marketing

I've lately been helping a colleague to develop a marketing kit for a very odd campaign. Basically, a particular city government is forcing our organization to make upgrades to some facilities. Much money needs to be raised in order to do this, and it's not a very sexy thing to try and sell to donors. But without these improvements, this particular facility will not be able to provide essential services for upwards of 3,000 people each month.

Last month, a family with a Hummer came to this facility looking for assistance. The father had lost his job, and they were stuck with this huge, gas-guzzling car because they were upside down on it. This is such an insane time. And I am tasked with soliciting donations from many people who were once able to help, but now are the ones needing assistance.

So in this weird climate, the most difficult part of creating this marketing campaign has been finding a name for it. What do you call an initiative like this, describing accurately what it is, and still keeping it fresh and succinct? Depending on the name, it could be seen as a fancy remodeling project or as a vital component to keeping a much-needed community program alive.

That's the basis of marketing. I spend so much of my time thinking about how things are presented. So much, in fact, that when I am presented with a problem, I think of it in terms of marketing. How can a thing be more streamlined, more nuanced, more interesting and perceived as more valuable?

All this probably means that I need to stop working so much, drink a beer and do a handstand. OK, not in that order.

given a light

I am fascinated by the evolution of the religious mind.

I plan to read Christ in Egypt: The Horus-Jesus Connection. It appears to be an incredibly well-sourced and thorough analysis of the ancient origins of Christianity. It's essentially the study of the basis of much religion -- the ancient Egyptian sun god, Horus. The ocumentary Zeitgeist also gets into this, and while it's a bit superficial and non-sourced, I think it's a good introduction to some of these concepts.

I find this subject so intriguing, I think, because it gives me a tangible place to put the feelings I have had my whole life: that the universe is bigger and more mysterious than humanity has quite been able to grasp. And that Christianity is a red herring.

I would give just about anything for members of my family to understand this. But they are shackled by their faith. They cannot lend any credence to anything doesn't exalt Christ as the Holy Being. They are so fully engaged in the mythology of their time that they are unable to see very similar mythologies propagated by their (ancient) ancestors.

Don't get me wrong, sometimes I envy them. They have something to hold on to. 

It's hard to over-estimate the importance of the Bible. I do understand that as a historical and allegorical document it is extremely valuable. But my instinct is always to look at the big picture -- to pull the lens, as it were, as far back as the instrument of my mind can expand. I wish to look at patterns.

But in the end, we are just little, fallible, dopey humans. The Bible is so rich, so full of this incredible mythology, full of fantastical events that took place just long enough ago that they can seem ancient and larger than our current lives. Given this richness, any pastor or priest at any church the world over can derive multiple sermons each week from this one source. And the sermons will be beautiful. A person can bring their family, or just themselves, to a Christian church or Jewish Temple and feel that they've been given a light. Shown a way.

Disregarding politics for a moment -- this is the positive side of what keeps religion going. And if the earth lasts long enough, I suppose there will be another messiah with another mythology built around it. Naturally, we have teachers in the present day to help us understand these things. But somehow, I feel I've come to a much deeper understanding of all this for the first time in my life. And it feels so very good. Because it helps me shed my familial guilt. Guilt for not being a believer. Because I see what I believe to be the truth. I have always known instinctively that God lives in each of us. And that no religious dogma can be anything but a loose guideline. And I know that that in and of itself is faith. And it is mine. It doesn't belong to a doctrine. None of the beautiful things in life really do.

crash encore

Recently saw these San Diego dudes. This video is sort eh, but they sounded GREAT live. Nice guys too. Enjoying their EP.

do you just not have a clue?

Then get ye to Dionne Warwick's Cosmic Peephole.

livin' 'neath the law

See all three episodes.

overanalyzing ghost

As is the case with many people tonight, the death of Patrick Swayze caused me to watch one of his movies. Having not seen it in many years, I opted for Ghost.

It's amazing how poorly written this movie is!

Sam sort of indirectly causes the death of both his killer and the conspirator in his murder. He harasses the gunman until he gets hit by a car. But it's apparently OK, because Sam is a cute white guy and Willie is a bad brown guy.

I mean, none of this is explored.

Also, there is the glaring separation of heaven and hell, good and evil. Clearly, there can't have been both good and bad things you did in life. Nope, you're going to one of two places and that's that. It doesn't matter that Sam is involved in high-end banking, that his whole career is based on transferring money from rich people to more rich people.

Demi Moore's hair is undeniably awful.

Whoopi, though, gives one of the better comedic performances I can remember ever seeing in a film. Which is saying a lot - and ultimately redeems the film.


But - there is a very intimate slow dance scene Demi has with Whoopi, and of course they have to put Patrick's body there cause they can't show two women being close like that - icky.

The ending is so long and drawn out.

In short, this is porn for simple people with a lazy Christian ethos.

guilt vs. shame

Guilt = internal dialogue between you and God or some moral authority.

Shame = external dialogue; social condition.

sweet dreams

This guy could not be more awesome. His stage name is Hyperpotamus and he's a looping vocal artist from Madrid.

I had the pleasure of meeting him (thanks Mike and Serena!) and he is a super nice guy. He's currently touring the US. I got to see his ish live and it was phenomenal!

jumping into this lake
pulling on the engines of seep and of sand
we are all still wet.

the river on the other side of the mountain tosses
little drops of patience.
i do not catch them.

i look stupidly at nature
failing to see the perfection of such folly


i let a million little poems die tonight.
let them drown at any cost, at any
depth
i need for them to stop moving
tonight;
to not feel
the crimson burning boiling underneath

my heart.Forget my heart.my
heart.

backpacker kitty

This kitty is SO happy! Warms the heart.

[via cuteoverload]

more navel gazing

A close friend asked me recently whether I believe in the soul, and reincarnation. She seems to be questioning a lot of that stuff these days.

I've never really questioned that life goes on after the Earthly death. I don't know if it's as lyrical as the Buddhist or Hindu version of it all, and I'm not sure I believe in karma specifically -- although it's awfully convenient to think of there actually being a justice system within the cosmos.

So that's where I am - always questioning, you know? And the very idea of worshiping a deity is preposterous in this day and age, I think. It goes against the most basic tenets of evolution.

I do think that the amount of hurt you cause probably comes back to you eventually in some way. No, I do not know exactly how this works. I don't think it's really like there's a galaxy-sized filing cabinet stuck in a corner of the universe.(How cool would that be though?) It's probably more about energy.

Energy doesn't just stop. It doesn't dissipate. It only transforms. So when the heart stops pumping, the synapses stop firing, and the emotions stop happening, that energy has to transform into something else.

No, I do not know what I am talking about. What I know I believe is this:

strands

As a prelude to Goya
I walk through these vines
As sure as sweet is wet
As his Maja is here now

What was given is not as important as what was
Withheld; Cassandra’s torch lit that room greatly

I was deliciously tied back
And I was, I was done to
A chord of my favorite song
To accompany the hemlock

To live in Van Gogh’s ear,
I cut off my hair. And I would have given
My toes, one at a quiet time, and I would
Have given my fingers and my eyes
And my my

You took good care of those strands.
I didn’t find them in the street in
Front of my window.
You were a good little matchstick
And it was my body grasped that sill
And I held onto it real good
Didn’t I?

Something in my heart is telling me it's time
to rock the heart of destiny and leave it all behind

without pretense

Some years ago, a series of my poems were in an art show. All the artists were asked to write a statement about their work, and this is what I wrote. I just came across it in an old folder and thought it was sort of funny.

I write things that I like to think anyone can read – as long as they know how to form words by interpreting symbols on a page. Even if they don’t like "poetry." Such a strange animal, poetry is. E.E. Cummings said, "Anyone could become a poet merely by doing the necessary anything; whichever that anything might or might not entail." And some may think that this means exactly nothing; however it says as much as I can possibly say about my poems, or his poems, or the art of poetry in general.

Many are scared of poetry, or put off by its pretense. Poetry, after all, strives to be "beautiful." (Poets like this.) It wants to touch, to feel, to get inside you without, necessarily, an invitation. It is understandable why it is uncomfortable for people. I become often uncomfortable about it when I am writing, because perhaps it is quite intrusive. Writing or reading a poem is like finding an amazing new lover; it is too wonderful and frightful and you know that you aren’t going to get away without taking off some emotional clothing.

Emotional clothing? Yes, poets also like "deep metaphor," I suppose. It’s just something to get used to. I, like most artists, hesitate to write “about” my work; there is a fear that this will detract from nuance and the possibility for magic. However I am insistent that anything I have written will be received and enjoyed by you the reader, or else it will not. No matter what I “say.” Or you could just believe me when I say that I am truly without pretense and that my poetry therefore is without pretension. That should make you less skittish. Of course then you who are not pretentious would see through this gaunt veil, as no one who is without pretense ever talks about it.

Rest assured that in any event, you can undress in front of my (or any) poems. They are safe. I can say from experience that if they bite, it will only hurt for a moment. Or if they are unsafe, it is only because you need them to be.

November 2003

canyon

Can’t be pretending all the time
That it’s right
If it’s pretending
Then it’s time to go
Need to stop before this velocity
Hits no

You conquer just a little bit
But are escorted out again;
You’re starving for pain.
The momentum is growing
And I’m breathing
Why can’t the music just
Speak for itself?

I’ll let my heart
Speak for itself
Its only harvest
On the other side of today
Thinking it might make a difference
If the song just sees itself
For awhile

Go on
Mean something to yourself
We’re hinging
Our hearts keep twisting
They change but they never untie

Will you find anything alive?
It’s a comedy with chance
Out here in this blue canyon echo
Ripe with stars fruits and hollies

My ego perks up and
Listens.
It is…
It is all alive,
Everything here.
But it turns on its side now-
You know now what you were saying
From behind your leather jacket
You know what your leather says,

‘I cannot be touched here.’

growing up girl

Oh, my parents.

They both come from conservative and very traditional families. In spite of all the dysfunction on both sides, they really came away from their respective upbringings with a strong sense of what a family should be: American, nuclear, Protestant, possessing of mortgages... and fully delineated by gender.

I continue to be astounded by just how different my childhood was from my brother's. To this day, I hear stories about adventures he had that I never got to share or even know about. I missed out on a lot of fun and independence. My brother went on camping and hunting trips, got to slide in the mud with ALL THE OTHER neighborhood kids in the winter, could ride his bike wherever he wanted, played all kinds of sports, climbed trees, had himself a BB gun, and all the other cool toys like erector sets, Legos, Star Wars action figures, etc. I spent as much time in his room as he would allow, making landing strips for the Millennium Falcon or playing Battle Ships.
In contrast to my brother's veritable wonderland of all things cool, I spent a lot of time with my mom and grandmother, learning crafts, painting, sewing Cabbage Patch Kid clothes (seriously), antiquing, playing with my Barbies. Come to think of it, I had a rather large wardrobe for my Barbies, and while I dug all the ballgowns and such, one of my favorite things to do was to dress my favorite one in her red sweatshirt, jeans and hiking boots - and she would go "hiking" in the backyard. Hah.

I wasn't really allowed to play sports, and as a result have almost no hand-eye coordination. Sadly, throwing and catching are terrifying to me. That ball may as well be a Tomahawk missile aimed straight at my head.


I really like the idea of playing some softball at the park or something. I briefly tried my hand at basketball, without my parents knowing, since I love the sport so much, and even that was hard. Consistently dribbling the ball while making one's way up court may seem natural to some. But it was my Everest.

I've always had a wistful admiration for those for whom athletics comes easily. Phys Ed was no doubt a fun time at school for such people, and never a cause for panic attacks in the locker room. How nice that must be, to be able to have fun like that, not even thinking about looking like a fool.

Similarly, I have almost no aptitude for anything remotely mechanical. I consider myself an intelligent person, capable of deconstructing elaborate concepts, but a particularly sophisticated door handle can cause an undue amount of distress. When something breaks, I ask someone else to fix it. My attempts to understand these things over the years have caused some frustration, so I would kind of rather someone do it who will not lose their head over it.

These things leave me feeling inadequate. I'm just not quite the prepared, capable woman I should be. It's gotten better over the years, for sure, and I've tried to pay attention whenever I see someone manipulating physical objects in such ways as to not injure themselves -- this has helped immensely.

I'm not really sharing all this because I feel like whining -- though it may sound like it. It's my guess that I'm not the only one out there, male or female, who feels this way. I think that's why I've had a connection to certain types of gay men my whole life - the ones who were pushed toward Boy Things and never had a natural inclination for them.

Heck, I think I've always just had an affinity for people who are different.

lineage

She believed I would become part of the lineage
Which one was not important.
I believed far above the kitchen table, I believed
In color.

I know someday I will miss
The chemical bitterness smell of her hairspray
When a woman of a certain age walks past
I will miss the Chinese restaurant around the corner
From our house
Where for some reason I would always sit on her lap
And kiss her cheek while we waited for our food.
The little barrettes she made for my hair.

Her eyes, as she grew older, smoldered over
Drying to rid me of my pride
Her throat
Sputtered forth the lies

But through my life when I look at the hills across from my house
I want to see only the olives of her skin dancing across the horizon
Her ballerina brown eyes
Woman’s ankles.
Please, her. Please be this sandy moment
And pour through me like I’ve always wanted
Please be water and wine and bark and no envy
Build on all this, all
Of chance
For you, for me
When you hear the faint fluttered wood darkness calling
Go to sleep
Let the spice earth seep in
Like Venus learned to do
Retreat to a seashell
Hear it?
Momma can you hear it?

Taste the soil Momma?
Taste the hallowed Momma soil?

the seventh night

What is it about Sunday nights? I've spoken to several friends about this over the years and it seems I'm not alone. Sunday nights are strange. They can take you out of yourself a bit, and become fraught with nameless emotion.

We are programmed, our very internal clocks have attuned themselves to, the seven-day cycle of the thing known as the week.

You work, dawdle, think, play, live during your week. Then old Sunday comes along and brings with it the evening. It's the ending of something. It's the denouement of the tiny opera that was the preceding six days of your life. A microcosm of things happened - things went smoothly, things were shitty, perhaps you reached a particular milestone; you learned things, you looked out windows, got drunk, took care of something or someone, had reactions to events, had sex, had no sex, or maybe ate a giant bowl of pasta. On Sunday, all those things come to end.


Is this in any way oppressive? For the most part, I am down with the current calendar system. Time being the most precious resource, I appreciate that it is constructed in accordance with the seasons and, ultimately, the sun. This is our most fundamental connection to traditional Paganism (sshh! Don't tell the Christians!) and I value that very much. It's just a little strange, isn't it, that no matter what may be happening with our emotional ebb and flow, things come to a head at this particular time every seven days.

Actually though - as I process this I begin to see - it's not just that it's the end of something. It's that it's the beginning of something as well. There is no knowing what the next week will bring. Even when you're in a calm period of your life, there is always the slight panic of the unknown. Beginnings bring us face to face with the infinity of possibility. How we face that is maybe an indicator of how life is going.

These Sundays, I'm feeling lost. A little unknown. But I feel acceptance for the unknown, as well as my being in some ways unknown, and I'm old enough now that I know how to treat these strange turns in the road. I draw a tarot card. I read a poem that I know and love well. I let the hot water of the shower run over me for several silent minutes. And I touch that thing, just with the tip of my finger - that thing so intrinsic to the universe that it transcends all measurements of space and time. And there are no questions. Just a calm perception that the thing called "Monday" brings a new era of possibility, chance, wreckage and miracles. I am ready.

solo

The moment she smiled over her tea cup, her shoes didn’t seem so tacky.

“All poetry is a cop-out,” she said.

And then my mind was crowded, the cells perspired and pressed against my consciousness. This was what happened. It wasn’t poetic or anything.

It was just that everyone in this cafe was conspiring for us to connect. In fact I could see a man standing in a dry field, perhaps somewhere across the street, his head bowed in prayer, wishing for the moment of spiritual contact between us. The whole universe must want it, I thought. Again, not poetic.

“You could make a poem mean anything. It doesn’t require a particular amount of intellectual might. That poem about the wheel barrow. You remember that one from high school? It was a freakin’ wheel barrow. Why do we have to assign this great political meaning to it?”

“I suppose you’re referring to modern poetry, then,” I said. “Because classical poetry is more specific, right?”

“Well, yes. Modern. Abstract.”

“Well… there are some, I suppose, who find its very ambiguous nature to be its most compelling aspect. Modern poetry is a kind of canvas –“

“An unfinished canvas.”

“…Right, exactly, an unfinished canvas, and we are to interpret, or project –“

“Whatever you feel like interpreting or projecting.” Her folded hands relaxed on the table in front of her.

Satisfied with herself.

“I take it you also do not like modern art,” I said.

“ No, I do. Modern art is… well, it’s-“

“Clean?”

“Well, maybe. I can’t say why I like it necessarily. But I wouldn't say it's that simple.”

My legs crossed, I pointed my foot toward her and said, “A Mark Rothko is not just blocks of color. It is the same open canvas. It may be a statement about form and color, but there may also be an explosive emotional component, just waiting to be extracted.”

Her pupils dilated. Her fingers now embraced a button on the coat in her lap.

Steady…

I sat back an inch or so in my chair. “If anything, you could assign a great political meaning to the paintings of someone like this one guy, this classical painter, John Singer Sargent. He was very famous. They were just portraits. Just portraits of rich people, which he was commissioned to do, which were understood to glorify their subjects.”

Match point?

Her consciousness broadened suddenly, which is to say, it closed slightly. She looked around the cafe and seemed more aware of the other patrons. She had been aware this entire time that she was a female, but at that moment came the awareness that I was of this gender as well. What did we look like, the two of us, sitting here? Both of us wondered. She looked toward the door.

I put the lid on my cup. I didn’t particularly care that she didn’t like modern poetry. But I wanted her eyes. A poet from any time period would have understood how much this was needed.

I excused myself and rose to leave. She turned her body toward me and her hand touched her necklace. Would she see me next Saturday? I told her I wasn't sure. I might not be in town.

And I left it like that and I walked out of the cafe. As I leave all things, unsure, unfastened. My walk became more deliberate as I reached the sidewalk. Each tree on this street knew me by two things: the strength of my feet in feminine shoes and my solitude.

There were times when I walked on this street imagining someone beside me. I would think of witty banter between my guest companion and me involving various objects in the neighborhood. Sometimes I would look at my phone. Sometimes there was confident eye contact with passers by; sometimes a hiding behind sunglasses. Why are people always so monotone in lamenting solitude, as if there is only one kind? On that street, on every block, in every square of sidewalk, I experienced every type of alone. Some frightening - I would always be alone - and some relieving. It was good to be able to be alone with oneself - which was a healthy and rational thought. And on this street, there were no reflective surfaces.

I was alone right up to my front door. It's like that moment when you're looking for a poem in your head - finding that exact landscape where you connect with someone else. I forgave her now for looking away. But she would never know. I opened the door and submitted myself to the next reality.

meditation on reformation

We know that the universe is expanding, creating room for an ever-evolving plane of energy and ideas. There is room to reconsider, to occupy space in new ways. Evolution of all sorts is frequently the nucleus of my ponderings. I have gone through deep periods of self-reflection that sometimes seem to be circular in nature. Sometimes I wonder what I've accomplished. But my instinct always tells me to look at the bigger picture, which then forces me to look outside of myself. This seems to be a cornerstone of any type of growth.


Consider Martin Luther. Luther stood up for the liberty of conscience. In the centuries before him, Christian churches began the long tradition of corporations inserting themselves between us and the things that we want. Effectively, you could pay for your salvation. Effectively, the church controlled your education (or lack thereof), your very way of life. Martin Luther was one of the first figures in modern history to stand up against that system.

There never was a more devoted or guilt-ridden monk. Estranged from his father and in need of security, ML was lost in a cycle of repentance and aspiring for salvation. He never would be good enough. He denied himself any simple pleasures, and even some necessities. Only the most barren existence would be proof enough of his dedication to understanding and being worthy of God. He was truly psychologically disturbed, as are most of us. Even those of us who aren't religious can identify with this personal mental anguish and preoccupation with the battle for self-actualization. For God was just a red herring; what Martin Luther struggled with was his own reflection.

The inciting incident which pulled ML out of this struggle was being given a job as a professor of bible studies at a new university. It was a staggering amount of work, an almost impossible amount of material to digest, and he was now tasked with imparting the meaning of the texts with those who were fortunate enough to come and learn. And here was the key turning point of his life: he became immediately present to the spiritual concerns of others rather than his own. He became witness to the tribulations and questions that arose on the spiritual journeys of his pupils. Intimate with these matters as he was, two important things happened: firstly, he began to care emotionally about the souls of others, and secondly, he saw patterns within individual spiritual expeditions.

It was only then, when ML came out of himself, that he was able to be himself. He amassed a great deal of pure knowledge and recognized the dishonesty of the institution of the Church.

The way I see it, in this very way we can each have our own personal Reformation. A man like ML, who had been so hard on himself, thought so little of himself, changed history by standing up for something which had political implications reaching far beyond the religious matters over which he so agonizingly toiled.

Of course, he would eventually turn on the revolutionaries he inspired and would remain an anti-Semite. They took it too far, in his view - farther than he had taken things in his own mind. And he was not able to accept radical new ideas of those younger than he.

But that is how evolutions and revolutions work. One generation identifies the cognitive dissonance of a particular tyranny, then the next breaks down broader tyrannies. Just as a parent's generation wins a war against a looming murderous regime, the child's generation wins a war against a more intimate oppression of spirit.

I've worked all of my life to free myself of these things. The micro of my experience is reflected in the macro of history. If I could not trace these things, there would be no meaning. And this is why I write. This is why anyone should continue on. If we try, in time we reveal new freedoms.

ars gratia artis

Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue has long been one of my favorite works of music.

I was therefore nothing short of euphoric when it was used in Fantasia 2 a few years back. Well, OK, 9 years back! Anyway, I adore the way they handled it. It is very Al Hirschfeld, very mid-century, and pretty much embodies so many things I love.

Part I



Part II

casablanca

This is one of those movies that I watched as a teenager, then had to re-watch in order to get how wonderful it is.

The most remarkable thing is the writing - there is not one scene in this movie that doesn't contain a total zinger. It's smart, a little off, a little poetic, and totally romantic in a real way.

Watch it again if you haven't seen it in a while! Imagine yourself in the clothes, in the cars, drinking the drinks, and having the kind of awesome sexuality it takes to create something like this. Yum.