rewind revise

How My Jade Plant Reminds Me To Butt Out

2012-01-31T10:47:00.002-05:00

If I made a list of the things I would like to change about myself in the next five years it would be my ability to kill houseplants within a week. There, I said it: I have a black thumb. Every time I have tried to own a plant, the plant is dead before I can even nonchalantly reference it when we have those dinner guests over we keep imagining we will one day host . I grew up in an apartment complex in North Hollywood that had a pavement patio and one small plot of dirt that had an overgrown rubber tree my father had to eventually uproot. And once we got a puppy, forget it. I'm pretty sure the levels of ammonia in that plot rendered it useless for plant life ever again. But, the courtyard in between the two apartment complexes at Whipple Street boasted a strip of green grass and fabulous well-manicured bushes that include jade and birds of paradise and a beautiful magnolia tree at the entrance. None of this (except for the magnolia tree) did I appreciate until years later when I realized how unusual and beautiful that all was. Living in the land of maples, oaks, pines and elms with their intoxicating fall colors has made me pay more attention to the trees in my urban world but also made me appreciate the very unusual foliage I grew up with in Los Angeles.

Take the jade, for example. At Whipple Street, we had these big full jade bushes outside of our windows. I remember not paying much attention to them, other than when my brother and I were kids and we would rip off their leaves and launch them at each other which actually left a pretty good welt, equivalent to that of a snapped rubber band. I remember thinking they were kind of annoying bushes, cumbersome and bulky but strange in a Dr. Seuss kind of way. I never knew what they were called nor did I care... until I came out here and I found jade plants in almost every New York apartment I went to. I liked seeing these tiny versions of the behemoth jades I was lucky to grow up with. But even better, something about the jade made me happy which when thinking about Whipple Street isn't always the first feeling I get. The jade plants remind me of the fun my brother and I had even though we grew up in a tiny apartment. It reminds me of climbing up to the roof of the carport with my brother and my cousins and hanging out, even passing a soccer ball back and forth high up above the worlds we would all return to by sunset. The apartment complex of Whipple was our urban treehouse, the Dr. Seuss bushes our ammunition, the roof of the carport a place where we felt like kings simply because it gave us open space. The jade reminds me of roller hockey in the parking lot, and being yelled at by the neighbor on the other side of the apartment complex every time we missed our complex's brick wall and kicked the ball too high, smacking against the wooden slats encasing his patio and knocking down a sundial or windchime. How we would run, terrified of getting caught even though we were always the obvious culprits. We were the only kids in all twelve apartments.

I finally decided to get myself a tiny jade plant and within a week, I could see it was beginning to die. What was I doing wrong? Aren't plants like goldfish? You feed them every other day? Thankfully, when in Colorado, I had asked a neighbor to water my new plants and she informed me that I was over watering it. "Jade is a pretty resilient plant," she told me. She suggested once a month! In other words, "leave it alone, and it just might grow." Ever since I have stopped trying to care for my jade plant, it has been thriving, and I have had daily reminders to stop trying to fix everything around me and worry about myself. And every morning I wake up to my little jade plant, just like the many mornings I passed the jade bushes at Whipple and something about this ritual makes me feel just a little closer to home.

Turning F-Bombs Into Faith Leaps

2012-01-30T10:38:00.000-05:00

For about a year now I have been consciously trying to change my attitude. I've been trying to change my "f- bombs" into "faith leaps" and no one is a greater teacher for me than Mike. I don't know what attracts people to each other. Who knows why we fall in love with the people we do? Is it sexual attraction? The opportunity to work out something from our childhood in an intimate relationship? An unresolved demon we can't shake? An itch we can or cannot scratch? An escape from our home, our families, ourselves? A simple question of patterns? Or is it opposites attract? Is it the idea of yin and yang?

Mike and I are inherently different in our daily attitudes and general approaches to life. He is of the mindset, that things have a way of working out. He never really worries or stresses out. He has faith, for lack of a better word, that life will take care of itself, that the universe will provide. I am a worry wart, prone to getting knots in my back due to stress or stomach aches from my emotions, my one-too many fears. I am like a cat, hair standing, claws out, ready to jump when the sky begins to fall. No one is born this way. It is something we learn over time based from experience. For me, it comes from having a parent who has battled addiction, a childhood steeped in chaos and unpredictability. When something really wonderful and awesome happens, for me there is inevitably a crash, a worry that it will be taken from me, which of course leads me to start planning how to protect it, how to avoid it, how to save myself from the promises of heartbreak life "always" delivers...but I am trying to rewind that thought process and revise the attitude.

I grew up Catholic. Did the whole communion, confession thing. But something about the religion was always troubling to me. In high school one of my favorite classes was in world religions and my freshman year of college I actively sought out different religions that might resonate more with me. I considered becoming a philosophy major so I could spend my time thinking about questions that don't really have answers. After enough time, enough experiences, I found that what wasn't resonating was religion itself. The times I felt close to "God" were in nature, a hike up a mountain, a swim in the ocean. And since this realization I have moved away from religion and have developed more of an appreciation for spirituality...whatever that means. But my compulsion to try to force outcomes, force solutions, "figure it out" constantly gets in the way from the lightness and faith that I want to feel in life. And even when I think I am really turning it over to the universe, I have to watch myself because somewhere there is still me working against me, trying to create "an answer."

This weekend was humbling. I had many different experiences where I was trying to "figure something out" and one by one, they all figured themselves out without any work by me. And they weren't some sort of intangible, miraculous "Wow! The universe just provided!" moments. But rather very generous offers and answers given by people who love me and are actually also thinking about this happy time for me and Mike right now. And for the record, Mike has been right all along so far. Maybe the next time he says, "I don't know how, but it will work out," I might actually believe him.

Weekend Warrior Playlist #7

2012-01-28T10:28:00.002-05:00

Breaking Up With Your BFF

2012-01-27T13:20:00.000-05:00

When a relationship with a lover comes to an end there is a handful of reasons said in a 1,000 ways that can explain something we all universally understand- we fell out of love, I fell in love with someone else, I learned to love myself. I dare to say these are many of the same reasons we break up with friends, but when you break up with a best friend, these reasons aren't always as clear to understand, to pinpoint or to grasp. I mean why do you even have to break up with a friend? Can't you just stop hanging out and eventually the friendships fades? I think with men that might work. (Gentlemen, correct me if I'm wrong) But not with women. We women are a tricky species and our female friendships are complex and beautiful, potentially painful and yet undeniably rewarding, full of mistakes and apologies, compassion and laughter, jealousy and a fierce protective guard. We are territorial by nature perhaps stemmed from a motherly instinct or perhaps an antiquated instinct of survival, that basic question at the root of any woman, hell anyone who has ever been burned or let down, Who can I trust?

In the course of a year, I have met several women who for one reason or another have expressed to me the painful experience of losing a best girlfriend, some by break up and some by a misunderstanding that just can't get cleared up, maybe because it is not supposed to get cleared up. I remember my dad once saying to me, "We all make mistakes, you just never know which ones are going to count." I have always tried to keep this in mind when coming to that rocky cliff of a friendship. Is this just a mistake, or is this one that counts? Which leads to a bigger question: Am I being too sensitive? Which leads to another question: Well how the fuck can I control that?! Feelings are feelings, and it is no secret that women are more emotional. (Hard core feminists, correct me if I'm wrong) But no matter how it happened or why it happened, I think losing a best friend is more painful than losing a lover.

When I was eighteen, I cut off three of my best friends like a damn guillotine. One of the friendships had no choice. My best friend throughout high school, the first really inseparable female friendship I had was forced to an immediate end after something happened that was larger than both of us. Nothing can save a friendship when you're forced to put your best friend's brother in jail. The other friendships were more confusing to end. They were on the periphery of the demise of that first friendship, but after a year of trying to understand, forgive, move forward from things that in hindsight none of us could fully understand at the time, I cut those two friendships out, unable to see things from any other angle other than my own pain. Amazingly, one of those friendships did reignite 10 years later, and the other friendship had a nice catching up session in New York last summer. But the inseparable friendship will never rekindle, not even on facebook, not even if we passed each other on the street and it has always been important for me to accept this truth. But what happens when there isn't one big traumatic event? What happens when it's a series of tiny avalanches that eventually brings down the mountain?

While I have perfected the art of cutting someone off in a heartbeat if they do me wrong (which is a vengeful behavior I'm trying to unlearn), perhaps my most difficult obstacle in life is setting boundaries with those I love but for one reason or another they affect me in a painful way. And usually it isn't even something they can control. It is something that just happens to trigger one of my many hot spots and within seconds, a simple greeting can send me soaring into "rageville." It is even more difficult to set those boundaries when you can have a damn good time together most of the time but the rest of the time you feel like you got your teeth knocked in. Just like asking, is this a mistake that counts, it is harder to ask is this friendship good for me? It is hard to ask the question, have I outgrown this friendship? And even harder to ask what the hell you want to do about it. What am I giving to and what am I getting from this friend and is it a two way street? Is this a person I can count on when the shit hits the fan? Will this person see I need help or love or a laugh before I even see it myself? Will I understand when they need me? Am I growing from this friendship?

It is hard when life moments come up and these fuzzy friendships do not have clear boundaries or perhaps they are there and it is hard for both to accept. It is never fun to accept friend rejection especially when the reason might be, I just don't like you anymore. It is hard to watch our best friends, often reflections of ourselves, pass us or to allow ourselves to pass them by in the spectrum of life and even harder to let them go. I read somewhere that we are each allowed the dignity of making our own mistakes. Is it more loving to raise the red flag and to ask a friend, What the fuck are you doing with your life? Or to allow them the dignity and grace of finding that question on their own, as we most likely would prefer ourselves? And on the flip side, you have to ask yourself Who the fuck am I and what the hell do I know? When is passing judgment ever loving? And we all know advice means shit. We all do just as we damn well please.

I had a friend say to me recently, "So many people hang on just for old times sake." There was something even sadder in that idea than the idea of just letting someone go. I thought about old boyfriends and how I have never been one to "stay friends" or keep in touch with exes mainly because, at least for myself, I don't think it allows you to fully move on and give yourself completely to the next one. However, I do think after enough time, these friendships can form but not if they are forced and never if it happens in a low point in your life or a low point in a current relationship. (That's just asking for trouble.) But here I am catching myself in a lie, because I did loosely stay in touch with my now fiance after breaking up when I was 19 allowing for a new relationship to bud when I was 25. But there isn't a quote for lost friendships like there is for lost lovers. (Example: "If you love something set it free; if it returns its yours forever, if not it was never meant to be." -Anonymous) But in writing this blog post I did find something that may apply: "If you love someone, you must be strong enough to allow them to be." (by Anonymous) But where does that leave us in terms of the cliff? How can we be strong enough to get out of the way of a crumbling mountain and yet not throw anyone including ourselves over the cliff? And more importantly how do we fight the urge not to save the things that perhaps need to fall down?

Tramp Stamp Thursdays: The Flower Child

2012-01-26T10:39:00.002-05:00


Lindsey, Brooklyn, NY

Tramp Stamp:
Daisies...I mean, wild flowers...you know, 'cause I'm wild

Time of Tramp Stamp Tattoo:
19 years old

Bio:
Lindsey is now 30 years old and works as an assistant to the Head of School at a private school in Manhattan. She is also a script analyst for two TV/Film production companies, tutors, blogs, volunteers at the Park Slope Food Co Op and recently got engaged. This was the first of four permanent decisions and also her first regret of those four decisions.

Tattoo Meaning:
"I'm a rebel, Dad!"

Tattoo Goal:
Complete removal...or another permanent decision to cover said regret.

I may be the first woman in history thankful for stretch marks because they distract you from staring at this "beauty mark" for too long.

If you are interested in having your tramp stamp profiled, shoot me an email (button on the right side of my blog), leave a comment or tweet me! (@rewindrevise)

Guest Post on Resume and Interview Preparation

2012-01-25T07:30:00.000-05:00

Because sometimes we all need a little help, I thought I would ask my father who is an expert on resume and interview preparation to write a guest post. Having run his own Job Training Partnership Act program in the 80s and 90s and now holding department chair at College of the Canyons in Hotel and Restaurant Management, my father has trained thousands in resume and interview prep. I don't throw the term "expert" around lightly, but the man is truly an expert on this topic.

Resume and Interview Preparation According to Professor Kevin Anthony

I always begin my interview preparation classes with a simple question, “What did you give your
last employer for free?”

Rarely, has an attendee given the correct answer to this question. And it is at the very core of preparing a resume for employment.

Make no mistake, resume, interview preparation, job search and the rest are more closely related to sports than to academia and in sports you are far better served by practice.

First off, resumes need to be prepared in tandem with the interview. Resume preparation books that focus solely on the construction of the resume so often disconnect from the interview. We need to do them both together so that we are not putting interview statements on the resume and slipping resume statements on the interview.

For example, one of the most common mistakes of doing resume work on the interview is when the interviewer asks, Why should I hire you? And the applicant responds by explaining what their skills are.

Trust me, if the interviewer does not have a good sense of your skills they would never interview you in the first place. One of my clients went to an interview and when she was asked why the company should hire her she explained in detail what her skills were and the interviewer smiled politely and responded, “I know that from your resume; if I didn’t think you had the skills I would not be interviewing you.”

Click here

In answer to the first question, (What did you give your last employer for free?) everyone who receives a paycheck is basically being paid for the work they do — not their time. Everyone gives their time to the employer for free. Your time is not compensated for. For my students that do not yet grasp this concept I ask them if they would work for me at double their last working wage. They always agree to that offer and then I tell them that when they work for me they will have to sit in a chair in an empty room, alone and do nothing. They look at me as if I am crazy. They ask, “But, what do we do?”

“Nothing, just sit there.”

Nobody wants that job to sit there and do nothing even if you are getting paid double your current wage.
At this point they have opened a door and I ask, “So, you are willing to work for half the pay I offered instead of twice the pay for doing nothing.”

Then I close the deal with, “Time is an investment and cannot be bought or paid for.”

What is a good investment of your time? Creating relationships, achieving a goal? What about education? Is that a good investment of your time?

When I ask students if education is a good investment of their time, I always get a Yes answer.
Can a person learn in employment? Of course, they can. Good, what did you learn in your last employment?

Answer this question and we can begin to construct your resume.

Stay tuned for more resume/interview tips or check out this book and get started now!

Tuesday Treats: Alexandra Mattraw

2012-01-24T07:02:00.005-05:00

Introducing the enigmatic, charming and ever intriguing poet, Alexandra Mattraw. I had the pleasure of getting to know Alex on the beaches of Cape Cod and in a poetry workshop this past summer at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, MA. We were taking a poetry workshop with Carolyn Forché where I quickly learned two things:
1. I had a lot to learn about poetry.
2. Alex was on another level.

I had a rather humbling experience in that workshop, the kind that made me want to pack it up and call it quits on poetry. But after defending my piece (which seemed to fall on mostly deaf ears) Alex slipped me a note while I was receiving a somewhat brutal critique letting me know, "Don't listen to them. This is a poem!" She then asked questions and highlighted some of the images in my poem. She did what I have found is not always the case in workshops with other writers, she encouraged me. Besides being a poet, Alex is also an amazing teacher.

Our phone conversation started late because Alex was asked to chaperon a dance at her school the night before. We talked about her job and how she loves being a teacher and feels so lucky to spend her time with brilliant and inspiring students while swimming in readings and discussions of James Joyce, Toni Morrison, Camus, Shakespeare, and Dostoevsky. She also admitted that without her job's support of her passion, completing her MFA would have been much more difficult.

Alex is the only person I know with three degrees and not only does she have three very enriching degrees, all of which I would have loved to pursue, but she does not regret any of her student loan debt. Alex, who holds a BA degree in creative writing from UCLA, an MA in humanities from University of Chicago and her MFA in poetry from University of San Francisco (as well as being a former resident of Vermont Studio Center), has been encouraging me to pursue an MFA degree since the summer. She said, "I used to think getting an MFA was frivolous...but I think it is a really good thing and very well worth it, even the debt." I told her the debt is what keeps me from pursuing any further higher education, and she understood but suggested an alternative solution by doing night school (which she did) or a low residency program. She said that while in school, the intensity of the writing program and her amazing and inspiring teachers made her feel that "poetry is everything." "It makes you feel like it is worth while and you can be confident about it and pursue it and I learned so much more about the craft of poetry and about the eras and movements that rendered the poetry movement with where we are now. I learned what's possible in terms of the creative writing process and what a poem can be."

By the end of our conversation, I too, believed that poetry was everything, at least the way Alex thinks about it. When I asked her, "Why poetry?" She sort of laughed and said, "I could counter with why breathing!" Alex added that for her, "Writing is that innate and inherent in my perception and the way that I live...It is so inherent in what I have to do to be happy." Alex writes with that idea: "because there is nothing else."

Alex's poems are very abstract with strong, gut-splitting images and a mastery of form and language. Her poems are seductive and yet controlled. Mysterious and yet they resonate with me personally. On poetry, she said, "I find the world to be fairly dislocating. It's pretty dislocating and surreal and I think language, sadly, in its status quo is also this. I don't really think society's and the media's prescribed notion of happiness leaves very much room...but the poet can take language and press back on all of those categorizing experiences and the surreality of the world...English, as we claim it in our society, pins us down with exact ways to feel or meaning. Poetry's job is to scatter that. For each writer, we are all writing our own stories or reclaiming language that for better or worse tends to determine who we are. Ideally, the writer should be able to figure out how to express themselves in a way that actually molds an identity and a reality that is freer, more liberating and safer than what the world offers."

All of Alex's answers made me want to title this post: Alexandra Mattraw: Poet and Troublemaker. Her thoughts on language were thought-provoking and dangerously accurate. "Language, in a way, is quite linear and because of that we have a way of building these beginning, middle, and ends of how life should be and when life doesn't deliver, we end up feeling confused and lost...poetry is a way of clarifying meaning."

Alex attributed some of her theory on language to the theories of Gertrude Stein, Louis Zukofsky, and Lorine Niedecker. In terms of influences and heroes, she said at nineteen she read the French symbolist poet, Arthur Rimbaud, and remembers feeling that so many things were possible. She also loves French symbolist poet, Stéphane Mallarmé and Paul Celan for his great image and music, William Carlos Williams for his use of the line and being deceivingly simple, and H.D. (the author of one of her favorite poems, Heat, along with the poem Un Coup de Dés Jamais N'Abolira Le Hasard by Mallarmé) for the way she condenses and makes things so sharp image-wise. She added, Dickinson, T.S. Eliot, and Sylvia Plath, Anne Carson, and Zach Savich not to mention prose writers, Beckett, Faulkner, Joyce , Toni Morrison, and Joseph Campbell, the artists Frida Kahlo and Dali and filmmakers, Herzog, Bergman and Fassbinder and so many more. She also credits an amazing teacher she had, Edward Smallfield, who gave her the kick in the pants we all need. That voice that says, What are you doing? You're serious about this, now get to it!

When I asked Alex, as I do all my Tuesday Treats, how they combat fear that creeps in when making art, Alex very matter of fact said, "Writing is not a place where I'm afraid. It's the opposite for me. I would feel petrified if I didn't have poetry in my life."

And on the dreaded question, What is art? Alex gave my favorite answer to boot: "Anything that inspires the viewer to steal a rush of emotion. Ecstasy is the only word I can come up with... The world should become more beautiful and extremely vast when one is looking at something that is doing the work of art....divinity, the sublime...the feeling that the world is much bigger and much more alive than you could ever have words for..a feeling of joy that is not expressible and tangible in any linear form...A translation for the untranslatable that none the less cannot be expressed in words."

Even the way she speaks is poetic and despite the serious tone of this blog post, Alex is really quite funny and charming and thoughtful. Before we hung up she said, "Wait! Let me ask you a few questions."

Give yourself a Tuesday Treat and if you haven't clicked on the links above where I describe her poetry linking to some of her published works, check out these ditties which really capture the always evolving and exploring voice of Alexandra Mattraw: Summary Between Bodies from her first chapbook, Projection, or To Be Invisible (I love, love, love this one as well as this one, A Landscape Sounds) or check out some newer poems, like Casino Proposals and A Desert Sounds from her upcoming book Inside the Mind's Hotel, that were recently published by Shampoo. You can also check out other published poems by clicking this link here.

In closing, Alex offered great advice to aspiring writers. "Of course, write everyday.
Stephen Yenser at UCLA taught me (as far as publishing) Don't settle for less ever. Send your work to places you actually admire. Have high standards--think, would I want my work to be next to this person? It took me about a decade to get into a journal I really liked but when I did it helped me when sending my work to comparable journals." She also added the importance of finding an artistic community and to keep the creative energy flowing which is why she is starting an art salon in her hometown of San Francisco!

Alex, it was an absolute pleasure to interview and write about you. Thank you for your time and for everyone, thanks for reading another Tuesday Treat! To contact Alex, click here!

Tribute Post to my Beloved NY Giants

2012-01-23T10:56:00.001-05:00

Something you may not know about me (unless you follow me on Twitter @rewindrevise and read my tweets every Sunday) is that I love the New York Giants. Growing up in Los Angeles, my family members were Rams fans and a few of my cousins and my brother were Raiders fans (sporting Starter jackets and baseball caps made popular by NWA) during the whole Bo Jackson era. But since the Rams and Raiders departure, LA has been left without representation in the NFL for far too long. Many Los Angelinos root for the San Diego Chargers, but it's not the same. San Diego is not LA. So, I grew up a Lakers fan and a hard core Dodgers fan. When I was ten years old I wrote a letter to Dodgers player and recent recipient of the National League's Rookie of the Year Award, Eric Karros, who in return sent me an autographed picture. Even though I am now certain this is a print and not an actual signature, I still keep it among my cherished belongings from my childhood, right next to a stack of baseball cards that recently my brother discovered and said I could get a pretty penny for.

My love for the NY Giants began in college when I transferred to NYU and met a boy who loved the boys in blue and told me wild stories of former Giants linebacker, Lawrence Taylor. Before this boy I had dated a Philadelphia Eagles fan, which gave me a good understanding of the game, but I felt no allegiance towards Philadelphia. I started watching the Giants in 2002 on Sunday afternoons at Down the Hatch in the Village where we (that boy and many other boys) would put back 25 cent wings and pitchers of beer. I felt at home on these rowdy Sundays. The feeling of cheering and the emotional ups and downs of a game were fond reminders of my years spent on the soccer field with all of my cousins watching and cheering and heckling each other. I soon began to look forward to these Sundays and before long I was watching other football games and learning players and rules and fouls. In 2006, my boyfriend at the time gave me a signed jersey by my favorite player, Michael Strahan. It reads "To Tony, Go Giants!" (Tony is a nickname that everyone on the east coast who knows me calls me). Strahan retired the next season after the Giants beat the Patriots in the Super Bowl.

But not to fear, Brandon Jacobs came on the scene and was a tank on the field. The next Christmas, I got a Jacobs jersey and two years later, my new boyfriend (now my fiance!) and his family got me a Justin Tuck jersey. These are some of my favorite gifts that I have ever received.

I have weathered many storms with the Giants- from the trade of Jeremy Shockey who I used to love, the disappointing fall out of Tiki Barber and his continual fall from grace, the break up of that first boyfriend who once asked me If we ever broke up would you stay a Giants fan? to which I had said, My love for the Giants will never waver, to the exciting Super Bowl win over the Pats, to feeling the frustrations of a quarterback we all knew could be one of the greatest if he could just work on that confidence, streamline his consistency...well, Eli, you have arrived.

Last night's overtime victory against the San Francisco 49ers was a well fought, well deserved win over a team that was very good...but not as good as the Giants! I leaped out of my couch with Tynes's winning field goal, blasted my jeers and cheers to haters (my cousin Gret in LA) and lovers, all my NY/NJ friends on Facebook and Twitter and almost wore my Tuck jersey to bed...but I didn't want to get it all wrinkled. We have an important game to root for in 2 weeks. Go GIANTS!!!

Sunday Serenity Mix

2012-01-22T11:14:00.002-05:00

Here's to snow days and brunch with the one you love...

Things Not To Say When Your Friend Loses Their Job

2012-01-20T13:19:00.001-05:00

-Big News!

-I know that's tough, but I'm excited for you!

-I think you'll be just fine.

-Is what's her name still there?

-Leaving home let's us all fly.

-That sucks.

-Are they going to give you a party at least?

-I think this is a good thing.

-There was no movement there anyway.

-Want to get a drink? It's on me.

And these gems which were posted as comments by Adrian, but really merit being on this post.

Per Adrian, things not to say...

- Do you think they'd hire me for your position?

- Wow. I thought you really liked it there?

- Why? What'd you do?!

- At least you'll be fun-employed! Get it?!

- You'll have more free time for your arts and crafts.

- Wow. How are you going to pay rent?

Basically, don't say anything, just listen. You're not going to fix anything by offering half-assed pick me ups. And you might save yourself an hour looking for a card that says I'm sorry I was such a dope on the phone the other night. There are no words. There are no words.

Tramp Stamp Thursdays

2012-01-19T09:23:00.001-05:00

So, back in May while drinking cocktails in a Vegas lounge, my friend Courtney and I decided we wanted to make coasters with pictures of regrettable tramp stamps (starting with our own) and what the lovely owners of these celtic, flower, and tribal designs are up to now. When I was nineteen, I got my first tattoo. This was in 2000, before the lovely phrase "tramp stamp" had been coined and then hijacked by all of America to describe tattoos crowning the derrieres of eighteen year-olds everywhere. I picked mine off a wall in upstate New York during my friend's final film project of her sophomore year of college. I had written the script which had a scene that took place in a tattoo parlor. My friend, ever the insightful director, cast me as the role of the girl in the chair, and ever committed to "all or nothing" I surprised her with committing to getting a real tattoo during the filming. I thought I was being clever by taking the design and chopping it up, you know, really making it mine. I mean, it was very meaningful to me at the time- three daisies. That was my flower. How could I EVER be regretful of that???

And so we begin...

Courtney, Indianapolis, IN

Tramp Stamp:
Celtic...I mean tribal...no, Celtic design

Time of Tramp Stamp Tattoo:
18 years old

Bio:
Courtney is now 32 years old and works as the Director of Community Services at a non-profit independent high school in Indiana funded by Goodwill Education Initiatives. She also has a start up flower business called, Flourish. She is married, responsible, and looking forward to becoming a mom in the not so distant future.

Tattoo Meaning:
"I'm 18, bitches!!! I can do whatever I want!"

Tattoo Goal:
Complete removal one day...one day.

Thanks, Courtney. At least you have awesome shorts.

If you are interested in having your tramp stamp profiled, shoot me an email (button on the right side of my blog), leave a comment or tweet me! (@rewindrevise)

Wordless Wednesday: How to Flatiron

2012-01-18T10:46:00.000-05:00

Flatirons, CO

On Top of A Mountain

2012-01-17T12:55:00.000-05:00

I got engaged!!! On Peak 7 in Breckenridge, Colorado this past Friday. We had been planning a snowboarding vacation with friends for months, literally since June. After a heavy day of traveling on Friday, people were too tired to ski and still waiting for more people to arrive. Mike suggested the two of us hit the slopes for a half day. On the last run of the day, I boarded a little down Peak 7 and stopped at a cross section of the mountain before going down the whole trail. My legs were getting to feel like jello and I was happy that my first runs of the season had gone so well. I told Mike, "I think this is my last run." So he scooted over to me on his knees, still strapped into his board. He said, "I know you've been waiting for this for a long time...but I wanted to do this on top of a mountain." He pulled out the ring that he had in his pocket the entire time! He asked me to marry him but I was so shocked and excited and stunned by the ring, I just said, "YES!!!" and threw my arms around him and kissed him. I was totally surprised and then he told me he MADE the ring.

I told him I loved the design and then he said, "Good...I made it." He then told me how he had worked with a goldsmith over the past couple months and actually cut the platinum and heated the metals to make six tiny rings that he soldered together. The stone is a blue sapphire, my favorite, and my birth stone. It was an amazing moment.

We snowboarded down the mountain, called our family in the car and then picked up two bottles of champagne. We walked into a house full of friends and announced our engagement and popped the champagne.

When I said it was the best weekend ever, I really meant it. Love you, handsome.

Best Weekend Ever

2012-01-16T11:39:00.000-05:00

More to come because I'm catching a flight! But here's a picture of Mike and me in the trees on Ore Bucket in Breckenridge, CO. Peak 7!

Ski Mix!

2012-01-13T09:24:00.002-05:00

Pay Attention! It's your job.

2012-01-12T13:44:00.004-05:00

Today I'm featured as a guest post at BlogFestivus mastermind, blogdramedy ! Talkin' about reading the signs that may be warning you of a train coming that you can not see.

On Wanting People to Change...

2012-01-12T08:00:00.000-05:00

[picture via El Fashionista]

When people are ready to, they change. They never do it before then, and sometimes they die before they get around to it. You can’t make them change if they don’t want to, just like when they do want to, you can’t stop them.

- Andy Warhol, Andy Warhol: In His Own Words

[via blog: Alexandra Wrote]

Sunrise on the BQE

2012-01-11T08:43:00.000-05:00

Grandmother's Pearls

2012-01-10T12:32:00.000-05:00

I bought a silk blouse a little while ago because I recently decided I'd like to dress a little nicer at work, a little nicer in life. The same way I cut bangs and painted my nails, I've been getting in touch with my girly side.

Last May, my grandmother passed away. Although I hate to say passed away as if she was sick or it was just her time. It was neither, but needless to say, she is gone now and I am left with questions, apologies, and fantasized memories that will never be tended to. Life is short, kids. Don't have any litter on the beach.

A month after she died, my mother took me to her safety deposit box and gave me a set of freshwater pearls that she had wanted to give me. I love pearls, something I discovered in my twenties and have only grown to love more and more. Pearls are odd, and old, and buried, and you have to work really hard to find them. They feel of the earth and yet look otherworldly. They are soft and quiet and strong and remind me of some of the qualities I'd like to have a little more of.

I have worn these pearls a couple of times and I always get complimented on them. They overshadow almost any outfit. Today I thought I would try them with my silk blouse, but they still overshadowed the blouse. And considering I had corduroys on, I realized another fashion rule I will have to add to my list. You can't wear pearls and corduroy. So instead I opted for a chain necklace and fake pearl earrings to bring out the hints of white in the blouse. But after I took the pearl necklace off, I held them in the light streaming in through my bedroom and I was hit with this stomach punch of grief. This is the legacy of my grandmother. The grandmother I wish I knew better. The grandmother who was sophisticated and cultured and had class. The grandmother that kept a treasure for me that I would only find after she was gone. Sometimes the necklace makes me happy because it tells me that she loved me no matter how strained our relationship was. Other times it makes me sad when I'm in the mood of beating myself up over a loss I could have never predicted.

This morning, I felt both love and sadness. And corduroy still is more comfortable wear than a strand of pearls. So, I put those beautiful pearls away back into their secret hiding spot. But I still felt they deserved to be shared with the world.

The Wrong Side of the Bed

2012-01-09T12:42:00.000-05:00

For as long as I can remember, I have been useless in the morning. I have never been a morning person. In high school, I always let my brother shower first just to get those few extra minutes of sleep, or I would shower the night before ensuring many, many bad hair days. In college, I chose courses that were closer to a noon starting time and excelled in evening classes. I have always been a night owl, often getting a second wind just before midnight. I can remember leading a camping trip at a summer camp I worked out during college, stumbling out of my tent late, I mean like, I'm the last person awake late. The girls were already having breakfast and breaking down tents while I blindly walked to the picnic table to meet my co-staff. She watched me stub my tow, step on something sharp and nearly miss a hot cooling pan on a rock. As I sat down across from her while she sipped her coffee, having been up for a couple hours, she said to me, "Has anyone ever told you that you are completely useless in the morning?" No one had ever told me that, but it was a truth I knew deep down in my bones: I hate the morning.

My twenties were no different. I lied through every job interview I ever had when they asked me if I was a morning person and would be able to show up at 8:00 a.m. for a position I also would be commuting to from a considerable distance. Luckily I snagged jobs where my bosses were also not morning people and so when I showed up 10 to 15 minutes late everyday, it largely went unnoticed. Even now, I struggle with an 8:30 a.m. show time at work. Most days, I arrive at 8:35 a.m. and quickly shuffle in with students, parents, disappearing quickly into the fray like a blood-thirsty zombie only I'm not dead and I'm thirsting for caffeine.

At twenty-three, when traveling around the country with a friend, crashing on couches at floors, completely at the generosity of friends and friends of friends, my partner in crime would wake have to wake me up. She would even express concern about my rough mornings, suggesting routines that might make it easier. Even recently she sent me an article on "How to Become A Morning Person."

I have tried exercise, diet, earlier bed times, but no matter what I never wake up feeling refreshed or "bright-eyed and bushy-tailed." Oh no, I am more "fried-eyed and frizzy haired." It takes water on my face to open my dry eyes and an immediate shower to jolt my soul into the existence of the day. And no, I don't have sleep apnea. In fact, I wish I did have some common disorder that I could treat and make me magically jump out of bed, arms stretched ready and willing to greet the day.

I have tried sleeping with the shades open to see if morning light would help ease me awake. I sleep with two, sometimes three alarms, and I give myself snooze time, as well. On the weekends, I never wake before 9:00 a.m. and often times I can pull a 10:00er. Thanks to Mike I do not sleep in until noon which if left to my own devices would easily be my Saturday/Sunday start time. And not only do I almost always wake up feeling tired, (sometimes I fall asleep on the subway to work), a lot of times I wake up in a crap mood. From the hours of 6:00 - 9:00a.m., I am certified bitch. It has taken many humbling apologies to now apologize immediately when I snap some cranky diatribe at Mike in the morning. Thankfully, he is pretty easy-going and can usually laugh at me as I scowl my way towards the shower.

This week has been particularly awful, because I have cut caffeine. In an effort to curb my anxiety, I took away my morning coffee which has made the start of the new year reminiscent to the Jack Nicholson scene in The Shining when "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy"...minus the psychotic energy. Just the grouchiness.

I decide to write about this morning phenomenon and ask any of you night owl sufferers like myself how the hell you do it? How do I make my mornings a little less painful, a little less bitch?

Welcome to 2012/ Hangover 2011 Mix

2012-01-07T12:28:00.002-05:00

Starting the year off right...think this is the best one yet!

A Letter to an Abusive Anonymous Commenter

2012-01-06T12:32:00.000-05:00

Dear Anonymous Commenter,

When you start off your comment by saying "This is a joke!" You have already lost me. A) Because a lot of my writing is just that- a joke- sarcasm, wit, dark humor, something you may not understand, and B) I already know you are about to attack from a place of irrationality and what strong woman would lend herself to that? When you then tell me how I should have paid for a lawyer to consult with about taking out a private loan for my college education, perhaps you misunderstood my entire blog post. You know the whole part about how and why I had to take out a college loan in the first place- because there was no money? As for your comment about being an adult at 18, I laugh. Just because the government says so, doesn't make anyone an adult, nor does it make them magically financially eligible to take on the burden of 25 year loan, nor does it make them emotionally capable of picking up a gun and killing people on the other side of the world and walking away unscathed. As for telling me all good things come with a price especially the babies I want to have, I say thank you! You read my blog and read that entire post no matter how infuriating it was to you! It's nice to know I have new readers out there! I also feel I should say, because this is my blog, I have the power to delete your rants at will. You pay nothing to read this and so I hold no qualms about silencing your voice, sorry, your "anonymous" voice. I am always open for debate, but never for abuse.

Thanks for reading and have a nice day!

Sincerely,

Lindsey

Follow Me Friday? What?

2012-01-06T09:26:00.001-05:00

So, I am still learning a lot about this crazy social media world and Twitter and one of the things I learned was about #FF which means, Follow Friday. So, for anyone who reads, lurks or glances at this blog, it would be awesome if you followed the blog or subscribed. Also happy to take any Twitter followers. If you follow me, a heartfelt thank you for doing me a solid! Gracias! Danke! Grazie! Merci Bien!

Don't Keep Riding A Dead Horse: Lessons Learned in the Work Force

2012-01-05T09:58:00.002-05:00

Since joining the work force many, many years ago, I have picked up a gem or two along the way by working for so many different bosses. I worked for a Peruvian director who in hindsight was a master at balancing work, family, and play. I worked for an A-list, high-maintenance producer who struggled with balancing work, family, and pursuing his true passion, but amazingly was always genuine. And I now work for a woman who has shown me how grace, intellect, and the willingness to accommodate is a killer combination that I have difficulty grasping. But, perhaps one of my greatest pieces of advice came yesterday from my father who was given this great piece of advice from a woman he works with: Don't Keep Riding A Dead Horse. How many dead horses have I mounted in my personal life? My work life? In my friendships and relationships? In my writing? I could be the dead horse whisperer at this point.

Later that night, I went to see the Pina Bausch film, Pina, where dancers part of her Wuppertal Tanztheatre shared some of the questions and very simple pieces of advice Pina had posed to them over the years, questions and thoughts that gave them the courage to break out of whatever fears, insecurities and doubts that were holding them back.

Questions like:
Why are you so scared of me? I've never done anything to you.
What are you longing for?

Thoughts like:
You just need to get more crazy.
Dance for love.
Remember, you have to scare me.
Dance, dance, or we are lost.

I left the theatre inspired still chewing on the bit of advice from my dad. Change is scary. Change is messy. And for someone who wants to do everything perfectly, change can be a nightmare. But at some point, you have to push yourself off that cliff, off that horse. In the spirit of these inspirational words, I thought I'd add some of the ones I've heard over the years.

From the Peruvian Director:
Jack of all trades, master of none...At some point, you have to choose.
Life - is - short.

From the Producer:
Not my duck, not my bottle.
Fear is as real as this table. Fear is as real as you and me and everyday you have to fight it with everything you've got.

From the Educator:
We would always like to accommodate, first.
Sometimes when people are anxious, they behave badly.
Is this something you want to take on? Is this a battle we want to fight?

From the Dad:
Don't keep riding a dead horse.

Time to get off that busted saddle.

My Life As A Girl Suffocating My Girly

2012-01-04T09:21:00.000-05:00

On Sunday night, while watching the NY Giants kick Dallas's ass, I decided to break into one of my many unopened bottles of nail polish and attempt to give myself a mani/pedi. This picture that you're looking at took almost two hours because at 30 years old, I do not know how to paint my nails without looking like a four-year old spilled the bottle. It took several coats and many cotton balls to get the color from bleeding into my cuticles and onto my skin. I attempted to paint my nails about six months ago and they looked so horrendous that before the final coat dried I took it all off leaving me with an even more horrible hot pink glow. And this time I certainly got close to taking it all off...but instead I just kept correcting it until I finally walked away with something half decent. They are far from perfect, but I kind of love my pink/purple nails. They make me feel different. They make me feel girly, something I almost never allowed myself to be. That's why at 30, it takes me two hours to paint my nails. I once worked with a girl who painted her nails a new color every week. I never asked her how long it took her but the actual physical process is not the point to me. The point is that I took two hours out of my day to make myself look "pretty"...even if it is just a stupid nail color.

Once winter strikes and the holiday season ends, I usually find myself with an extra 7 -10 pounds hanging around my belly. This season, I'm at six and while six does not sound like a whole lot, it's the kind of "few pounds" that's just enough to cover up with a big wool sweater but also just enough to take away my waist and make my jeans too tight. I have been down about the inevitable weight gain and disappointed that I let myself fall off the "gym train" just before Thanksgiving until now. But I'm glad that I'm setting aside some time to let myself be girly. My whole life I've been a tomboy. My mother tried to make me a ballerina, but with a little brother and many, many male cousins, I never had a shot. Once she left, it was open season for tomboys. And even more than being a tomboy, I just wanted to be one of the boys. Growing up in an all male household (even the dog was male) and spending almost every waking minute with my four boy cousins who lived a mile away, girls were not something they understood. I learned quickly not to complain and definitely not to cry, because if there was anything worse than a girl, it was a crying girl, or a girly girl.

I can remember wearing a heart locket when I was 11 or 12 with a tiny slip of paper with my initials + D.H. (my first boyfriend). One of my cousins fooled me into taking it off and letting him see it, where he then tortured me by hanging it over an open drain pipe. He did give it back, but he won in the long run because I never wore it again.

I quickly rid myself of any inklings to wear jewelry. In my youth, I had one manicure when I was twelve and went to a friend's Bat Mitzvah. Thanks to many wonderful aunts, especially my Aunt Rose, they would occasionally swoop in and rescue me from my athletic socks, shinguard tan, and mousy hair existence. Sometimes, I think they even overdid it just to let me see how pretty I could be. At the Bat Mitzvah, I was more dressed up then the girl we were all celebrating.

In 8th grade, I started rebelling, but instead of going the "slutty direction," I went the opposite direction where I tried to make myself look as ugly as possible. I shopped at Army Surplus stores and Vintage shops. I wore ripped up cords and vintage Mickey Mouse tee-shirts, and put G.I. Joe or Rambo stickers over my ripped up knees. I wore doc martens and mens skate shoes. I dyed my hair with red Kool-Aid and after a soccer game in the sun, successfully bleached my sandy blonde streaks a dull pink. My aunts took one look at me Christmas Eve and drove me straight to a hair salon to dye my hair back to its original color. In high school, I started wearing makeup, a ritual that I have gone in and out of my whole life. But in high school, I also got piercings, gross ones. To this day, I can't believe I sat through a tongue piercing on Venice Beach and proudly wore this "lightning rod" (as my Grandma called it) in my mouth until I was 23 and had to get my wisdom teeth out. My belly button, also a Venice Beach piercing acquired at sixteen, lasted until I was almost twenty six. And when piercings weren't enough I got tattoos. I have four tattoos, and I like two of them. They are black ink designs and one word. Even the somewhat girly one of three daisies looks more like Gothic weeds hanging out above my ass. But I look at them more now with all the nostalgia you might muster up when reading an old diary. These tattoos are just the dog-eared pages of my life as a girl suffocating my "girly."

It has only been in my twenties when I started buying and wearing dresses. And even more recently, did I have a realization that I actually would want a pretty wedding dress. For a year I sat next to a girl at work who was planning her wedding and dress shopping. She kept asking my opinion until suddenly I found myself researching wedding dress designers in Paris. When she asked me to come over to see her try some of the dresses on, she insisted I try some on as well. My god, nothing makes you feel more like a princess than putting on a big flowing wedding gown. It was at that moment I realized there was always a pair of heels in me screaming and kicking to get out. But, just as I had done as a kid, I quickly tucked those urges away as I listened to those toxic voices tell me "this wasn't me" or "that I'd look silly," that I wasn't "pretty enough" or "skinny enough" or "girly enough" to pull anything off.

I have since been paying close attention when those voices, the ones I didn't even know were there, rear their ugly heads. I've been fighting them back with the purchase of shiny flats, the recent decision to get bangs, and nurturing the desire to have pink nails. Little by little, eyelash by eyelash, mani/pedi by mani/pedi, I may just let that girly girl out.

Tuesday Treats Recap

2012-01-03T08:53:00.000-05:00

So, for anyone who has been following this blog, you know that since November 1st, 2011, every Tuesday, I profile an artist in a segment called "Tuesday Treats." These blog posts have become surprisingly a lot of work, although also very popular! I'm not so sure I can keep up with an artist a week, however I will still have Tuesday Treats but they will most likely not be as frequent. Perhaps once or twice a month as opposed to four. But, I have to say, it has been a treat to give to myself to sit down and talk with a different artist once a week and talk about what moves us, what we fear, and why we pursue such crazy things. As a quick 2011 recap and a special thank you to all these artists, here are the artists I have profiled so far:

Shaun Kevin Anthony, Actor

Jenny Ziomek, Artist & Illustrator

Lexy Casano, Singer

Harry Hancock, Artist

Carrie Grossman, Devotional Singer

The Band Called Fuse

Joe Valentine, Artist

Alex Goldberg,
Design & Mixed Media Artist

Sarah O'Holla, YA Novelist & Blogger

Enjoy!!!

The Garden

2012-01-02T15:35:00.000-05:00

No Man Is A Failure Who Has Friends

2012-01-01T13:14:00.000-05:00

Hike with Mike, Columbus Day 2011

Happy New Year and Welcome to 2012! It has been nice to step away from this blog for a couple days. To step away from Facebook and Twitter and to just be in the world, living my life, instead of documenting or reflecting on it. It was nice to spend time with my brother and his girlfriend, with old friends and new, to dance at Madison Square Garden, to be with family, to have a meal with friends, to be thankful for every precious minute we have on this planet and to be grateful for every precious minute we share with those we love. I read a news headline today that read something to the effect of "ringing in the new year after a tough 2011." Because 2010 was so tough and I was so happy to say goodbye to that year, I don't think I've really looked at this year as being tough for me personally. I had a lot of happiness and a lot of miles traveled this year. The year started with New Years 2011 spent at Central Park with old friends. I fell in love with two new babies that joined the world in February and met three other babies this year that also made my heart skip a beat. I spent Presidents Day weekend snowboarding in Vermont with an old friend and getting to know his wife which was truly a treat. I had a Spring Break in Aspen and Boulder with new friends and old. I played soccer this year with a new team.

Me & Aleli

Me & Sarah

I spent Tara's 30th in New Orleans, celebrated Dad's birthday in Los Angeles, and Zee's 30th in Las Vegas. I went to Puerto Rio with Mike and his family. I went to Provincetown, made new friends, saw a whale, and learned a valuable lesson in writing and ego. I made very good friendships with some of the people I work with as well as having to celebrate people who moved away to LA and London. I had a 30th birthday in Brooklyn and a 30th birthday bbq in LA with princesses and family and friends for far reaching corners of my life- a friend made in the 7th grade, a friend made on the soccer field in New York, a friend made in my first college dormitory, and a friend made in a writing workshop in Provincetown. I made new friendships in a yurt in Ithaca for a beautiful wedding weekend and one of the people I have loved most in this life got engaged...as well as many others. The year has been filled with so much joy which amazes me that just a week ago I felt at a loss for words about anxiety and depression and what to do with it. Two days ago I made another friend who after seeing me dance for hours on end said, "You? Depressed? I don't believe it." And I don't think I believe it either. And yet there are certainly moments where the earth beneath me feels like it is beginning to crumble. But when you've got a world filled with so much, a life exploding with so many wonderful friendships, maybe the important thing to focus on is that you have a ground to stand on in the first place, that the earth beneath my feet is rich in love, support, adventure, and laughter. Thank you to all my wonderful family and friends for an amazing year. I love you all and to all the new friendships I am making through this blog, the connections being made are priceless. In the words of Michael Franti, "All the freaky people make the beauty of the world!"

The year in pictures...

Vegas with the girls, May 2011

Work friends make the best friends,
My 30th NYC party, September 2011

Reconnecting with best friend from 7th grade and
meeting her daughter

Danielle & Amy & Me, Junior High, High Schol & Beyond

Fall Colors with some of my faves, Fall Colors, VT, October 2011

The rock

My friends who broke my heart
and moved away this year
June 2011

Night beach trip with
FAWC friends, Cape Cod, July 2011

After seeing a whale, Provincetown, July 2011

Vegas, Baby!!!

Aspen, CO with Sarah D., March 2011

Arapahoe Basin, March 2011

Tara celebrates 30 years, New Orleans, April 2011

Game face, Vegas 2011

PR, May 2011

Puerto Rico with Mike & his family, May 2011

Birthday with Princesses

Fall Colors Ladies Weekend, October 2011

Court & Me

Shaun, Lauren, Mike & Me, December 2011

Me & Jack

Mike & Logan

Sean, Toast, & Me, September 2011

Me, Michele, & Manny, August 2011

Me & Willow, March 2011

Christmas with Mike, NYC, December 2011

Girls Want Superheroes, Too

2011-12-28T10:19:00.001-05:00

Right on, Riley. To read an article of Riley's awesome rant on marketing,
click here.

Tuesday Treats: Sarah O'Holla

2011-12-27T07:00:00.006-05:00

Introducing children's librarian, YA novelist, and the blogger mastermind behind Desirous of Everything, Sarah O'Holla. I have the pleasure of working with Sarah, but since we are separated by three floors and two worlds (since she works in academics and I work in admin) I read her blog more often than I actually get to spend time with Sarah. But her blog is very inspirational, especially for writers, which makes me feel like I see her a lot more.

We recently just had a book fair at our school and seeing Sarah in action (along with fellow librarians) was amazing. She has a wealth of knowledge on YA novels and children's literature. Give her an age, describe a kid and she has the perfect recommendations. I asked Sarah if she felt her work as a librarian helped fuel her writing and her answer was an enthusiastic, "Yes! It is the best day job that a YA writer could ever dream for!" She elaborated by saying, "A big part of my job description is to read books so that I can recommend them to kids. But this is also so helpful to me as a writer. I am constantly shocked when I meet aspiring children's or YA writers that don't read children's or YA books. And I mean read a ton of them, not just remembering loving Judy Blume as a kid."

Sarah has two completed manuscripts which she is currently shopping around through her agent Marissa Walsh, represented by Fine Print Lit. (*Please note that Marissa is not currently accepting submissions, but there are several agents part of the Fine Print agency) Sarah had the great fortune of meeting her agent in a Gotham Writers Workshop. (Note to all writers, if you meet your agent IN a writing class, chances are they have fantastic sensibilities!) I asked Sarah about her working relationship with her agent. I know a handful of writers who have actually acquired agents and I'm always fascinated by the dynamics of these relationships. About Marissa, Sarah said, "I am lucky enough to have found a literary agent who gets me, and my writing and believes in me-that's a big one for this writer's fragile ego." I asked Sarah about the dreaded topic of "rejection." Sarah said, "I have an arsenal of rejection letters...And a lot of them, are 'really good' rejections, as in really encouraging. Sometimes this still makes me really bummed, but here's what I try to remind myself: I may not be a published writer, but I have had editors read my work - that's a big accomplishment!" This is why I read Sarah's blog. She exudes positivity. She ended that question with, "Someday I will be published but only if I never give up. This is what keeps me writing. That and the fact that there just must be some crazy thing about me that has to write. I kind of don't have a choice about it." Ah yes, the writer's creed.

And what are her stories, you might ask? Currently, Sarah has a tween novel about band camp out with editors right now. Sarah admitted, "Yes, I went to band camp, I was in the color guard!" She has been advised not to share snippets from her manuscripts that are out around town, however she did share a snippet of her Work-In-Progress, a young adult novel about a teenage girl (obsessed with Emily Dickinson) who starts cutting after her sister goes to rehab for alcoholism. (This of course would make me drool as an adolescent who once carried around copies of Go Ask Alice and Catcher In The Rye) What can I say about Sarah's writing other than, the girl's got range! Here's a sneak peak at her WIP:

Even though Livy, Suzanna and I had been going to these parties for a while now, it was pretty weird how I didn’t really know anyone new yet. Suzanna and I would always find a spot around the kitchen counter where people were constantly coming and going, looking for more booze or snacks or to see if they’d left their pack of cigarettes on the table. And we didn’t really have to talk to anyone but each other. I liked it this way. We were allowed to be here, we belonged and we could still just be ourselves.

For a rare moment, I was alone. Suzanna had gotten up to watch some Youtube video and I was just waiting for her to come back. I’d had my fare share of “people falling down so we could laugh at them” videos. As I sat alone in the noisy crowded house, I noticed how the light in Mags’ kitchen always had a greenish tint to it, and wondered what her mother was like.

“Becca, your sister’s been in the bathroom for a while,” Mags said to me, looking up the stairs. “Maybe you should…”

I knew Mags wasn’t being a bitch, but I saw eyes around the room locking with one another, and I stared at her cold before I stood up.

As I climbed the stairs, I rubbed my eyes with my hands before knocking on the bathroom door. When did I become so old feeling?

“Liv? You okay?”

“Becca?” Her voice sounded bright and slurred and confused at the same time. Just like a little kid’s. But a sick little kid, rather than a drunk one.

I opened the door. Livy was sitting on the toilet with all of her clothes still on and I noticed a wet stain on her jeans. Her eyes were halfway closed and she was resting her head on the wall next to the toilet.

“I’m just so sleepy,” she said.

“Yeah, it’s late, let’s go home.” Somehow I managed to get her to stand up with my arm around her waist, but when we got to the stairs I knew we were in trouble.

“No, let’s just go to sleep here,” she said, and I was losing my grip as she started to try and lay down.

“Suzanna,” I started to call down the stairs. By now she must have noticed that we were both MIA.

“I don’t even need a pillow,” Livy whispered into my ear and this time I yelled louder.

“Suzanna!” Jake Seibert walked by the stairs and looked up at us. “Could you find Suzanna for me?” I asked.

“Jesus, Livy,” he said and started snickering.

“Hi Jakey,” she called down.

“Jake,” I said, “Now.” He walked away. “Come on Livy, one step at a time,” I said, but then Suzanna was there, bounding up to me two steps at a time.

“She was in the bathroom again,” I said as Suzanna put her arm under Livy’s other shoulder and we carried her down.

“Hi Suzanna, you look so handsome,” Livy said.

“Hi Livy,” Suzanna said, running her hands through her short hair. Suzanna loved Livy almost as much as I did. And I knew that compliment was going straight to her head, even though she was well aware of how drunk Livy was.

By the time we made it downstairs and out the door, the party was still in full swing. No one said goodbye, or even noticed we left.

Even though it was May and warm during the day, at night it was cold. But I couldn’t stop to zip up my hoodie as we crossed pleasant street and headed around the corner without risking losing my grip on Livy.

“Funny how this walk seems so short when you’re not carrying a dead person,” Suzanna said and then grimaced. I know she was being funny, but it almost did feel like Livy was dying, and I didn’t really want to think about that. I forced a “ha” anyway.

“Party on!” a drunk college kid called out to us as he stumbled by with a red plastic cup in his hand.

“Yeah,” Suzanna yelled back at him, dead pan sarcastically, and I genuinely laughed at this.

“Pathetic,” I said. I guess when you didn’t grow up in a college town, partying was a bigger deal. Livy, Suzanna and I had seen drunk twenty somethings stumbling around on weekend nights since we were little and maybe that had something to with why we were in this situation before we were even 18 years old.

We walked underneath our neighbor’s magnolia tree as we rounded the corner and headed down the driveway. Livy plucked a flower from a branch. Almost as if the scent of the flowers had sobered her up.

“This is so beautiful, I could cry,” she said, staring intently at the pink and white blossom.

“Beautiful things should make you feel happy, not sad Liv,” I said, almost absent mindedly. As if I was saying it to convince myself that it was true. But she didn’t seem to be listening anymore.

By the time we got back home, Livy was practically asleep on her feet so it was easy to get her into bed. I had to make it look like she didn’t pass out drunk though, like she came home from the party, took off her shoes, pulled down the covers and went to bed soberly without ever peeing her pants. Suzanna stood in the doorway of our room. I turned to her.

“I can take it from here, thanks,” I said. Suzanna lingered for a bit and the skin under her eyes was dark. She looked hollow and sad and I tried not to feel that sadness that was practically shooting out of her and straight into my heart. I needed to keep my armor on.

“Becca, maybe...” she started, but I interrupted her.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I whispered and she turned to go.

Livy didn’t make a sound as I untied her shoes and pulled them off. I pulled off her jeans and stuffed them in the hamper, then I took the blanket off of the chair that we shared for reading, that was covered in clothes, and covered her up to her chin.

I climbed into bed and turned my light on. I took out my notebook and started to write while my other hand played with the lighter next to the candle on my nightstand. I flicked the lighter on and off until the metal got hot underneath my thumb. And over and over I wrote the only thing I could think inside my head. I don’t feel anything.

Forget my fifteen year old self, my 30 year old self is hooked! When I asked Sarah about her writing process and if she had any pictures of her self in "action" I love that she sent me this picture of her with her laptop, in bed with her cats. She also sent along two cartoons with her own text lifted from her guest post on process at the lovely Edison Rex which I inserted throughout this post . About process Sarah said that she has come to realize that her process is always changing. I loved that idea. If we are always changing shouldn't the way we create? For Sarah's latest WIP she gave herself a very public writing goal which she tracked on her blog, Desirous of Everything. Sarah committed to writing 500 words a day for at least 8 weeks. "I got myself a calendar, some stickers and tracked my progress on my blog." You can read the start of that challenge, here. Sarah continued, "This turned out to be an amazing way to write the first draft of this book. But who knows, the process for my next book might be completely different. And I still have to tackle revisions!" On revisions, Sarah said, "This will come after not looking at my first draft for at least a month (maybe 2). Then I will work on draft 2 and send that to my agent. Her comments will be the start of draft 3, and this could go on for 6 or 7 more drafts until it’s ready to show to editors. This decision is always made together with my agent."

Writing is hard, hard work that takes discipline and dedication. And even Sarah O'Holla, who, is a refreshing wake up call of just what it takes, admitted that her biggest obstacle is sitting down to write. "I try to write every day now, and every day it is one big obstacle hanging over my head."

I asked Sarah, who has a BA in English and an MA in library science what drew her to write and what drew her to the YA genre. She said, "I guess I've always been a writer since I was imagining up stories with my little Fisher Price figurines and always will be a writer, even though sometimes I feel like, I'm just going to quit-when blocks and rejections start to get me down." (Love it when writers share the struggle!) Sarah started writing seriously during her final semester of grad school when she took a class on children's literature and fell in love with it all over again. Inspired by that year's Newbery winner, Criss Cross by Lynn Rae Perkins, Sarah "thought for the first time in years about wiring again, and for the first time ever about writing a novel." About the YA genre, she said, "I think my natural writing voice has always been tween or YA. I just had forgotten all about it! As a super nerdy high school student (who won the "best English student" award senior year) I was pretty snobby about only reading the classics. I stopped reading anything remotely YA in the 6th grade. Same goes for English major, college student me." In library school, Sarah felt that passion when discussing literature in her children's lit class. "Then I couldn't stop reading children's and YA. Five years later, I haven't looked back since."

If Sarah had one piece of advice for aspiring writers she had this to say, "Don’t stop after the first draft. As hard as it may be to accomplish- and you should give your self a huge pat on the back and go out for a brownie sundae or something when you do- a first draft is not a novel. Keep revising and respect your process." See what I mean about inspiring?

Hopefully, Sarah's hard work (and her agent's hard work) will pay off in 2012, and us lucky readers will have the great pleasure of purchasing her first published novel, Always A Trombone. And I personally, can't wait for the future books, as we got to greedily soak up the snippet posted here! Sarah, thank you for your time and for letting me guest post on your blog this month! I will be first in line at your book signing this year! You can reach Sarah through her blog, Desirous of Everything, or through her agent, Marissa Walsh at Fine Print Lit Agency And you can also follow her on twitter @Soholls!

Anxiety and Chasing The Social Media Dragon

2011-12-26T11:28:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I wish I could do the dishes like this. Sometimes I wish I could do the holidays like this. Christmas is done, man. The teenage punks in Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead were onto something. Since about mid-October (or so I thought) I've been having these waves of nausea and random asthma. There were times where I felt like I was forgetting how to breathe and I'd have to take these deep breaths because every breath felt too shallow. It was around mid-October that I got an iPhone and when I really went public with my blog and started promoting it on Facebook. I joined Twitter and stepped into this huge world called "social media" where there is no guidebook or how-to manual. Every step of the way is trial and error. I didn't "get" Twitter. I didn't even "get" status updates on Facebook. Something about it felt so counter-intuitive, so narcissistic, so full of shit. Who cares how I'm feeling this minute? Or what guy annoyed me on the subway? Or what I ate for dinner? Who cares about what I think? I felt pressure to come up with something clever or funny or at least different which I realized quickly was impossible. Everything that has been said on Twitter has been said by thousands of others at one time or another, sometimes even the same time. No matter how awesome we think we are, we are just not that original.

I also started reading blogs and added them to my Bloglovin account. I started commenting while also taking on the challenge of NaBloPoMo where I posted everyday sometimes even twice a day while also posting links to these posts on Twitter, Facebook, the NaBloPoMo thread on BlogHer, BlogHer chatter and by commenting on other blogs. I suddenly felt like I was in this race. Part of it was fueled by my realization that perhaps I could make my dreams of supporting myself through writing a reality. That I didn't have to wait to be "discovered" or get an agent. That I could simply manifest my own success by being a self-promoter. The other part was fueled by the frightening realization that I did not know how to elevate myself out of the assistant world and that even though being an assistant has served me well and allowed me to have a full rich life outside of work, that maybe I had hit my burnout with making xerox copies and collating. Maybe my fingers could no longer manage refilling a stapler without shaking just a little bit with the pangs of disappointment. My ambition kicked in full force and I was a social media maniac and very quickly I saw results. And then better results and even better results....But it did not take long before all of my multi-tasking transformed into a racing heartbeat, sudden sweats and this nervousness I felt I couldn't contain. I emailed a friend of mine (who is a social media maven) about the anxiety I had been feeling since joining the race and she responded, "Yeah, man, it's bad. You're chasing the dragon, now."

The anxiety grew worse aided along with taking on too many freelance jobs (Two back-to-back 700 page books I needed to read and do a write up on), still working full time, pursuing writing full time (including a book I have been working on for over a year), my commitment to a writing group and a writing class which meant every Tuesday I was doing one of these, tutoring, celebrating my 30th birthday, having a melt down at work, while cracking some tough eggs in therapy. About two weeks ago I hit my breaking point, and decided to seek professional help. After meeting with my general practitioner, I did not feel right about the diagnosis or the Rx. I then met with a psychiatrist for a very expensive consultation who gave a similar diagnosis and similar Rx although was more in tune with my hesitation about "meds." I hate to admit this but somewhere I totally subscribe to the idea that meds means I'm a failure. I grew up in a house where we didn't even have Tylenol. We never even took cold medicine. Once my mom left, all of that stuff did, too. My Dad did not drink at all and never liked a stocked medicine cabinet. My experience of what is appropriate when it comes to meds, alcohol, taking care of one's self, is skewed. The idea of taking a daily drug that could curb my anxiety or stabilize my mood freaked me out beyond belief and even writing this right now is producing anxiety because I am afraid of being judged by even toiling with this decision. A year ago when shit hit the fan, even then I was adamant on not taking an anti-depressant. But after everything felt like it was crumbling around the edges, I opened to the idea: Is this a moment where I am blinded by my own stubbornness? Blinded by my own refusal to accept help? I should be able to handle this on my own. I've handled everything else on my own, this isn't even the hard stuff!

I am now in this moment in my life where I feel like I have no clue who I am. In one sense it is totally freeing and the possibilities feel more endless since I am no longer in my own way. (Or at least trying my best to get out of my way) In another sense, I feel more vulnerable than ever because the convictions I once proudly stood on and based tough decisions on are also gone. I am trying to honestly assess what is my own truth while trying to separate it from the truths I inherited as a kid. And I'm not judging those truths. I just want to make sure I am doing what is best for me because I believe it is best for me.

I still have not decided what to do. Each moment is different. Most of the time I think, This doesn't feel right. But when that anxiety comes out of nowhere, disrupting my life, and the sadness hits, triggered by the smallest of things, I think to myself, It doesn't have to be this hard. And to decide anything around the holidays feels loaded to begin with. Who can say that they are still in their normal state of mind, their normal state of emotions, around the holidays? Around their 30th birthday? Around publicly exposing themselves in the way I have done?

For now, all I can think is one day at a time. Christmas is done, man. The year is coming to an end and maybe the best thing for me to do right now is to sit still with my feelings until I feel at peace with a decision. In the new year, I might step back a bit from the social media craze, try to care less about the outcome of blog posts and get back to what it was when I started it before I cared about stats and "an audience," before I saw it as the potential life jacket to my present-day problems, and just get back to the idea of it being an outlet for my writing, a place where I hold myself accountable to this crazy dream I have always had and take it one word, one step, one breath at a time.

Merry Christmas. Think Vegas.

2011-12-24T16:00:00.000-05:00

When the undecorated Christmas tree started to turn brown it just got too depressing. And let's be honest, anything dressed up in lights looks better. Think Vegas. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

Christmas Playlist by Special Guest DJ Mike Christmasclaus

2011-12-24T10:20:00.000-05:00

Get a glass of eggnog and wrap your last minute gifts to this awesome Christmas ditty....

The Difference Between Being Tough & Being Strong

2011-12-23T07:00:00.006-05:00

I talk a lot. I am really good at arguing and I can spin just about anything. I am never wrong and I always know better, which is why at 28 years old I had alienated almost everyone I was close to. I was picking fights with my boyfriend that sometimes erupted into fits of rage over something as simple as him falling asleep on the couch. I got my butt to therapy after a ten year hiatus from it, because I thought I had all the tools. I was self- aware. It did not take a degree to see that I had issues from my childhood. Who the hell doesn't? But I never thought it would disrupt my adulthood. For all intents and purposes, I believed it hadn't, until I found myself alone more than I wanted to be and even I couldn't stand to be with me. Negativity is a drug. So is hysteria and my favorite of all, rage.

With everything that happened when I was a kid, I just charged through the same way I charged through the halls of high school. I had a boyfriend once dub me "The Enforcer" because you could see me coming from a mile away, hands looped through my backpack straps, head down, furrowed brow, plowing through kids, much like I plowed through my youth. I don't remember ever feeling sad, I was just angrier than hell, which of course, was my deeply penetrating sadness. But anger is active. Anger made me feel in control and that I was taking care of business. Anger got me through everything and eventually became my quality I was most proud of, although I called it "being tough." I remember leaving the house once, just a random afternoon about to meet up with friends probably and my dad stopped me and said, "Lindsey, you don't have to be so tough anymore because now you're strong and your heart belongs to you." I rolled my eyes and left but I never forgot that message. Of course I was strong! But I don't think I got that message until this week, the same way I don't think I always understand the difference between when I'm acting out and when I'm truly expressing myself. Sure, I can talk a blue streak about how fucked up something is, how wrong someone else is, but when it comes to identifying what is really bothering me, often times I have no clue. I never learned to sit with my feelings, to let myself feel sad. I was The Enforcer.

This week I had someone say to me, "Be the friend that you want." I also had someone say to me, "You can stop the soap opera whenever you want." I can go from 0-60. My rage could easily be tracked on a speedometer. It is much harder to slow down, to shut my mouth and NOT tell everyone in the world how wronged I've been and just how fucking right I am. It is hard to feel sad and hurt but this week I learned that sometimes it's worth it. That anger just clouds the road. Another thing I heard this week, "There's a place we can live, that seems much more shaky, much more softer, but is actually the stronger and happier place to be."

I find that the more I let go of my negativity, which for me is really fucking hard because it is so ingrained in my identity- my toughness, but the more I let go of that and try my hardest to be positive, the more blessings have come my way. And I don't want to get all new-age-"The Secret" on you. But, its true that the more I've stepped out of my comfort zone and admitted my flaws and said my thank yous and admitted my wrongs, the better things have gotten. I'm learning that maybe expressing myself is a whole lot messier that comes with a lot longer process and that if my first instinct is to hit the gas pedal and open my mouth, it is probably a good sign I should keep it closed.

Here's to a holiday weekend of not hitting the gas pedal, taking in my conversations and my feelings before spitting things out and trying to give myself the space to see when I am acting out and when I am struggling to express myself. Cheers to a peaceful holiday and even more peaceful new year.

Pinkies Up: The Importance of Etiquette

2011-12-22T09:27:00.000-05:00

[emilypost.com]

The first time I ever watched Pretty Woman, I fell in love with the scene where she charms her way through a fine dining multi-course dinner. I remember thinking that I wouldn't know where to start. Sure, I set the table growing up and I understood a basic place setting. We were always taught please and thank yous. We were taught to shake hands, be polite and courteous. But we were never the kind of family that went to a meal like that. I think we all sort of laugh at the idea of "formalities." We are more backyard bbq people. We like pool parties and tacos and ice in our wine.

In college I dated a guy who came from a family that was "well off." He taught me things like when you are done eating, you place your utensils next to each other on the plate, which lets the server know they may take your plate, that you are ready for the next course. If you were not finished eating but needed a break, you crossed them on the plate. I remember telling my father this and he was annoyed. "You don't come from the wrong side of the tracks!" I can understand his annoyance. I was raised well and just because I didn't know to cross my utensils didn't mean anything. I think I sort of looked down at etiquette as snobby, conformist, elitist...but also admired the clear rules and boundaries it defined. I liked that there was a language and a playbook and that anyone could learn it. I liked that there was a system in place to preserve feelings, avoid misunderstandings, and set parameters. Each year, I would convince my Dad to buy Christmas cards and we would pretend we would send them out to our family members and friends and each year we never got around to it. Part of it was that we had enough on our plate and I think another part felt like it was a waste of money or felt phony. I never saw a Christmas card as a thought or a thank you. But once I left home, receiving a piece of mail became priceless.

Even if a card just has someone's name signed, it is a thought in your hand. Someone took the time to write you on their list of people they wish to send good will to for the new year. They wrote your name in ink and a thought and hope for a merry holiday or a happy birthday. They looked you up in their old address book. Spent money on a card and a stamp and either took it to the post office or left it in their mailbox. For me, it always means something when I get that card.

[emilypost.com]

In my twenties, I started writing thank you cards. Even though email was beginning to replace thank yous and letters, I mailed cards and it felt good. But there was still so much I didn't know. I did not know I was supposed to write a thank you letter if I was interested in a job after an interview. I almost blew one of the better jobs in my life because I did not send a thank you card immediately. When I learned this piece of etiquette, I hand-delivered the note. I got the job.

[emilypost.com]

I have now taken to Christmas/holiday cards and now Halloween cards or care packages with candy and stickers for all my little cousins and godsons. I like the feeling this gives me to spend some time thinking about someone else. Even though they may just glance at my card, the whole process is more for me to count my blessings. And the older I get the bigger the desire I have for a life with etiquette. If I receive a gift, I write a thank you card. Not an email. Around the holidays I write cards wishing the people I love most a merry new year. I RSVP to events in a timely fashion. I respectfully decline. I show up on time and if I'm invited to someone's home I never show up empty handed. I know the time lines for inviting guests to an event as well as what makes a suitable wedding gift if you attend a wedding and what makes a suitable gift if you can not attend but were still invited. I don't talk about plans in front of people that are not invited to those plans and if someone happens to join the plan, I check with the other guests first if they mind me inviting another friend along (unless it is the type of "the-more-the-merrier event"). I even check with Mike first about having anyway over or sleep over because it's a matter of respect that his time and space which is shared with me in our home is just as important as mine. If he does not feel up to company, I make plans outside of the home, or sometimes we compromise and he will compromise for me.

[emilypost.com]

Then there are the more common slip ups I try to keep in mind. When out with a friend, do not answer your phone and do not make a quick call and don't text while you're walking. And when when you are out for a drink, do not place your phone on the bar. (We are all guilty of this, but it's so rude!) I am also learning when the appropriate response is to not bring a gift or not offer to pay for a meal but to just say thank you and when to say thank you. There is a graciousness to accepting someone's generosity and a way to thank someone with humility. Etiquette is like monogamy, it was created to protect us from hurting each other or in some cases to politely let us know where we stand one another. It is the cornerstone of civilization. What I once called "bullshit," I have only come to appreciate more and more with each life experience where I get to practice my understanding of these rules of engagement and bring to the table my own acquired etiquette and grace.

[emilypost.com]

Now, I'm not saying I'm perfect. Far from it! And there is so much I don't know and probably never will know. And of course I do things that are not graceful and sometimes maybe offensive. Certainly, one could argue that a blog was not very "etiquette friendly." And I use the "f-word" too much. But I have adopted etiquette as something important which makes it something I strive to achieve. When I have kids, they will most likely not go to meals like the one in Pretty Woman, but I will always practice with them the art of refinement and grace. Pinkies up, kids.

Featured on BolgHer today in the Money Section!!!

2011-12-21T12:11:00.002-05:00

Remember My Life with Sallie Mae: A Nightmare in the Making? Rita Arens from BlogHer is featuring my post in the Money section! Check it out!!!

Check me out at Desirous of Everything today!

2011-12-21T08:10:00.000-05:00

Thanks to Sarah at Desirous of Everything for being mutual sponsors this month and giving me the chance to do a guest post on writing! There's a snippet of my Work-in-Progress memoir over there. Thanks, Sarah!

Tuesday Treats: Alex Goldberg

2011-12-20T07:00:00.003-05:00

Introducing the very fascinating and ever-evolving design and mixed media artist, Alex Goldberg. I have known Miss Goldberg for a couple of years now and in that have time have seen her make gusty, sometimes painful strides to define the life she wants for herself which has only strengthened the voice she is finding in her art. When I first met Alex, she was a little reluctant to show me her work, most notably her final project at Boston University, a sexualized painting that explores the body. I remember at the time that she was nervous because her work was somewhat "dark" and in the context of our day-time jobs at a sunny elementary school, there never did feel like an appropriate time to cross that bridge from colleague to friend, co-worker to fellow artist. But sitting down with Alex today as she flipped through her portfolio for grad school that she will be submitting in just a few short weeks, I was not only amazed in how confident she has become in her art and how unapologetic and fearless she was in discussing it, but how awesome her work truly is. Alex's work resonated with me on many levels but most importantly as a woman and someone (like many, many women) who has struggled with body issues.

Untitled

Alex had a harder time discussing her older work, like the above mural, because it feels like a former life, which sounds about right since one could argue that Alex lives in her paintings while in process. "The work occurs and then I figure out what the pent up reasoning for it was. It's like a form of therapy in a way," she explained. If you flip through the course of her work you can see the mountains and molehills she has overcome in her early twenties as she approaches graduating to her mid-twenties. While earlier work explores and challenges "body," other pieces (that I also resonated with) depicted a woman, beheaded, shirtless, with an "x" over the vagina. She has come to call these paintings "The Chastity Series" which I love both for its irony as well as its compartmentalized sexuality (And again, another big theme that hits me at my core). The head is not attached to the body but the vagina is also silenced. Neither can speak, so what is left is the body in between, the body as vessel. What I love about Alex's paintings is that although her art is specific, her themes are universal. While she may not know exactly what a piece is about when at the beginning of the process her subconscious informs the conscious, the painting informs the artist as well as the viewer.

But what I really admire is her most recent series, a collection of liberated feminist pieces that as Alex puts it, "are not as tight, but more comfortable in my own voice." She added that in contrast to her earlier work that started while in a long-term relationship, her recent series began when she was newly single. However, it is not just about a single woman's liberation, but a further examination into the layered, often unspoken complexities of female relationships in the context of being a woman in a patriarchal society. About these pieces, Alex said, 'They are my most political work in terms of feminism, but it is also about women hurting women, women not supporting other women, and if we don't support each other who will?" Amen, sister.

When discussing Grand Dillusion, Alex talked about being interested in women's image in society versus reality, the often twisted truth, and what is happening to women on differing economic levels. Women and class, body and perception, are both reoccurring themes throughout her work. When I asked Alex why she was drawn to these topics she told me that she used to be a dancer. Up until she was sixteen she did modern dance, jazz, ballet, tap, African... when I asked her why she stopped she bluntly replied, "I started parting." But she further elaborated that the feminist views she was brought up with were conflicting with dance as a form of artistic expression for her. Once puberty hit, she was told to lose weight. In addition, she confessed, "You are working so hard physically but not saying anything ever. You are just being directed." However, Alex still uses dance as part of her process when painting and when asked if she had any influences she admitted that she was hugely inspired by Pina Bausch, especially her last piece Vollmond which ran at BAM last year. But with painting, Alex said, "I can have my body in whatever way I want it to be and still do this."

Grand Dillusion

Last summer, Alex took a collage course at Parsons, (collage being an art form she used to look down on) and felt an uncertainty at first and now a complete embrace of this new form of expression. She uses a combination of her own drawings cut up and combined with text from newspaper tear-outs (which often inspire the title) and magazine and acrylic paint. And I love the skeletons that have been popping up in her new works which also may be a bridge to her upcoming work. In this painting, called The World As He Finds It, Alex used a drawing from a model who at the time was anorexic. She was criticized for her drawing's "proportions being off" because the model was "unnaturally thin." Alex took this and ran with it, the result which is incorporated into this piece which also seems to explore the issues of class. My favorite part is the woman donning a tiara made of dominoes.

In her most recent completed piece (which I die for!!!) Alex used newspaper, magazine, acrylic paint, colored paper, feathers, gouache and ink. While Alex is forging her own path at the moment and could not cite any artistic influences she did say that in creating these collage pieces she has been reading a lot of Louise Bourgeois whose ideas about women and sex align with her own. How I love the bones at the center of this piece!

I Am Woman

For Alex's upcoming work she is exploring the idea of pain. Growing up in a "nuclear" family with a father who is a doctor and a stay-at-home mom, Alex is curious to explore the relationship a profession has on family dynamics. Having been shown medical slides and engaged in commonplace conversations regarding pain or what should and should not be painful, Alex will be using medical slides, pointillism, and more skeletons! Her gravitation towards design and architecture was also something she felt a pull towards while in school at Parsons. She took packing tape and created these photographs which then progressed into an impressive pointillism drawing.

As you can see, Miss Goldberg is well on her way to an exciting artistic life and career that both breaks the mold and blazes a new trail. Alex, thank you for your friendship and for doing the kind of art that talks, especially to women. We need your voice out there.

You can follow this amazing (and super fun!) artist on twitter at @alexrgoldberg or shoot her an email at alexrg19@gmail.com.
Stay tuned for her website and upcoming shows!!

Notes You Can Find Around Our Apartment

2011-12-18T23:00:00.000-05:00

What it's like to have a car in Brooklyn

Sent with a check from a friend in VT to reserve his spot for a ski vacation.
Been on the fridge for 7 months

That's right. Jerry.

Mike likes to make "packing lists." I like to wait until midnight the night before
I take a flight and pack at the height of a panic attack.

"Request for penalty abatement"-- Yup, still dealing with the IRS

My storyboard for my book.

Notes written out of anger, defeat, frustration and exhaustion.
Ikea always wins.

A thank you and an invitation from our friends in Seattle, a note from our neighbors about
putting in a gluten free order to Sami's bakery, a recipe for an Inca power bar,
and a reminder that we both liked this German beer "Hacker-pschorr..."

Mike's secret recipe for his killer brownies.

Return to Sender

A tear-out from 2009 about which organic fruits and veggies to buy.
I still don't think I've read it.

Wish list for the apartment. Always a Work-In-Progress.

Weekend Warrior Playlist #7

2011-12-17T09:58:00.000-05:00

Five minute playlist....enjoy! xoxo!

Check me out at BlogHer!

2011-12-16T11:49:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, BlogHer posted a piece I wrote about Meryl Streep talking about taking on the role of controversial icon, Margaret Thatcher in her new movie, Iron Lady. Click here and check it out!

A Message to Jimmy Kimmel from my Cousin's Pissed off 5 year old

2011-12-15T09:21:00.002-05:00

My cousin, Breanne, along with my aunts and I all have a very similar sense of humor. Seeing this on facebook this morning made me homesick, but made me laugh even more. This is Nate and he is pissed off at Jimmy Kimmel. Jimmy Kimmel has been pulling pranks on children for far too long. If it were up to Nate, the buck would stop here. Sorry, Nate, the Grinch does exist.(And thanks to Jenna Hatfield from Stop, Drop & Blog who just posted on the cover of BlogHer!)

And if you haven't seen Jimmy's shenanigans....

The Undecorated Christmas Tree in the Room

2011-12-14T07:00:00.006-05:00

Thanksgiving weekend, Mike and I went and picked up a Christmas tree in a parking lot in Jersey. We were quick, matter-of-fact, and on our way to a post-Thanksgiving, post-family party where they were deep-frying a turkey as well as everything else under the sun. We kept the tree in the truck while we gorged on an amazing spread, fancy Brooklyn beer we brought, and the best thing of the night- fried Oreos. (Yes, I still eat like I am ten years old) The salty-sweet smell of the fried Oreos reminded me of the boardwalk at the Jersey shore, and I got nostalgic for summer and warm weather and swimming and sunshine. But alas, here we are and it is already holiday season. We got home late that night and didn't want to haul the tree up since it still needed to be cut so we left it in the garage overnight. In the morning, Mike cut it, brought it home and we stood it in the tree stand with water. I had developed a cold overnight probably brought on by an allergy attack triggered by those damn cats at the party the night before. But we didn't decorate the tree. I was sick, Mike was tired, football was on. We said we would do it later in the week when we could really make a date of it.

Over two weeks have now passed and the tree still stands in the corner, gorgeous and full as ever without a light or ornament on it. I don't even really notice it when I come home from work or pass it in the morning. The only time I even remember it is there is when the radiator kicks on and opens up the evergreen scent. I have been sick, I've been busy, I've been dealing with some hard-core anxiety, but mostly, I think I just don't want to decorate it. I don't want to crack into that bin of small ornaments that Mike and I have collected or made over the last four years. This will be our fifth Christmas together and while I'm thrilled to have reached that landmark, there is a Christmas season blues that has “a-come” this year, more profound than years past. Every year I get a little blue, even when things are GREAT I get a little blue. It is something in my bones, a feeling of anxiety, loss, grief, triggered at any moment by an unsuspecting Christmas Carol or droopy lights on a home or the sight of a decorated Christmas tree. There were so many sad Christmases and then so many silent Christmases where we danced around the phone wondering if my mom would call or not. I know now that she was in her own world of pain and there were definitely Christmases where she did reach out and I couldn’t bring myself to talk to her. Everything made me sick to my stomach. If the phone rang, I panicked and if it didn’t ring, I got angry. And if I actually talked to her, inevitably, the day would end up in tears somewhere or an explosive fight with my brother. We ping-ponged our emotions off each other.

Now, it wasn't all bad. Christmas Eve was always a blast because my Dad’s gigantic family (oldest of 8) would get together and my brother and I could lose ourselves in hanging out with our cousins. But Christmas morning was always tough. Before my mom left, Christmas morning was usually spent at her parents’ house, my grandparents's house. We’d open gifts there and have Christmas dinner. When we’d come to the table there would be an English Christmas cracker on our plate. We would all open them at the same time and wear are funny paper hats and play with our Chinese handcuffs while eating turkey and stuffing. Every year, my grandmother would put walnuts in the stuffing and every year my Dad would remind her he was allergic to walnuts. There was once so much joy and there still is so much joy, but like my birthday, there is an energy still connected no matter how hard I try to drown it in peppermint hot chocolate and Christmas shopping, sometimes I just hate the holidays.

I kind of love my undecorated Christmas tree because it is just what it is. The smell is enough of a reminder of what time of year it is but I don’t know that I need all the bells and whistles. Maybe by not decorating it, I can start my own tradition. Like a blank canvas, a clean slate, a different kind of Christmas spirit, one that is honest and real, and admires the beauty of something for what it is without all the shitty stuff from Target dripping off of it. (I actually love Target, but you get my point). Maybe this simple tree in the corner will remind me what this time of year is supposed to be about – joy, giving, love. Maybe I can detach it from years past? Detach it even from family Christmases of years past? But how do you scrub your bones?

I am going to leave my tree as is, until Mike probably makes me decorate it with him. But I like that it just is. Just like I am, in all my sadness and nostalgia and anticipation and joy, as well. Like I said, it wasn’t always sad. There was always joy, too. Maybe the holidays are just intrinsically both sad and joyous, one could not be without the other, like life.

Tuesday Treats: Joe Valentine

2011-12-13T10:06:00.003-05:00

Introducing the gutsy and charismatic artist and musician, Joe Valentine. Born and bred Jersey, Joe now resides in Seattle with his beautiful daughter, Tula, and partner, Marybeth. What has always struck me about Joe is that he is very confident in his work. He never lets on to any sort of struggle with fear or artistic doubt. When I asked Joe what the truth is, he admitted that a lot of it is "smoke in mirrors" but to be completely honest, with the materials he uses, "I can't fuck up. It's in the gel. I have to be confident in where it's going." Joe works with heavy gels and resins, paint pens, and markers and he likes to use fragile, reflective surfaces which draws him to use glass and mirror. As he spoke about in his interview with Twilight Artists Collective in September, Joe works with "repurposed glass, mirror, and canvas to indicate the importance of reusing." Joe's choice in materials embodies some of his convictions about art. "Reusing materials keeps art accessible through its price," Joe said. "Most of my recycled material I get for free on Craigslist. Why would I then charge $500 for a piece? For my time? That is a fucking gift that I get to do. If I'm going to charge $200 for a privilege that I get, I think that's way out of balance." Spoken like a true man of conviction.

And like most men of conviction, Joe was very honest the more we talked about what it takes to be, not just an artist, but a confident artist. "There is a bit of arrogance. But sometimes there's a perceived confidence that you require for yourself," which it seemed to me was perhaps more important than acquiring an art degree. Joe sees his rejection from art school many moons ago as a blessing in disguise. He instead studied cultural anthropology, philosophy, and design. "Meditating on stuff like art history is dead. It's the relics...of course, you can learn stuff from the masters, but be in the present about your art. We all have our reference points. There are artists who I'd love to emulate, but it's not about history or the static environment of art. It's about making it with sincerity." Joe argued that studying bracket dates was not the real conversation of art. "Talk about the now, your feeling in your gut." It's statements like this that make Joe such an inspiring and exciting artist. His deep belief and desire to explore human connectivity goes from the repetitive line applications on his glass to the core of his bones. He leads his life and creates his art from his heart which comes across in his work.

Having known Joe on the periphery of my life the last few years, I have had the fortune of seeing his work grow over the last four years. But, probably even before then, since I had the great pleasure of moving into a bedroom that had his artwork on the wall and living in a home where Joe once lived and painted. There were a couple of Joe's earlier paintings that hung on the wall of this home in New Jersey, and seeing how much his earlier works have changed to what he is creating most recently has been nothing short of inspiring and moving.

Anyone who doesn't know Joe can see the life transformations he has been through in his art work or as he puts it, "Those are my words. That's my story. The image is the meaning. [Studying] anthropology gave me language." Whether it is his more street-aesthetic pieces like his rich and colorful Kiwicon Series or his Anti-Re-Undefined works or his beautiful high contrast Line Works where he perhaps manifests a sort of meditation through the repetitive application of lines or the black and whites in his more thought-provoking Vektor Series or the huge collaborative arts and live art pieces or mural pieces he does, all of Joe's paintings have energy and heart. They are the kind of pieces that make you stop and feel it.

I asked Joe about the Vektor Series which had a show in West Philadelphia in 2009. The Vektor Series had started in Ithaca when Joe was visiting a friend and contemplating the idea of meta narratives. "What I am saying in my art work and what people are saying in my art," he added. He was drawn to the idea of cells and orbs. A vector is an algorithm, an equation. It's an element of vector space, kind of like how we think of pixels. Joe elaborated with how he was interested in creating a dialogue about "how the very small looks like the very big and how the very big can emulate the very small." We are a map of cells but zoom out some more and we are a cell in the universe, just like how we wish on a single star in a sky made up of billions. Joe is a deep thinker and someone who can ponder about life cell by cell and universe by universe.

"Of course, I can't talk about any of this without mentioning illness," Joe said. One of Joe's first creations came out in a painting that looked something like a bull with a tumor in its belly. Two weeks later he was diagnosed with Stage 3 lymphatic cancer. In going back to the topic of fear, Joe feels grateful for having the experience of cancer. He said, "Illness made it a fact. Your locked into this eternal agreement with your creative self." I surmised that all the bullshit falls away and perhaps the confidence and courage he has in approaching his work was propelled by his illness. He agreed saying that when the doctor told him he was okay (which Joe explained with cancer often means okay for now) Joe felt like he'd lost his best friend. There is a fearlessness, or as Joe calls it, "a gift," that comes with that experience, one that he never undervalued or took for granted.

We talked about how art can be a dialogue between the subconscious and the conscious. Joe agreed whole-heartedly and argued "How could anyone not believe that?" I asked if there were other paintings that haunted him or perhaps spoke to him like the bull? He told me of two paintings, one of a tidal wave that he painted while spending time with a friend just recently back from Thailand. He made the wave his logo and three days later the 2004 Tsunami devastated Indonesia and surrounding countries. Last year, when also in a moment of transition, he painted some tee-pees with what looked like yellow and black churning clouds, kind of spirits moving west on the canvas. Soon after, his cousin offered him to come out west. She had an art studio in need of an artist. If anything, painting teaches Joe to listen.

Joe did move out west, after surviving cancer, several moves, and other transitions. There he met his lovely lady and to their surprise, not long after came their little girl, Tula, perhaps one of the most light-spirited and joyful babies I have ever met. On becoming a father, Joe said,"It's so hard, but what a great gift to teach you about yourself. She's molding me into a completely different person." If you look at Joe's more recent works, (which I am in love with) (and which have also been showcased in Irwin's Neighborhood Bakery & Cafe in Seattle) there is a move away from the high contrast street-aesthetic and more into a sort of positive life-aesthetic. Where once he focused on decay (as quoted in the The TwAC interview), his newer works evoke a more spiritual, earthy element, like his Flame, Feather, Fin and Frond Series. I found the same sort of elements in the more muted tones he uses in his Diffusive works. It doesn't take an art historian to see that there is a different spirit in these newer paintings. I asked Joe if that was possibly inspired by becoming a father? He thought on it and admitted he suddenly had felt drawn to fire once his daughter was born. "I painted fire after Tula's birth- flames. But that's how I was thinking of her, like this bright star. I was given this flame through this creative self."

Did I mention that Mr. Valentine is also quiet an amazing musician? I know, swoon. But, hands off ladies (and some gentlemen) this one's taken. I've linked and included some of Joe's songs in this piece as well as his video on how he actually paints, because it is all a part of his process, his creative creed, the idea of transparency, honesty, and just going for it, creating from the gut!

Recently inspired by Joseph Campbell and Robert Frost, Joe has been on a journey of saying "yes" to life and you can see it in his art. There is a transformation happening with the addition of this new beating heart in his life. (Two, I should say) "It's about walking with your heart out," Joe said. "I am proud of what I do. I love the potential value art can hold. And I don't always think it's vein."

Perhaps what I loved about talking with Joe, is whenever I asked if something was "intended," he would throw that idea away, which further confirmed for me that he truly is an artist that just comes at his work from the gut. I can think of no better way to live as an artist and as a connective human being in this world.

Many thanks to Joe who took time out of his day to answer my questions while entertaining a cooing baby.

Robert Frost

Check out Joe's Website, where you can also purchases some of his pieces, at http://www.joevalentinearts.com/. Follow him on twitter @zephsauvage or shoot him an email at info@joevalentinearts.com. You can also check out some prints at Society 6. Then you can have your mind blown everyday!

Recap: My Twelve Days of Christmas

2011-12-12T15:00:00.001-05:00

If you want to read all of my Twelve Days of Christmas for the BlogFestivus Challenge in order, I've made it easy for you. Thanks for reading and Happy Holidays to everyone.

Andrew and A Partridge in A Pear Tree
Hugo and Two Turtle Doves
Oscar and Three French Hens
Meredith and Four Calling Birds
Stacey and Five Golden Rings
Mora and Six Geese A-Laying
Hal and Seven Swans A-Swimming
Liam and Eight Maids A-Milking
Sheila and Nine Ladies Dancing
Denis and Ten Goddamn Lords A-Leaping
Tyler and Eleven Pipers Piping
Monica and Twelve Drummers Drumming

Monica and Twelve Drummers Drumming

2011-12-12T01:00:00.003-05:00

It was December 24^th and the morning NA meeting on Venice Beach had just finished. Monica had just received her thirty days sobriety chip. But how she was going to get through this holiday without getting high was still unclear. She decided to walk along the beach until an answer came. If it didn’t, maybe continuing to walk was the answer. Several hours and three ignored phone calls from her sister later, Monica heard the faint THUD of a drum. She couldn’t remember the last time she heard live music. She followed the beats until she stumbled upon twelve drummers drumming all lost in the euphoric world of a free-flowing drum circle. Monica felt her hips begin to sway followed by her feet and before she knew it, she had found her answer to surviving the holidays and maybe life: just keep on moving.

A little Happy Birthday note!

2011-12-11T18:02:00.000-05:00

Happy Birthday to my good friend and fellow blogger, daleboca! Check out some of her guests posts (140 character challenge) at rewind revise here and here. Or read any number of her brilliantly articulate reviews on films at our shared movie blog, http://skipriporplay.blogspot.com/.

Happy Birthday, daleboca!!!

xoxo

Tyler and Eleven Pipers Piping

2011-12-11T14:20:00.001-05:00

All Tyler wanted for Christmas was to be let into Benji’s room. It was tough being Benji’s little brother. Benji was cool. The last time Tyler knocked on his door, Benji let him in only to pin him down and fart on his head. Tyler just wanted to be cool. But his dreams were crushed with every fart and noogie sent his way. But when one day he mistook “Is that him?” for “Come in,” he could never have imagined the gift he would receive: catching Benji and ten friends passing a bong. He could see the power he suddenly acquired by the look of terror on Benji’s face. Tyler waited until Christmas. The family was gathered deciding who should sing which parts of a Christmas Carol. Tyler chimed, “Benji should get Eleven Pipers Piping.” Tyler would forever be welcomed in his brother’s room.

Weekend Warrior Playlist #6

2011-12-10T16:30:00.000-05:00

Why not?

Denis and Ten Goddamn Lords A-Leaping

2011-12-10T14:59:00.000-05:00

It was Denis’s 60^th Christmas and his father, Bill’s, 85^th. The last ten years had not been kind to Bill with the passing of his wife and onset of senility. But if there was one thing old age gave him, it was the freedom from having to censor his wicked humor. When his granddaughter showed up with a pierced eyebrow, he blurted, “Holy Jumping Reindeer balls!” When his grandson introduced his busty girlfriend he asked, “Whad’ja smuggle in two elves?” Embarrassed and stressed out, Denis escaped outside to check on the twinkling lights. He ducked behind the garage and lit a secret cigarette. Suddenly a hand landed on him from behind. Denis leapt in the air as he let out a litany of curse words: Holy-shit-goddamn-lordy-fucking-son-of-a-btch-shit-godamn-asshole-GODDAMNIT! Bill smiled, took the cigarette from Denis’s mouth, took his own drag and chuckled, “Ten Goddamn Lords A-Leaping.”

Sheila and Nine Ladies Dancing

2011-12-09T05:30:00.009-05:00

Sheila had just about enough of the snooty attitude of her daughter’s ballet teacher. True, her daughter was not exactly graceful, nor did she fit the bill for a future ballerina. Her tutu often sat at a raised angle, pushed below her belly in the front, raised high by her butt in the back. But her heart was in it. So when her daughter was told she would be a lamb instead of an angel for the Christmas pageant, Sheila was none too pleased, not to mention all the angels were of one hair color. When Veronica came home and said she wanted “yellow hair” so she could be pretty, Sheila had enough. As Veronica struggled to plié in sync with the other girls, the snarky teacher said, “We want nine ladies dancing.” Sheila grabbed Veronica and very lady-like flipped the teacher the bird.

Remember Tuesday Treat, Carrie Grossman?

2011-12-08T12:45:00.000-05:00

Congrats to Carrie who reached her Kickstarter.com

pledge goal for her second album!!!

Liam and Eight Maids A-Milking

2011-12-08T06:00:00.000-05:00

It was the annual holiday rodeo complete with cutting, barrel wrestling and team roping. But the crowd favorite was always the wild cow-milking contest. Liam had been commentating for the past forty years. But since his DUI over Thanksgiving, he had lost that spark. The events passed with bland comments and dull adjectives. His non-clichés were non-funny. But when a few officers from the local precinct stepped up to the gates for the wild cow-milking contest, the crowd went nuts. The station was doing this for charity, but mostly people just wanted to see them get their butts kicked. When they released the gates, the cocky officers were dragged, pummeled, and bucked as they tried to milk the beasts. Liam could not help but enjoy the wreckage, and that’s when it hit him: “Ladies and Gentleman, I think we got us eight maids a-milking!”

Hal and Seven Swans A-Swimming

2011-12-07T12:30:00.001-05:00

The best part of Hal’s week was the Wednesday Senior Women’s Water Aerobics class at the local Y. Every Wednesday, Hal got dressed in his Sunday best, with fedora and cologne, and headed for the bleachers. His favorite was Bonnie, the one in the white swim cap. Bonnie used to be a dancer and still had the grace and straight posture of a woman who knew the importance of such. It was December and the Y was just beginning to decorate their windows with fake frost, their halls with papier-mache snowflakes, playing Christmas Carols over the PA. The semester long class was coming to an end and the ladies had completed a two-minute choreographed synchronization. Led by Bonnie, the women spread their limbs, fanned their fingers and graced the water with the movements of bodies now in full bloom. Smiling, Hal whispered, “Seven Swans-A-Swimming.”

Sleepwalking

2011-12-07T10:56:00.001-05:00

Every night, Mike falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. For myself, sometimes 45 minutes of laying in the dark before Mr. Sandman visits. But inevitably, right when I do start to drift, that's when Freddy Krueger visits Mike and his body will violently jerk and scare the s#$% out of me! The other night he scared me so bad, I yelled (in a whisper) at him.

Me: Mike!

Mike (sleeping): I tripped.

Me: You can't trip! You're sleeping.

Mike: I was walking.

Me: Well, stop.

Mike: How else am I gonna get around?

Next time I'll just ask if he can fly there.

Tuesday Treats: The Band Called FUSE

2011-12-06T10:30:00.000-05:00

The Band Called Fuse was born out of a desire to fuse the worlds of rock, funk, hip hop, soul, even gospel and ground that in a firm belief in the traditional "live" band, or as Toast (the handsome Belgian bass & standup bass player for the band) explained, "We wanted to create a collaboration, a group that would be composing together, but work as a unit and see what came out of it." I first was introduced to the band through a press packet sent to me in LA by my current boyfriend, who at the time was working as band manager in exchange for free rent at Toast's artist-rendition-Animal House-style home in New Jersey, (known affectionately as The Compound) the center for all things Fuse. I loved their sound and knew they were special, but time took me this way and Fuse that. Little did I know a couple years later, I would end up getting together with my boyfriend and living at Toast's house.
In 2008, I packed my Toyota Matrix and moved across the country and into Toast's home. I had no job, but Mike assured me, Toast was good people and that my word (which was vetted by his word) was good. I lived not only with my boyfriend and Toast but pretty much the entire band as well as other friends who rented out some of the other rooms for shorter periods of time. Toast's home was and is an open door, as long as you're good peeps. The house is filled with mismatched furniture, almost all donated or left behind by former housemates. The walls in each room are painted bright colors that change with each new roommate, and until recently due to Hurricane Irene, the band room (the basement) was filled with sketches (looking at you Sam Romero) and art work (you, too, Joe Valentine) from other friends/fans. The garage is filled with instruments and recording equipment and the walls graffitied with the band's logo. As a roommate, I learned quickly that at anytime, someone could just walk in the front door and head down to the basement to play music or the computer room to work on the band's website or just sit down in the living room to hang out. For years, the house hosted an annual retreat for political activists at Rutgers University involved with Tent State. There is always music, or cooking or conversation happening and when there's not, you can watch TV if you get the remote first or light up the fire pit in the back yard and crack a beer. During the summers, you can sit on the dock (if you can dodge the geese poop) and watch the summer sun sparkle along the Rairitan River. The house was and is a refuge for artists, people of all ages, all types, but mostly the young, and especially the broke, the homeless, and the witty.

On Sunday afternoons, around 2:00, I could set my watch to the moment the house began to vibrate with the beats and bass thumping from below. I often miss these Sundays when I would write to the sound of Fuse creating beneath my feet. But despite living in that home for a year and a half, I knew very little about how the band came to be, and since I've left, the band has organically evolved into a living, breathing, performing, NYC underground-music being. I talked with Toast who told me a little about the history, originally starting with him and his brother, X (the charismatic guitarist) and an MC, no longer with the band. Bands are like relationships with mistresses. There's the life of the band and then all the other separate lives outside of the band connected to each member. People have kids, people move, people get good job opportunities. The band has had a few different faces, but because of their collaborative convictions, the changing of members also changes the music, most always in a positive direction. In short, Fuse isn't just a bunch of pretty boys with mics. On the contrary, they are a very diverse eclectic group (members influences run the gambit from Jazz to metal, James Brown to Public Enemy, Boogie Down Productions to Mahalia Jackson) who each have their own individual voice within the band. Fuse is a collaborative project where everybody gets a voice and decisions are made as a group. Toast admitted that type of process, "can be more difficult" but it is a one of their defining characteristics as a band. "Everyone contributes, everybody writes," he said. I suggested that Fuse might just be the perfect microcosm of how democracy can work. He laughed, "I like the sound of that." There you have it, Fuse for President.

The Band Called Fuse has evolved into an incredible live band which has created an incredible collaboration with the sick rhymes of Lead MC Silent Knight who was listed by Rawkus Records (the record company that launched Talib Kweli's and Mos Def's careers) as part of the Rawkus 50. (Just click all these awesome links!) Toast and X ran in the same music circles as Silent Knight (who also just launched a solo album with HOT song Busy Is My Best Friend) and when the band was looking for a new MC, the band and Silent Knight did a few collaborations. Naturally, both sides began to make a perfect fit because they all had the same common and firm belief in positive art or as Toast coined it, "positive consciousness." "We don't like the whole kind of in-your-face, egotistical, putting down rhymes that are prevalent in a lot music," Toast said. "We promote positive scenes, positive artists which is one of the reasons we gravitated towards Silent Knight...There are a lot of people with a lot of skill, but they're talking about nothing." Toast also added, "But we also try not to take ourselves too seriously because that can kill art, too."

Not to be ignored on the lyrical side of things are the positive vibes of Soul Qloc and the powerful backup vocals of K. Desiree. Did I mention Mr. Pokkett on the drums? If I could get a tenth of his energy, I'd be good for a month. Since the group is a collaboration, they often play with guest keyboard players, guest MCs, and guest back ups. But no matter what, going to a Fuse show always promises a good time. And WHERE? And WHEN? might you may be able to see this kick-ass band. For you North Easterners, you're in luck, Fuse is opening for Talib Kweli's new project Idle Warship THIS FRIDAY at Southpaw in Brooklyn. If you like fun, buy these tickets. And for you west coasters, stay tuned for a line up in LA, San Francisco, and Oakland come this January!

Or if you are one of the victims of flu season right now, you can also check out their new album, Sucker Punch Gospel. Or check out their other two albums, Soul Rebels, Vol I and 9 Cuts.

What I also love about Fuse, in addition to their mission to produce positive art, is that they are not afraid to tackle some of the more important political topics of our time and they also refuse to mold to what is "marketable" according to a record company, which also proves challenging at times. If I were to go into a record store, I could not find any of their albums under any of the genre titled aisles. Toast said, "We're soul rock" if they have to give it a name, but more importantly they are not "like" anything else which is what makes this band so exciting live. A Fuse show is not your typical music show journey. Because there are so many different influences and so many different voices, there really is a song for everyone and because of this the energy continually feels like it is popping. Toast argued, "You can't really be an artist, until you put your songs out there." I talked about this blog, and how I was writing in secret for so long and though I'm not paid often for writing, the blog lets my writing connect with people and when they respond, that's what makes me feel like a writer, not a paycheck. Toast added, "Music gets as close to magic as you can get. When you feel that energy coming from the crowd and then you give it right back to them and they give it back....when you get into that zone and when the feeling is right and the crowd is with you, you feel like you can't go wrong."

Have I convinced you yet? How about this?

"Art can change people. We can be a positive force in the world." -Toast

Yes, we can. Many thanks to my friend and fellow artist, Toast, for his time with this interview and for letting me live in his home for free until I got a job. FUSE FOR PRESIDENT!

Go see these guys this Friday at Southpaw and at their Thursday weekly gig in Manhattan at the Grisly Pear.

And get all things Fuse, here:

Facebook: facebook.com/FusePlanet
Twitter: twitter.com/FusePlanet
YouTube: youtube.com/FusePlanet
Website: www.Fuseplanet.com

Mora and Six Geese A Laying

2011-12-06T05:00:00.002-05:00

Mora was not sure about her Christmas gift this year. She had asked for a Barbie, but was told she’d be getting something better: a little brother. The delivery room of Methodist hospital was no place to spend a Christmas Eve. Interweaved with the cries of Lamas breaths, screams, and Christmas Carols performed in the 1940s over the hospital lobby, Mora had more than her fair share of questions: Where do babies come from? Is that mommy screaming? Are babies hatched like eggs? Finally the screams were replaced with joyous cries and eventually just the echo of holiday tunes. As Mora’s dad led her to her mother’s room, Mora counted the new mommies either in the act of birthing or holding their newborns. “three…four…” when she reached her mother’s room, and laid eyes on her mommy, all she could think was, “six geese-a laying.”

Stacey and Five Golden Rings

2011-12-05T12:39:00.002-05:00

Stacey loved her husband's "cheesiness."  He had wooed her with chocolates and candlelight dinners. He won her over the day she lost her job. Jerry picked her up riding a white horse, wearing a tee-shirt that read "Shining Armor." But over time, Jerry had lost his touch. Instead of flowers, he gave her coupons for domestic chores. And while it was a gift to pick up the dog poop, Stacey still wanted a tennis bracelet. The competition with her mother-in-law (who on her wedding day also showed up in white) did not help. This Christmas, when Jerry bought gifts themed to a popular Christmas Carol, Stacey lost it. When Jerry's mother opened her gift, Stacey blurted out, "Are you fucking kidding me?! Five golden rings?! And I get all these fucking birds!” Stacey would never worry about stepping in dog shit at home again.

Meredith and Four Calling Birds

2011-12-04T08:26:00.000-05:00

Meredith was not one to complain. She enjoyed simple pleasures like baking, knitting. She had been a devoted mother and a faithful wife to Tom for the last twenty-five years. But when her youngest left for college, something changed for Meredith. She no longer took joy in knitting along with the birds. The fire where her libido once lived had been reignited. All Meredith could think about was running out of the house, naked, with her hair down, screaming for freedom…but instead she baked. She baked so much she began to neglect her duties as Tom’s wife, the same way Tom had been neglecting his manners for years. So when Tom came home and barked, “Where’s my dinner?” Meredith let her hair down, threw open the front door, and tossed a fresh rhubarb pie to the four calling birds gratefully tweeting her praises.

Oscar and Three French Hens

2011-12-03T10:24:00.000-05:00

Oscar threw a fist full of coins, a crumpled parking ticket, a toothpick and a dollar bill, his last to be exact, on the bar. It was Christmas week, his unemployment had run out, and he had precisely ten days before the sheriff would be evicting his broke ass. The night was cold and the future was bleak. All Oscar wanted was a cold beer, and perhaps the company of a woman to cure his blues. But, he counted his blessings and sipped his beer. Suddenly, the door blew open, and in walked a French-themed bachelorette party, complete with penis hats and boas. Three of the more spirited girls immediately spotted Oscar and headed his way. Oscar thanked the big man upstairs. For if anything, this year, he had been nice, so Santa had delivered. This Christmas Oscar would be getting three French hens.

Weekend Warrior Playlist #5

2011-12-03T09:52:00.000-05:00

A little bit longer and a little bit sweeter. Something for everyone in the family! Happy Weekend!!

Remember Tuesday Treat, Lexy Casano?

2011-12-02T15:14:00.000-05:00

She just reached her pledge goal at kickstarter.com!! Congratulations, Lexy! Can't wait for that CD!!

Hugo and Two Turtle Doves

2011-12-02T11:10:00.001-05:00

The eggnog was flowing, the copier machine running. Clichéd photocopies of butt cheeks and cleavage littered the floor at the office holiday party. Hugo’s drinking record included a few beers and one shot of peppermint schnapps on a dare. He was not aware of the heavy amounts of rum in the creamy punch. He confused his sudden urge to dance, his sudden yearning to wear a Santa hat, and his sudden courage to flirt with the busty accountant, Lorraine, for excessive sugar and nutmeg in his fourth mug. When the microphone came his way, and the karaoke cued his favorite holiday tune, Hugo became possessed. While leading the office in a rowdy carol, finding Lorraine curiously close to him, drunk with popularity, Hugo reached over, and jingled her breasts in tune to the line, “two turtle doves!” They never got to the third day.

On The Topic Of Rejection & Embracing the "Structural Mess"

2011-12-01T13:59:00.001-05:00

Have you ever been rejected so many times you sort of want to keep trying just to annoy that person? Like you kind of want to get them to like you just so you can then reject them? That is how I feel about a certain writing program right now. I'm not going to name names, but two years ago I submitted a writing sample to "said" MFA program. I talked with current students and teachers and tried to "schmooze" at an open house only to find myself "regretfully informed" a month later. Granted, I can see now that my writing sample was not my best and the program takes a whopping SIX students. I have nursed my ego back from that one (and several others) but when a one-day master class at a well-known writing center taught by a writer/professor of "said" program popped up, I tried again. This time, I felt much more confident. My sample was stronger, more my voice, and my story was so much more dramatic. So much more life has happened in the last year and a half. Surely, this would get me into this class! And then I saw it, my future taking shape. I would get into this class (I have gotten into every advanced writing class I have applied for at this writing center). Then I would bond with this professor. I would submit a new application to that MFA program. I would be accepted with flying colors, start in September and in two affordable, short, years I would have an MFA degree and a completed book...and then I got this letter:

Dear Master Class Applicant:

We regret to inform you that you have not been admitted into....

Now, if I would have received this news yesterday, I may have curled up into the fetal position while intermittently shaking my fists at the sky. But, someone already beat them to it.

After a particularly rough day aided by a cold and a wicked case of PMS, I had one of those therapy sessions where it feels like they have moved mountains. Even if you have not experienced this in a doctor's office, you know what I'm talking about. You know those moments where you connect the dots? So that's what you mean by how repressed feelings will come out in uncalled for and angry actions! So, I got in touch with some deep shit, shit I didn't even know about and then I was back out in the world, oh and just for effect, let me add that it was pissing rain. I then went to my writing workshop class where we were set to discuss a piece I submitted last week. Since I was not feeling well, we discussed my piece first, in case I needed to leave early. So just a quick recap: cold-PMS-deep therapy session-pissing rain-first up for critique. After years of writing classes and groups and workshops I have perfected the art of receiving feedback. I never defend. I stay silent, take notes, thank them for reading, let my work stand on its own...but yesterday I was in no fucking mood.

The comments were the following:

"Lots of strong, vivid writing but structurally a mess."

"I really loved this but found it confusing."

"Structurally, I was lost."

And my favorite...

"There's just so much."

"There's so much, I thought this was a beginning to a second book."

"There's just so many overwhelming events."

To which I wanted to scream, "I KNOW! It was so much."

I wanted to scream, "It's a structural mess, because I AM A STRUCTURAL MESS!"

But, I did not cry. (No, that I saved for later.) But I heard them all and the worst part was, I knew they were right. I admitted that I didn't know why I jumped around in time when I wrote. I didn't know why I found it so difficult to tell a story from beginning to end, linearly. And then as I said it, more realizations from that therapy session kicked in. Maybe I jump around in time in my writing as a way to avoid feeling the emotions. Maybe by jumping back and forth in time, I avoid connecting with those feelings.

Light bulb.

On the subway ride home, as I was staring at the flashing light for Jay St. Metrotech, it suddenly came to me, a thought clear as day. Maybe if I get out of my own way, I will finally see what plan the Universe has in store for me. Cue the tears. (Don't worry, Dad. It was a good kind of crying.) I realized that I spend so much time trying to "make" something happen. I work myself into total exhaustion, until I am run down, sick, wet because I didn't pay attention to the weather forecast because I was too busy when I left my house for work.I keep trying to make this writing career, and make this "better life" in New York, and make myself be more open, make myself more happy, make myself more fit, more thin, more carefree. And I finally had that moment where I realized I keep trying to steer a car that I'm not really driving, like those disheartening cars in drivers ed class; the cars that make you feel like you really know what you're doing until you suddenly feel the car brake and look over and see your instructor with their hand on the "oh shit" handle, their foot pressed down on their set of brakes, and them shaking their head. That drivers ed instructor is the universe. I am just the kid without a license thinking I know how to merge onto a freeway when all I've ever done is driven around the neighborhood.

I came home, wet, rejected, sick, but lighter. Of course, then Mike threw his arms around me and I did the whole curl into a fetal position thing, but I let myself do it, and it felt good. Today, my cold is almost gone, my energy is back a little, and I came to work and just organized, cleaned, filed. I shredded papers. I went for a walk. I treated myself to fancy coffee. I received an email denying me to a writing class. I ate a piece of chocolate. And then, I started writing...

Andrew & A Partridge in A Pear Tree...

2011-12-01T09:24:00.003-05:00

Kicking off BlogFestivus here...The 12 Days of Christmas in 12 stories, 144 words each. Check out links to the other participants in my left sidebar. Let the stories begin...

The sound of the POP hadn't even finished echoing into the valley when it was interrupted by the piercing sound of a FUCKKKK! When the whirl of powder finally cleared from the burdened evergreen, Andrew finally saw it through the snowy branches. No, he thought, it can't be! First came her knees, then her snow-kissed ass bundled in weathered sweatpants, her long wet hair now dusted with ice crystals, and finally her clenched fists, rising like a phoenix from the ashes of too much family time in too few bedrooms with too little weed. He stumbled for excuses, “I…I…shit, Julie! I meant it for that goddamn partridge in a pear tree!" he cried. But as his sister plucked out the .177 caliber BB lodged between her eyes, Andrew knew it, just as they all knew it would happen. He had ruined another goddamn Christmas.

Uncle Gary & George

2011-11-30T18:18:00.000-05:00

Check out my Uncle Gary at georgeharrison.com today as he remembers his friend and mentor, George Harrison. The clip is taken from an interview for the Martin Scorsese documentary, George Harrison: Living in the Material World.

Paying It Forward: Liebster Blog Awards & A Pat on the Back for Completing NaBloPoMo!

2011-11-30T08:40:00.000-05:00

Today marks the end of NaBloPoMo and all I can say is WHEW! (cue hand sweeping across forehead) Through BlogHer I signed up for this crazy writing challenge to blog every day in the month of November, and I can happily say that I did it! But more than a pat on my own back it has opened me up to an entire community of people. The one thing we all have in common is the need to write and the other thing we have in common is this crazy journey called life. I have been so touched by the posts I have read, the comments and emails I have received and so grateful for participating in such a crazy challenge. Thanks for all the blog love and speaking of blog love...

On Monday I was informed by Steph at Educational Anarchy that she had given me the Liebster Blog Award! By reading her post, I learned that "Liebster" is a German word meaning dearest and the award is given to up-and-coming bloggers with less than 200 followers.
[Copied & pasted from educational-anarchy.blogspot.com]
This is how it works:

1. Show your thanks to the blogger who gave you the award by linking back to them.

2. Reveal your Top 5 blogs (with under 200 followers) and let them know by leaving comments on their blogs.

3. Post the Award on your blog.

4. Enjoy the love of some of the most supportive people on the Internet.

The following are my five top favorite reads! Thank you bloggers! And pay it forward!

1. Sarah over at Desirous of Everything because she provides constant inspiration for all us writers who struggle with making it a daily discipline

2. The Brown Study -Redux I love this personal blog which balances between sharing the struggle of the everyday as well as finding gratitude for the everyday.

3. Jenn and Casey over at So This Is Love. I like this blog because it's just about as real it gets. Some of the posts I've read are about beating depression, weight loss and fun kid quotes. The posts are very vulnerable and isn't that what connects us all?

4. Zoe Bray at 365days365drawings I have no right to complain about 30 days of writing.

5. Carmen at chordstriking.blogspot.com because she's awesome, writes from the heart, and is not afraid to look inside and ask tough questions.

As someone who struggles to stay positive, most of these blogs speak to me because that's exactly what they are-positive or inspirational. I feel like reading them reminds me of what I am grateful for, why I should fight to stay positive in spite of myself. Many, thanks, bloggers!

And please remember to "pay it forward!" Host your own Liebster Blog Award and keep that gravy train of love going...

Tuesday Treats: Carrie Grossman

2011-11-29T10:16:00.001-05:00

Sunday Morning I had the immense pleasure to talk with the very loving and very lovable artist, Carrie Grossman. I am careful to label Carrie as a "musician" because one of the great messages I took away from our conversation was on the importance of surrender, the importance of letting go of the stories we tell ourselves, the many labels we confuse as definitions for what or who we are. What was most refreshing in talking with Carrie was to hear an artist say, "I feel so grateful that I have no clue who I am." She went on to say, " I feel like such a mystery to myself and that mystery is bottomless."

When first listening to Carrie's first album, Soma-Bandhu: Friend of the Moon, I felt almost intimidated to write about the music. I am not familiar with the world of Kirtan Chanting nor am I familiar with Vedic Chanting or really any music outside of rock and roll (especially from the 90s), but especially not devotional music. As a writer, my first instinct is to listen for the words, to find the poetry or the story, but when I heard Carrie's angelic, sometimes haunting ( in a very good way), voice carry these chants into my bedroom, I felt like I could take a giant deep breath, like the song was telling me, you don't have to do any work here.

As someone who has difficulty just relaxing, or just sitting, I not only found sitting and listening to Carrie's album very moving but also very relaxing, somewhat healing. The chanting was soothing and the composition of violin, cello, piano, and so many other instruments I cannot name, all came together in this incredibly powerful and strange and wonderful composition, with dips an echoes and swells, much like feeling ANY emotion, especially (for me) in the songs Jai Mai and Sarve Bhavantu. I listened to the album twice in a row without a break. When Carrie and I talked about this album and what chanting is for her, she stressed the importance of relaxation not just for mind and body but to let the light inside you break through. How can any light enter or exit a body tied in knots? This of course brought us back to the idea of surrender, not just in art, but in life, and how she believes "surrender is not something we can do consciously." That in a way relaxing, surrendering, is a form of giving up, giving up on the stories we make up about ourselves, the lives we think we should be leading, (the book deals we think we should have already achieved!) Surrendering is a way of opening to the infinite mysteries that lie within ourselves and within this world.

At the time Carrie first found these songs pouring through her, she was in a very dark place. She had "given up," retreated to a cabin in the Berkshires, and was recuperating from a mysterious and prolonged illness. As she so eloquently stated in her interview with Tom McCarroll, "I think there are times when you hit the bottom and the bottom opens up into a sky."

She doesn't know where the songs came from and to this day when a song comes, she sort of looks around like where is this coming from? "It really is like magic."

Before Carrie made the album, if there was any art form she identified most with, it was writing (which she is fantastic at! I could not stop reading her articles). She, in fact, had a sort of awakening while writing a memoir. She applied for a writing fellowship, and much to her surprise was accepted to a month long residency. When I asked Carrie, who is not formally trained in music nor does she hold an MFA degree, how she had the courage in this MFA-saturated world to rise above the pressures to get a formalized degree in art and simply own her art, she admitted that during the writing residency, part of the reason she could not write while there was that she kept listening to these stories she had made up about herself- how she didn't belong there, how she was not as good a writer because everyone else there had an MFA, you know that whole nasty comparison game so many of us play? Carrie cited that experience as a time when she got caught up in these stories, these fears, also adding "comparison kills creativity." But by the point in her life in which the inspiration for Soma-Bandhu came, Carrie simply said, "With music, there was no more room for me to have any more stories. There was no opportunity for me to create my own persona about being a musician." Later in the conversation she went on to say how she used to live her life very "compartmentalized" i.e. the spiritual life, the artistic life, the persona life, but how now, everything is one in the same. There is no longer a separation between art and life, life and the divine. She described the music as something that was coming from outside of her, it was coming from the universe, that in truth it actually has nothing to do with her and likewise that is also what helped her conquer her fear of sharing her songs and turning what started as an artistic expression into an album, "giving and sharing that music is also not about me."

Carrie is currently trying to reach a pledge goal of $7,000 through the awesome organization Kickstarter.com in order to fund her next creation, Touch The Sky. And with a little more help from fellow artists and fellow lovers of life, she will reach this goal! Since Carrie's first album was sort of "birthed" from a very dark and yet surrendering place, Carrie and I discussed the idea of the age-old adage of art having to be created from pain. "I don't think that art has to come from pain." She explained that inherit in our duality as human beings is the dark and the light, the anguish and the gratitude, the sorrow and the amazement, the awe and the wonder. But for her next album, Carrie believes it is definitely coming from a different place. For now, her songs are focused on more of an upbeat Kirtan chanting. "It's a lighter spirit, a different energy."

In closing, I'd like to add an anecdote Carrie shared that I felt like not only represented her life (as she claimed) but I think will resonate with a lot of people whether you are an artist or not. But for her first album she was intent on having it start with the sound of a conch shell (which has a spiritual significance in Hinduism-but for the record, Carrie does not consider herself "of any religion," more spiritual than anything). When she could not find the right sound through that, she was convinced she needed to start the album with a powerful church bell, like a call to prayer. But after testing several bells of all shapes and sizes, no bell was right. Then one day in the middle of January, at a church somewhere in Massachusetts, Carrie and a friend helping her record, decided she needed to ring this particular church bell on this particular frigid morning. This was the one...but there was nothing to hit the bell with. Her friend scrounged up a plunger from inside and then ran inside to record the sound. Carrie, whose hair was still fresh and wet from a shower, now had a hair full of icicles with no hat as she stood with plunger in hand facing the bell in the freezing cold. She burst into laughter as she began to strike the bell with the plunger, thinking, "I mean this is my life, the shit meeting the holy." How true for all of us on this crazy journey we call life.

Carrie, thank you for a truly enlightening and thought-provoking talk and for putting such a beautiful sound into the world. Looking forward to more of you!

Oh, and no, she did not end up using "the plunger hitting the bell" sound, either! You can check out Carrie's website at www.thelightinside.org, click here for her Kickstarter project or check out her Facebook page. Also, you can email her at info@thelightinside.org. Enjoy...

When All That's Left Is The Wishbone

2011-11-28T12:10:00.000-05:00

We're doing, Monday, folks. How are we all feeling after this post-gluttonous, post-family, post shopping-binge holiday? Is there anything more American than that holiday? I mean, it's everything American- food, football, capitalism, violence, and family...oh and the right to free speech as seen with the unrelenting Occupy Wall Street protest movement. When the movement first got started I found myself (who just a few years back was joining protests, talking with veterans, with political activists, and regular citizens about my country and its direction and even shot a documentary called Dear America) questioning what the "ask" of the protesters was? And also, how long would this last? It was as if I did not want to get my hopes up about another protest filled with hope only to see that spirit get crushed by the powers that be. But, here we are, November 28th and the movement has not only picked up steam but has become contagious around the globe: London, Rome, Paris, USA. Despite violence as seen with the brutal pepper-spraying of students peacefully protesting at UC Davis, the outbreak of violence at Occupy Oakland where Iraq Vet, peaceful activist, and member of IVAW, Scott Olsen, suffered critical head trauma, the NYPD violent raid of Zuccotti Park, the movement remains strong, undeterred, and perhaps more united in spite of the continual crack downs. But, after reading this article by The Guardian which suggests the reason for the violent crack down comes from an effort born out of a possible federal militarized police force (which is illegal in the USA), a possible crack down ordered by The Department of Homeland Security which can only come from the tippy-top. Why, you may ask, would the men on top organize such a violent display of brute force? Because one of the main "asks" from the Occupy movement is to get the money out of politics, but more specifically as quoted in The Guardian's article: draft laws against the little-known loophole that currently allows members of Congress to pass legislation affecting Delaware-based corporations in which they themselves are investors. In short, members of Congress want the spotlight on their profiteering off of them, the protests to be beaten into submission much like the rest of this country has been by predatory lending, the effects of war in the loss of lives, the effects on our home front and in our pocket, and the outsourcing of jobs. Where once we could proudly claim the title THE UNITED we are no longer a country that looks out for her own. The very people we put in power to protect us are feeding off us. Congress is a business, and the Occupy movement threatens to take that away. What would Congress look like if we were able to bust people like Newt Gingrich for taking millions in "consulting fees" from private corporations like Freddie Mac, which, I mean c'mon, is just back-door lobbying? What would the political and financial landscape look like if people like Martha Stewart were no longer allowed to sell stocks and make millions off of non-public insider trading information? Granted, Martha served her time, but does anyone really believe for a second that her loosey-goose prison time corrected the larger problem? What if a former shopkeeper with good ethics, and understanding of justice, and a true believer in freedom FOR all could run again for president?

The turkey is all eaten, Black Friday mania is over, and your family has hopefully gone home. But OWS is still out there, and despite what the press would have you believe, is unified in what they want from the proverbial wishbone this year. Just to recap, here, straight from the leaderless horse's mouth:

Below copied from the Forum of occupywallst.org

Occupy Demands

1: Campaign Finance Reform: Campaigns will be 100% funded by the $3 Presidential Campaign Fund. This will no longer be optional on returns and $3 will be taken from everyone in lieu of having the choice to pay that $3 in taxes. No more dinner events where people pay thousands of dollars per plate of food to donate. This will take the candidates out of the pockets of those more fortunate and put it back in the hands of the American people.

2A: 3 Term Limit for Congress: This needs to be done to keep fresh ideas flowing, as well as to prevent a pack mentality and life-long political enemies that evolve and begin to erode the political process. This is most evident over the past few years where almost no bills of any importance can pass through congress without the opposing side attaching the names of the most disliked members of congress with the bill as a way to prevent it from passing. Term one for all current members would start in the 2012 election cycle.

2B: Terms served determines percentage of benefits for Congress. This is self-explanatory, but as with any job, the longer you work the more benefits you generally received. We propose members of Congress who serve three full terms receive full benefits. 75% for two term members and 50% for a single term.

3A: No more bonuses for Management in pseudo government business such as Fanny Mae and Freddie Mac. Any agency that would cause the American tax payer to be held liable for its failure should not be permitted to pay bonuses to executives for taking risks to boost their numbers.

3B: Break-up any company that is deemed to be “too large to fail”. Any private business entity has the risk of failing in a capitalistic system, but when they become so large that they would take down the entire economy if they fail, they have to be split. If there is no risk of going under and failing due to the belief they will be bailed out, then they can do unsafe things to reap rewards in the good times without having to worry about the consequences in bad.

4: No more trading of commodity futures by investors. This has been written off as non-consequential, but the fact remains, when people can change markets without the intention of actually purchasing that commodity it raises the prices of food, heating and other fuels for everyone. Commodity investing should not be allowed unless the person making the purchase is deemed to be able to take the delivery they purchase.

These are our demands – We will be heard
-Anonymous

In short, say it with me: GET THE MONEY OUT OF POLITICS.

Defenses Down: The idea of surrendering before the chicken noodle soup comes

2011-11-27T11:28:00.000-05:00

Whenever I have some time off work, often times I find that these are the moments when my body lets her defenses down and I wake up one beautiful day off with golf balls in my throat and a nose that refuses to stop running. Just what you wanted to read about, right? Another blogger giving you the play by play of her life- now I'm happy, now I'm sad, now I'm sick. Well, I am sick and I was trying hard not to write which to me means I just got to let it all out the same way I got to let all this snot out. Just let it run, baby. Are my defenses down because I'm overworked? Probably. Am I getting sick because I put too much on my plate all the time? Most likely. Is it kind of sick that I don't mind being sick that much because it forces me to slow down? Totally sick. Isn't that the whole premise of becoming a grown up? To learn how to take care of yourself? I mean physically, I know what to do, right? Exercise enough, eat well as much as you can, and have chicken noodle soup when you're sick. But it has always been a struggle for me to take care of the other two parts. You know the mind and soul stuff. Like not saying yes to every plan, not taking every script or book assignment that comes my way, not signing up for a writing group and a writing workshop and submitting to another workshop and submitting to a short play festival. Like maybe I can just chill and be okay with two of those? Maybe I can stop making plans after work. Just because the wrk day ends at 4:30 may not mean I am free. I never give myself the time to unwind. I underestimate the importance of coming home and making a meal for myself, the importance of turning on music while I chop onions or wearing slippers around the house or watching a comedy curled up on the couch with Mike. There is this panic somewhere that if I let anything go, I will feel I am not trying hard enough. Because I won't be, right? If I know I can operate with this much on my plate how can I cut the plate in half and still feel like I am truly doing my best? But am I truly doing my best? How can I be doing my best, giving my all to so many different pieces? Eventually, something gets less time, less energy, less devotion.

I have been struggling with the idea of "surrender." I sort of do believe that when I surrender my will, then my life will become open to the mysteries that lay in store for me. And just when I think I have surrendered, I catch myself trying to control an outcome, assume a reaction, control the direction of my life. If only I could stop taking myself so damn seriously, maybe I would stop getting colds on days when all I want to do is put the Christmas tree up.

But, alas, the Christmas tree will go up. Writing will happen. And chicken noodle soup will be had. But for today, I surrender in what order or if any of those things happen. Today, I surrender to my comedy bed, some good music, and a few words on my blog.

Postcard from New York

2011-11-26T10:05:00.001-05:00

Looking at the George Washington Bridge from Fort Tryon Park in Washington Heights.
I love this city.

Black Friday Warrior Playlist #4

2011-11-25T11:06:00.000-05:00

Court, for you, #s 1,7,8
Mike, for you, #s 3,7,11
Morgan, for you, #s 4, 6 (I have a feeling, #7 is for Scott, too)
To the 1993 sixth grade class of Rio Vista Elementary School, North Hollywood, # 2
For me, all of the above and below, but especially #6 & #10

Happy Eating and Shopping!!!

Thanksgiving in Los Angeles: Is it warm in here or is it just the wine?

2011-11-24T10:30:00.000-05:00

When you grow up in Southern California, memories are not marked by seasons. It's hard to categorize what year this event or that milestone happened, because everything happens against that same eery, sunny, warm backdrop. Having lived on and off the East Coast the past decade, I have learned that people on the East Coast file away their memories differently than people in Los Angeles do. Where here Christmases and Thanksgivings are marked by "the year of the storm" or "the odd warm one" (which to them means 55 degrees) or "the piles of snow," in LA they are marked by the year cousin so and so brought the girl with the fake boobs (they were fake, right?) or the year my other cousin's frat brother dressed up as Santa for us but had a few too many when it came time for everyone to sit on Santa's lap, or the year my six year old cousin put together that the turkey we were eating was indeed a bird, and was indeed once very much alive, and did anyone bring the non-alcoholic wine this year?

When I moved to the East Coast, I fell in love with the ideas of White Christmases and wearing wool sweaters to Thanksgiving dinner. But the more I settle into this life, the more that sweet little veil of "cozy weather" gets torn off the truth. The weather here sucks, and once you've experienced one winter, you've really experienced them all. You know, chapped lips for four months, including the words "fucking cold" into every other conversation, and my favorite- bruises on your elbows from slipping on black ice. People have said to me things like, "But it's warm there. I think it'd be weird to have a warm Thanksgiving." Or my favorite, "Do you have palm trees for Christmas trees?" That one's a knee-slapper. And to those people, all I can say is, "How sad for you."

Having the holidays in Los Angeles is not weird when that is your norm and coming to Thanksgiving with nothing but a light sweater on is nothing short of awesome. My memories of Thanksgivings past always include lots of sunshine, sometimes leaking stripes of light onto the dinner table. Or going for a walk around the neighborhood after eating, because it's actually enjoyable to do that in California. Or stepping out into the damp air by my Uncle's house in Redondo Beach because it's refreshing to take a break from the heat radiating off an overworked kitchen where three different kinds of birds just popped their thermometer cherries. There is always lots of laughter, music, different kinds of food...that's right, sometimes we have Indian food for Christmas at my aunt Rose's house because it's LA, and you can get away with doing shit like that for the holidays. Or my uncle Guy will bring a lasagne. We are not Indian. We are not Italian (even though my Uncle John tells everyone he is). We are just a big crazy family sprawled out over Los Angeles that has huge ornamented firs for Christmas trees and vegetarian options at Thanksgiving and sometimes saffron rice and lamb vindaloo for Christmas. We come dressed in fancy tanktops and jeans, sometimes sandals, and always sunglasses. We may not always be able to differentiate one year from the next, but the holidays always promise a good time, good albeit different food, and always, warmth.

So for this Thanksgiving, I'd like to say how grateful I am to have had so many warm Thanksgivings and walks around the block after dinner. I'm grateful to have had curried lentils for Christmas dinner and a very "jolly" Santa Clause that other year. I'm grateful for a big West Coast family that I am missing today on this cold East Coast Thanksgiving. But also grateful that it's because of these cold holidays that I can be appreciative of my many warm ones. Happy Thanksgiving to all my friends and family near and far, but especially those ones in flip flops somewhere in sunny Los Angeles.

Having Cookies for Breakfast: The Moments We Realize We've Been Screaming for Air While Standing in the Wind

2011-11-23T10:51:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I catch myself, walking around in my own life, and I think Oh, this is my street. This is my neighborhood. It happens at the gym, too. I work out in what was once an Armory making it a huge open indoor space in the middle of Brooklyn with an indoor track and nice big rooms with old, hardwood floors that sometimes not a soul is occupying. Just me and my knees, the ones I move my fingers past to touch my toes: These are my legs. Sometimes I move through the day with these bursts of revelations, This is my life! The same kind of revelations that remind me I'm an adult. If I want a cookie for breakfast, I can have one.

I forget sometimes that I orchestrated this life here in Brooklyn. That I wished for it and got it while I was busy thinking of more wishes. Sometimes I get clouded by the things right in front of me, like screaming for air while standing in the wind. It's easy to lose your grasp in this world, when life is so damn messy. And even if you have a firm hold on the railing, that doesn't mean the floor beneath you won't turn to ice.

We can't unlearn the lessons received as children, the same way we can't put back all the feathers into a busted pillow. We can only try to work on not making those lessons our creed, not making the people who harm us become our teachers, not defining our defenses as convictions, our survival skills as attributes. We can only rewind and revise so much.

There is only one direction life moves: forward and the great hope is that we can recognize those moments of growth, those moments of gratitude, those moments where we look around and realize we are the main character in this story, do I want to keep going straight or make a left turn here?

Do I want to repeat the patterns inherited from family? Do I want to continue to carry this ancestral karma, the karma we are all born with like the familiar color of our eyes, the size of our feet, the sound of our laugh? Do I want to be the main character in my own story or the stage director telling everyone else where they should be standing and what their line is? Do I want cookies for breakfast?

Today I'm grateful for those moments that come like awakenings. I am grateful to be a woman on the rise, walking along that purple skyline between the sunset and the heavens, waking up just in time to see the stars.