of a sign, six months later, while we were in the subway, on our way to look at an apartment in Brooklyn, I was having fearful doubts. I quietly tested the universe and said, "If I'm meant to be here, let me see a celebrity in the next hour." I literally looked up and across the row was Kyan Douglas, from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. A minor celebrity, okay, but GOOD ENOUGH.

Since then I've spotted Ethan Hawke walking in SoHo; Jim Jarmusch hurrying in the Village; Chris Noth hanging out at Starbucks; Michael Kors at the movies; Alan Cumming at the Natural History Museum; Calvin Klein walking down 14th street; and on Sunday I saw Gilbert Gottfried all squinty and talking to himself on Broadway.

Graham saw Kate Winslet at the Empire Diner (I could eat my hat with jealousy on that one) and Andrew McCArthy at Whole Foods.

I like that these people live normal lives here and that I spot them, and get a little thrill and then go on with my day. The night before Graham's birthday this summer, I stood in a long line to get cupcakes at the Magnolia Bakery. If you've never been, the Magnolia Bakery is TEENY, and usually has a line out the door and down the block. They need a BOUNCER to ask how many in your party. This night the bouncer was a pretty woman, in her late thirties, to early forties, who chatted with everybody, making it a more pleasant night. When I talked with her, there was something oddly familiar about her. She had a look to her that seemed to say, "I was a 1980's beauty." Suddenly, I had a flashback to 1988, sitting in the livingroom of one of my high school friends watching A Nightmare on Elmstreet 3: the Dream Warriors. There she was, the pretty woman who I was talking to, playing a recovering heroin addict, who Freddy Kruger kills with (oh yes) NEEDLES IN HER ARM (just say no, kids). I remembered her, because I also had seen her in a movie called Permanent Record, a teen drama about suicide, also starring Keanu Reeves.

"Are you an actress?" I asked her. She said, "I used to be, but now I am myself."

I thought back to myself at 16, with bunchy socks and rolled up jeans, with mistaken beliefs of what the world was like, looking at this woman, thinking, "She's pretty. I bet she's going to be big." and me standing so many years later in front of this same woman, in a city I never thought i would live in. I thought, "I LOVE New York." Anything can happen here.

"Amen." I replied.

A Bird at My Table

I'm working on a book right now and really struggling, so I've been getting out all the tools, sacrificial virgins, incense, prayer books, candles to help me in this journey that is actually attempting something that is important to me. One of the things I did recently was to re-read Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. I have had this book for ten years and had read it, thought it good, but also I had this little eety-beety gripe about it. The gripe is what I have with a lot of professional creative gurus, which is when they say, "The important thing is not to get published, the important thing is to enjoy the creative process." While, this is an absolutely true and wonderful sentiment, it also BUGS me, because I want to say EASY FOR YOU TO SAY, OH PUBLISHED AUTHOR. I want to experience the beauty that is doing the creative act AND get published--so SUE me!

Anyway, maybe my anger was fueled because I actually wasn't doing ANYTHING about writing in one direction, so I felt (ahem) a wee bit DEFENSIVE and (cough) JEALOUS. Now that I am actually sitting my ass down and WRITING in a very concrete manor, on a daily basis, I think I was more receptive to Lamott's book--and dare I say it?--GRATEFUL for this funny and cranky book about the very REAL way you can feel when you are actually writing--which is to say, bored, grumpy, and totally OUT OF YOUR MIND. Yes, you can also feel excited, inspired, and all those other things, but once again, I am faced with the REALITY vs. the FANTASY.

I asked a PUBLISHED writer friend recently, "I feel nuts is this normal?" and she said, "Oh, honey, it's totally NORMAL. My friend [who is writing a novel] is having a TOTAL NERVOUS BREAKDOWN." While, in theory, I don't enjoy other people's misery, dare I say, my belt felt a little looser, as I breathed a SIGH OF RELIEF?

One of my favorite movies, An Angel at My Table, about the New Zealand writer Janet Frame, totally fed (like many other sources) my fantasy of what being a writer was about. Sure, she had crippling shyness, family deaths, and an 8 year wrongful institutionalization, which almost led to her getting a lobotomy, but she ended up WRITING several amazing books and going to EUROPE on a fellowship and she wore GORGEOUS 1950's sweater sets, and went down in HISTORY. You see what my focus was? Not on the very REAL and INTIMATE and EMPTY parts of her life--or the part in her that thought, how in the hell am I going to do this? I was focused on the PRODUCT. I think this is what Anne Lamott was trying to say when she said, "The point is not the publishing, the point is the writing." The writing might as well be called "the process of your life." Don't worry about how your life will look at the end, pay attention to how you are LIVING IT.

It's really EASY to judge or get ideas about FINISHED projects. The sheer fact that Janet Frame wanted to kill herself, that she lived in poverty, and could barely hold a conversation with anyone outside her family tells me more about her process than her STORY does. The fact that she triumphed at all is somehow beside the point. She struggled, like any human being, with very large doubts.

It sounds so sexy writing a book, but I assure you it's really unremarkable. Like anyone else, or like EVERYONE else, eventually you sit down with all the imperfection and write. As a wise woman once said, something is better than nothing. So I am living my life and noticing how it is lived and it's sometimes great and sometimes really frickn' hard. I'm lucky, my story isn't finished yet. This means I still have time.

I'm So Bored I am Drawing Faces on My Fruit

It's not the worst day, but it isn't the greatest. I have a sore throat that will not budge, no matter how much vitamin c, water, and airborne I throw at it. I will NOT go DOWN softly into that dark night! I will not!

My Netflix is 3 days late, which makes me believe that my neighbors are watching my riveting documentary and the Nicolas Cage film.

It took me nearly an hour to get to work, thanks to TWO very very slow trains. So I was 20 minutes late.

Star magazine reports that Angelina Jolie may be ANOREXIC. I know I am going to be a WET BLANKET here, but I don't think The New York Post or the likes of celebrity magazines are HELPFUL to the world AT ALL. Last week I saw the headline: "Brad's Joy. Jen's Pain." and I finished it off with "And Summer's nausea." When do these people ever GO TO WORK?

Can you tell I am in a bad mood?

I am BORED BEYOND MEASURE. I know how so many spiritual gurus, teachers, parents, and gym coaches say things like, "If you're bored, you aren't trying hard enough." I think that is a very HOSTILE position, and obviously, they are very very angry people (just kiddn' folks). I'm just having one of those ITCHY days, where I could be four years old and flopping myself on the bed in EXASPERATED by the UTTER WEIGHT that is a DULL AFTERNOON.

Part of it is absolutely seasonal. It's February. I'm tired of the cold and feeling so couped up. Part of it is just my bad self, needing to get over itself. Here are a number of things I've tried today:

Draw a face on my orange (see above).
Contacted a friend about playing a show.
Contacted friends inviting them to join me on a dream dinner, I want to plan at the infamous restuarant Chez Panisse in August.
Lurked on flickr and all the blogs I daily visit--even dipping into the ARCHIVES of one of them (I am HARD UP, people).
Take a picture of orange with face on it (see above).
Picked cat hairs off my sweater.
Actually did work.
Created a new "station" on Pandora.
Ate lunch.

I think you get the picture. When I am in this mood, I am just shy of Googling ex-boyfriends, or eating a bunch of crap, which is really the same thing, just different mediums. Best not to act on either. That's not the kind of shit I really want to STIR.

I guess I'll just write a blog entry--oh! I just did.

DANG.

The Weather Report

Greetings from the ice pelted streets of New York City! This is what one should not do, when running late, and there is a "winter mix" of ice and snow: believe you can save time by taking the express to Grand Central and walking to the office. I stepped outside and literally almost fell with my legs in the air from the SLIPPERY SIDEWALK.

As we were leaving the apartment, I made BROAD pronouncements to Graham about how lucky we are to be living in the city and not driving in this weather. I remember a terrifying commute to work when I was living in Vermont during a wintery mix, and my windshield was icing over and people were sliding sideways across the roads. This morning, I saw a woman standing waiting for the traffic light to change, and as she shifted her weight slightly she literally GLIDED sideways (luckily AWAY from the street). It was HARD going on foot. Scary, actually. I am a little sore.

I actually really love weather. As Annie Dillard said, "If you came to our house, talking about the weather, you'd be welcome." I moved back East from California because I so missed TEXTURE in my climate. A snowstorm in New York is welcome, even ice, but this all comes hot on the heels for GREAT PLANS I had for better weather. First, I got some new chalk that makes the chalk I got last week look like GIRLYMAN CHALK. Check it out:

In YOUR FACE Staples! I actually didn't know there was something called SIDEWALK chalk. I think this is beefy enough for the rough and tumble asphalt jungle that is New York.

Other adventures, I plan on doing are to find the wild parrots of Brooklyn. I knew about them, but my stepdad Gary sent me the link and now I am DYING to find them.

As it is, with the weather so frightful, I am taking my chalking messages to a different, INSIDE version:

Can you tell where it is?

After the Storm

My dear friends (if any of you remain). I am so sorry to have been gone so long. I had migraines for 5 days in a row--the last 2 were crippling, and so looking at a computer screen was akin to having my eyeballs fried in olive oil. Okay, not that bad. Add garlic.

Anyway, in case you aren't a migraine sufferer, there are a few exciting things that can happen in response to the usual migraine symptoms. One is that when it's over, you crawl out of bed, expecting to look out on a world gone to shambles. Your body feels like a beach after a wild hurricane--utterly serene, but with debris and jagged edges flung across the shore of your skin, which has been beaten smooth by the torrential winds and rain. If that is too metaphoric, another way of putting it is that you feel utterly beat to shit and fragile.

The other thing that can happen is that you can't sleep at night because the pain is so intense and you've been asleep all day, so you have incredible epiphanies like the one I had on Thursday night. I lay there, absolutely ROCKETED by the realization that life is too short, I need to own up to the fact that I LOVE CRAPPY ROMANTIC COMEDIES. I felt like turning to my beloved, who lay quietly sleeping so deeply (the NERVE of some people), and waking him up to say: BEFORE YOU MARRY ME YOU SHOULD KNOW SOMETHING: I have been secretly wanting to see The Family Stone for a YEAR. Yes I know it stars Sarah Jessica Parker. Yes, I am sure it has no utter REAL MEANING or weight--but I don't care! I want fashion and product placement and attractive people in unbelievably contrived moments of tenderness. And what's more I WANT to see The Holiday, even though Jack Black and Kate Winslet as a couple are about as probable as Queen Elizabeth and Scooby Do. I want to sit back and be enveloped in a world that is as comforting as the interior of a Starbucks--so utterly predictable, commercial, but with great aesthetic color choices. I know it's not emotionally RESONATING or LIFE CHANGING or even remotely COOL, but we are going on being together for nearly THREE YEARS and I am not going to LIVE this DOUBLE LIFE any longer!

It was quite a moment. Graham lay there in his innocence, quietly snoring, and I was writhing with pain and awakening. There might as well have been fireworks illuminating my face, the thoughts were exploding with such bright ferocity. I all but pounded my fist in my other open hand in defiance. No wait, I DID pound my fist into my other open hand. I WILL watch Music and Lyrics. I WILL be both nauseated and charmed by the riddle that is Drew Barrymore. I WILL!

And the next morning, the migraine lingered and I called into work, and I told Graham all that I had come to know of myself during the night. And he said he understood, and he bought me crackers and Coca-Cola (the world's gift to nausea) so I could keep something down. And somehow, like the end of a movie, I just knew that everything was going to be okay.

Important Moment

Yesterday, in a momet fo needing desperately to get out of the house, I had a brainstorm. Why don't I act on something I've been wanting to do since I moved to New York? Take chalk and write messages on sidewalks. Suddenly, on the subway, I felt very GIDDY indeed. I went to Staples and bought a box of chalk. Note to THE THRONGS who want to buy a box of chalk: before purchasing the box, LOOK INSIDE. I came out of staples and opened my box up to a bunch of little tiny nubs. The ENTIRE box was broken into bits! DANG! I emptied the box into the small plastic bag it had came in and managed to find a couple of pieces worth using.

Here's a couple of factors that I didn't consider when this idea bloomed in my mind like a GREAT IDEA: It was literally ZERO degrees out. I had no hat or any gloves. Smart cookie. The other thing was that I was frozen with emberassment. It was HARD to suddenly drop to the sidewalk and write KINDNESS or LOOK UP in front of a bunch of people. Like anybody cares, on the frigid streets of New York, but STILL. I held my breath each time and DOVE. It was THRILLING.

I think it's good for me to step out of my comfort zone. It felt like a REAL adventure. Plus I like the idea of writing simple messages in the world. I am literally MAKING MY MARK. And then, when it was over, and my face hurt from the wind, and my hands couldn't hold chalk anymore, what was I to do? Go the the City Bakery and have the best hot chocolate in the whole world.

The Very Real Things

Be a lamp, or a lifeboat, or a ladder.
Help someone's soul heal.
Walk out of your house like a shepherd.
-Rumi

This morning in a fit of trying to figure out what the heck I can wear to work, I cut off the sleeves of a sweater I don't often wear and made this vest. This was my inspiration. I like it better, though I now realize why I didn't wear it that much--it's a funky fit. I want to shrink it down.

Both the neighbors beside us and above spend a good deal of their time yelling. The next door neighbors, a mother and her two grown sons communicate through screaming at eachother. Lately it's been worse. This morning on my way out the door, I took chalk and wrote in the walkway: KINDNESS. In New York sometimes saying "Good morning" to a stranger as you pass by feels like a RADICAL ACT. It's not often that I walk out into the world and am greeted by kindness. At least I can provide that for myself, if not my neighbors, who desperately need it.

I want to infuse my life with possability more directly. Lately my thinking has been on the inward negative side. I feel puckered. So I take pictures of shoes, make nourishing lunches for myself, write messages on the sidewalk, transform clothes. When I yearn and yearn and yearn for something I cannot name, I forget about the very real things I can do RIGHT NOW to not only feel better, but to SHIFT and CHANGE and to BELIEVE in something OUTSIDE of myself. Often, it doesn't take money or much risk. It just takes ACTION, the one gift we can give ourselves by getting up and out the door.