bored to death

The following people were in ONE episode of Bored to Death:

Patton Oswalt, Sarah Silverman, John Hodgman, Ted Danson, Mary Steenbergen, Jason Schwartzman, Oliver Platt, Zach Galifianakis, and mother effing Olympia Dukakis.

Plus, those last two are lovers on the show.

This is the nexus of all that is good in the universe.

errands for girls with rhythm

It used to be that one had many places to go. There was the bank, the grocery, perhaps the butcher, the dry cleaner, the library, the post office.

There was a very large and rather official-looking Bank of America near where I grew up. I would tag along with my mom when she went there dutifully every week to conduct business. It seemed so glamorous at the time. We were at The Bank. I was to Behave. My mom would be dressed for running her errands, and she would look great. Sort of like this:

These things don't seem to exist anymore. People wear flip-flops to the ATM and their children run around screaming. Nothing is glamorous, and nobody dresses for anything.

Maybe that is why I'm often so over-dressed for things. I miss the days when people tried. I miss sitting in my room at age eight, making pretend to-do lists and pretending to get ready to go out into the world as my best self. Kids don't do that anymore. What does a kid have to fantasize about today? Playing Angry Birds, probably.

Amazing article in the New Yorker with a detailed description of the killing of bin Laden.

The raiding team then presented the President with an American flag that had been on board the rescue Chinook. Measuring three feet by five, the flag had been stretched, ironed, and framed. The SEALs and the pilots had signed it on the back; an inscription on the front read, “From the Joint Task Force Operation Neptune’s Spear, 01 May 2011: ‘For God and country. Geronimo.’ ” Obama promised to put the gift “somewhere private and meaningful to me.” Before the President returned to Washington, he posed for photographs with each team member and spoke with many of them, but he left one thing unsaid. He never asked who fired the kill shot, and the SEALs never volunteered to tell him.

unhappy

In the early aughts, I had a feeling that I was unhappy. My life was somehow not fulfilling. Parts of me felt as though they were missing the the vigor of youth, even though I was still young. Unsatisfied, that is what I decided I was. This became a strong part of my inner narrative, and shadowed my view of everything.

Around 2006, things took a very bad turn, and so began a five-year journey of unemployment, underemployment, near-homelessness, debt, unprecedented depression, the loss of both of my cats, a complete break from the love of my life, drugs, bad living situations, extreme familial difficulties, watching my father die very slowly, and finally, a suicide attempt.

I look back now at 2000 to 2005 with some incredulity. What was it exactly about my life that was so horrible? I had a beautiful if imperfect home, a good job and still had some zest for life. My "dissatisfaction" lead me to create art projects. I fell in love twice. The heartbreak from those experiences, while obviously difficult, made me feel alive and caused me to learn a great deal about myself. I went on trips, I felt the sun, I listened to music as though it were my life's blood, I connected with people, I was generally a good friend. I tried to live a better life.

After the torrents of the last five years, things have calmed down now. But, like getting off a roller coaster, I still feel a bit sick. I still deal with depression and financial issues, a total lack of a love life, and an inability to see how anyone could ever love me. I feel numb usually. Because nothing seems worth it. I don't seek beautiful experiences and I don't create them. I am a writer who doesn't write. The last five years have spit me out, and here I am. Existing.

This is a whole lot more sad than feeling "dissatisfied." I wish I could tell my past self that there is nothing wrong with yearning for something more.

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.