Divine Writes

Away, again

2007-07-24T19:44:00.000-05:00

I am so ready to enter another world for a little while. That inevitably means I'll be spiralling deeper into myself. But at least there will be prettier landscape surrounding me. And I won't have to look at all these friggin' boxes anymore.

That's right. I'm off to Ireland and Scotland for a month. I'm leaving behind my laptop this time and pretty much anything else that might weigh me down. It's all about bringing as little as possible to make room for what greets me.

Here's what I'm most looking forward to:

*seeing old, dear friends and searching for one particular long lost one
*returning to places that are infused with meaning for me
*retreating to a little island to write and walk and swim
*going wild at the Edinburgh Festival
*riding horses on the beach

I haven't quite figured out how, when or where I'll tackle that last one, but it's been on my list for a while. And why the hell not?

I've been so wrapped up in sorting through junk, selling junk, giving it away, packing it up, finding a place to live, preparing to be gone for a while and dive right back into it when I get back, that I haven't taken much time to ponder this trip. I've gone to Ireland so many times now that it feels less like a huge trip than it once did. It's kind of like going home without all the crap that comes with having to deal with family.

And yet I am aiming to confront parts of my past. Come to terms with my younger self. Reconcile with her.

I probably won't be blogging much while I'm away, but I'll post photos when I return.

Wish me luck (whatever that is)!

Chaos, of the soon ending, good variety

2007-07-10T10:35:00.000-05:00

Where have I been for the past few weeks? Searching for a new place to live, sorting through 30 years of belongings, and packing it all up. I've donated as much as I've thrown away, and I'm fixin' to have a big ass garage sale.

Why did I decide to do this three weeks before I leave for a month in Europe? Because that's the way I roll. Grace under pressure. Need deadline tension to get anything done.

I think I'm over the crying jags, the insurmountable stress phase, and onto the looking forward part. With many, many thanks to my Aunt, Uncle and Mom for being good company and busting tail to help me prepare for this move.

I found out yesterday I got the place I really want with the move-in date that I want, so now it's just a matter of wrapping things up.

Ultimately, this will be truly liberating. No doubt. I've been living in my ex's house for the three years since I broke up with him. He doesn't technically live here, but to be painfully honest, on some level, I've been waiting for him to come home; and, I'm still engaged in the shitty relationship I thought I ended three years ago. No more.

Although he is coming to town this weekend, in the middle of my garage sale. It won't be easy, but it might be good to have a "last day of our acquaintance." I don't know if there's such a thing as closure. These things just fade away with time. I'm ready to speed up that process.

In other news, I cut my hair, which is no longer blonde, short. You know something's up when a woman does something drastic to her hair.

It's all change, change, change. I think Mercury's in retrograde, but it'll be coming out, soon. By then, I'll be in Ireland, then on to Scotland, then into a new home, which is very cute. I am so looking forward to not taking care of a house. No more lawn to mow, leaves to rake, snow (and chipmunks) to remove. I'm going to let all that stuff be someone else's responsibility for a while. I'll miss the lake, but I've promised MT and Kiki that next summer we'll rent a cottage up north on a bigger, prettier, Superior lake and just kick it for a week or so.

In the meantime, I'll be living in a gorgeous, old, renovated flat within walking distance of work, school, the newspaper, Kiki, every bar and restaurant I'd ever want to patronize, and with any luck, my new boyfriend.

Because I'm making space for the good stuff, y'all.

Summer was great until

2007-06-24T19:49:00.001-05:00

. . . uninvited houseguests arrived.
I don't care how damn cute and little they may be out of doors, these bitches are scary when they're scurrying unexpectedly over your toes as you stand in your kitchen.

I had to call in the professionals for this job. I killed one all by myself by trapping it in the heating duct and waiting for it to die. Oh, the stank.

But two makes a pattern in my book, so the traps are set. The exterminator promised I wouldn't hear the scream, but if I go check the traps, I might see a "little butt hanging out."

No, thanks.

I'm worried about my karma. How do I explain to the Big Dog upstairs that I wouldn't have to kill these striped rats if they kept the hell out of my house? What kind of penance must I do to clear my soul? Clean slate. I need a clean slate.

Any ideas?

My latest aspiration

2007-06-23T18:25:00.000-05:00

Fabulous compliments

2007-05-22T19:31:00.000-05:00

Since Friday, I've received three unsolicited compliments on my ass, all from lovelies who possess fine asses themselves. One of them happened to be diligently massaging my naked behind at the time. "Girl, what you got is firm. Just climb stairs to keep what you got," said my masseur extraordinaire. I went to see him shortly after I blew out my lower back doing too many squats, lunges and deadlifts. "Didn't nobody tell you deadlifts are against the law?"

Another compliment came from MT shortly after he got an eyefull of my derriere as I rode the escalator ahead of him. He said something to the effect of that spinning is paying off. He detected some unprecedented lift.

Guess who's spinning every day until she leaves for Ireland in July?

Nothing beats an ass compliment from a gay man. Except perhaps an ass compliment from a girlfriend whose ass you've always coveted.

Sid came upon me ironing my trousers while wearing a thong. "It's so cute!" she squealed. "Damn you. You are so not allowed to ever complain about your 'pancake ass' again."

Duly noted.

Isn't it funny how people see you differently than you see yourself? I guess sometimes it's good to pay attention to them . . . especially when they have a clearer view than you do. . . .

ethereal toxicity and cutting bitches loose

2007-05-14T10:54:00.000-05:00

I feel like I'm going through a phase in which I'm cutting loose all the intangibles that are dragging me down. It's not an entirely conscious choice. It seems to be an effect of choosing not to fight to make people understand things I think they should. I'm not out to change anybody but myself, and that certainly frees up a lot of time and energy.

So all that time and energy is going into the things that matter: putting down roots, taking charge of my finances, giving to things and people that give back, making time for what renews me. It's one of those seismic shifts that seems like it happened overnight, but it's really a cumulative effect from years and years of little earthquakes and day-to-day choices.

My horoscope said this would happen this year.

I guess you do reap what you sow, for better or for worse. Things seem to be lining up for me. The job--the vocation and avocation--and the residence appear to be falling into place and connecting nicely. After years of up-in-the-air-edness, having a few things land is a relief.

Lord knows you have to land before you can take flight again. And I'm working on shrugging off all the dead weight in its many forms. I think I'm getting better at detecting it early and ejecting it.

WTF?

2007-04-29T15:20:00.000-05:00

What kind of stupid-ass dipshits do we have in charge who can't figure out how to spend money on the people who desperately need it?

Oh, that's right. I guess crooked thieves aren't necessarily in the business of spending money.

Perhaps more importantly, why did it take the press nearly two years to get wind of it?

Don't nobody tell me radio is dead

2007-04-28T09:25:00.000-05:00

Listen to this and tell me there's no place for storytelling and the power of the human voice to transform people.

Thembi is a modern-day Anne Frank, if you ask me.

My belief in first-person narratives has been restored.

The power of the arts

2007-04-26T14:02:00.000-05:00

Who says art and politics don't mix?

Sometimes I think politics should be handed over entirely to artists.

Serious breakfast

2007-04-22T20:43:00.001-05:00

It led to this.

Big Baby

2007-04-17T09:34:00.001-05:00

Remember when I was bellyaching that I got passed over for a writing award? Turns out I actually got a 1st place award after all.

I feel like an ass. Although I don't feel like I'm a better writer for being acknowledged. Hell, I didn't even know I got acknowledged until Kiki called me and said he got something in his mailbox that said so. "Maybe it's a typo," he said.

Funny thing. Got an award, or didn't get an award, I'm the same fuckin' writer.

I. Must. Remember. This. Especially when I'm feeling like chucking it all and heading for the slammer for a little R & R.

Sunday Morning ain't what it used to be

2007-04-15T16:12:00.000-05:00

. . . and neither, apparently, is prison.
I caught the tail end of a story about a former Sotheby's chairman who went to prison for fixing auction house commission rates. He was, and is, a bazillionaire. He served 9 months at a hospital prison and spent his time catching up on his reading and being served three square meals a day. Granted, those meals cost $2.55 per day, so it was no life in the lap of luxury. But the dude managed to take an extended break from the grind, do what he loves, and drop 27 pounds, on our tax dollars. He says he's innocent, but he's not bitter, and he believes in the system.

I'd say so. I could use some of that system. I'd like an extended period of rest to read and lose some weight. I think it'd do me a world of good.

And then when I emerge from said holiday, I'll write a book about it all and receive Donald Trump, my gorgeous Miss Israel wife and Henry Kissinger among others at a fabulous launch party to sell my books and welcome me back to the glamorous life I was forced to remove myself from. More money, parties, champagne and media coverage to celebrate little, old, rested-up, smiling me. Because I've got money and I like lovely things. Funny how they always go together, no?

But the upshot of this for me? I think prison is exactly what I need right now.

How sad is that?

Jealousy

2007-04-11T12:59:00.000-05:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about this abstract term, this most destructive of human emotions. I've also been thinking about destruction v. creation, and why destructive forces seem to carry so much more weight than creative forces, but that's a topic for another post.

Back to jealousy. It is, by definition, a desire for something one doesn't believe one possesses, right? Its meaning has some variation; it can also mean an intolerance for disloyalty, but doesn't that also presume a suspicion that someone you believe should be giving him or herself to you is not doing so?

As a kid I remember witnessing (and being somewhat baffled by) a conversation between two mothers (one who had recently endured a divorce, and one who was married) in which they argued bitterly about jealousy. Mother 1 staunchly defended her position that love knows no jealousy; that if you truly love someone, you do not behave jealously toward them, full stop. Mother 2 got physically agitated at this suggestion, and pretty much told M1 she had no idea what she was talking about. I think she might have said that M1 had obviously never been cheated on and that's why she felt she could justify her naive position.

I tend to agree with M1. And I have been cheated on. It rattled me to my core and made me physically sick. It might have even made me desire the two-timing object of my affection with greater intensity for a time. But I don't think I ever believed that he rightfully belonged to me. People do not, cannot, should not, possess each other. In the meantime, I doubted myself and looked toward outward affirmation (from said object) to bring me back to my center, but that never works.

And yet, I have been jealous. I'm not proud to admit I've experienced such a thing, but when I have, it has been out of my own insecurity, my own belief that I could not or did not have something someone else did even though I had a right to it. Destructive.

But what I now know is this: jealousy is the shadow at work. From the time I was 8 years old and thought another girl was prettier than I was to the times I've thought someone received accolades for work that I though wasn't as good as mine, each painful ripple of jealously has been an opportunity for me to see what is inside me. The people I've been jealous of have represented parts of myself I haven't yet fully acknowledged. If I despise Suzy because I think she's prettier than I am, well it means I haven't fully embodied my own beauty. If Becky pisses me off because her writing is better than mine, it may mean I don't give myself credit for the work I've done. I believe that only when I see these things in myself will I become whole. Repressing that shadow takes a whole lot of energy; elucidating it frees up creative energy.

It sure ain't easy, and I am nowhere near evolved in this area, but I'm learning. I'm also learning from people who are jealous of me. It's preposterous, but it happens. It's easier for me to turn this theory on them: they only feel that way about me because they don't see in themselves whatever it is that I represent to them. Jealousy directed at me terrifies me, but I'm learning to transform that terror into compassion.

My suspicion is that M1 was correct in her assessment: love knows no jealousy. And if we all aim to fully love ourselves, to embody our perfect natures with all their radiant flaws, then ultimately we can eradicate jealousy.

What do you think?

The Passion of M

2007-04-09T09:17:00.000-05:00

Okay, so it's not all that; however, it was one hell of a Holy Week, folx.

Here's what I faced, in a nutshell:

On Monday, I reconnected with a past demon/lover in a way that elucidated our paradox;

On Tuesday, I ate so many jelly beans and robin eggs right before bed that I was up all night violently ejecting a rainbow of fruit flavor;

On Wednesday, I found out in a very public, embarassing way that I was passed over for a writing award; then I got the living life sucked out of me by someone I thought was a friend;

On Thursday, well, I can't remember anything too bad about Thursday; I think maybe I passed the suffering off to Kiki who had one of those teaching days that makes you question everything about what you're doing; oh, that's right! On Thursday I suffered from such intense self doubt that I seriously considered giving up on the PhD and the book;

On Friday, I went to confession, for the fifth or sixth time in my life, and I bared my soul. The priest went right to the depths with me and held me there as I wept; he counseled me, healed me, forgave me, absolved me, and issued an honorable penance. Then I did the stations of the cross on my knees and again, wept. Then I went for coffee with my dear friend where we laughed our arses off; I think I remember at one point loosely referencing Jesus and blowjobs in the same utterance. From the sacred to the profane. Two sides of the same coin. Paradox. Back to confession for me!

On Saturday I fretted about all the work I have to do before the end of the semester, but didn't actively produce anything. Found out that someone I love from my past is in trouble and pain. I went to the Easter Vigil service the local Sisters of St. Joseph do every year. They light a huge fire from which we each light a candle, twice; the priest throws holy water on us as a symbol of new life and baptism; we sing the Celtic Alleluia and receive communion. I got the dregs of the wine, I mean blood of Christ, and worried about communicable diseases, briefly. But as we left, one of the sisters said, "You must be the light." And she's right. No matter what happens, I must always return to that inner light, that divinity within that connects us all, regardless of the terror and self-doubt and misery I see reflected all around me. That is the seed of transformation. Something clicked for me. I feel like I understand differently Gandhi's "We must be the change we want to see in the world." One must recognize and be before one can do with great love.

On Sunday, I was exhausted. Spiritual transformation takes a lot of energy. It'll wreck a gal. Spent some time talking to friends and discovering we're all in some variation of the same boat. Community is a good thing. There's heaps of snow outside that have buried the daffodils, and I had no interest in going to Easter Mass. I have no Easter bonnet this year. It will come later. I read a cancer memoir that showed me what not to do with my writing, and I watched Easter Parade, my annual ritual.

After this week, I'm recommitted to my work, my passion, and trusting myself, turning to my inner light in moments of debilitating self doubt. I'm learning it will always be a struggle, but it doesn't have to be a fight.

How was your Easter?

Anna Nicole Smith's cause of death?

2007-03-26T14:27:00.000-05:00

Who really gives a shit when there's real news.

Why doesn't anyone seem to want to get at real news anymore?

For BFF, circa 1988 (or so)

2007-03-24T13:54:00.000-05:00

Check it.

Thanks to Sid for the link!

Pay attention, now

2007-03-22T11:14:00.000-05:00

It's so fucking sad that this kind of thing still needs to be published.

But it does, perhaps now more than ever. So read it. Figure out how you're complicit. And then ACT UP.

Thanks to Kiki, who is turning 30! on Saturday (bettah than evah, baby), for the link.

Four years ago today

2007-03-20T08:28:00.000-05:00

. . . I covered a massive anti-war demonstration in Boston. Thousands turned out from all over the state. I was overwhelmed by the anger, the unity. I realized I couldn't possibly be an impartial or disinterested journalist when it comes to things I feel strongly about. Now I wonder, should that ever have been the goal? Is the pursuit of objectivity, even as it's embodied in information gathering, noble?

As I listen to reports on the fourth anniversary of the U.S. invasion of Iraq, I feel disgusted and responsible. Why didn't we stop it? Did our pursuit of objectivity actually keep us from reporting the truth? Do American journalists automatically temper what is horrible? Does it keep us from getting to the depths of ugliness that people absolutely must see? And timeliness. Yes, hindsight is 20/20 and all that, but news journalists must have 20/20 foresight, or at least aim for it.

It's the old grief and then blame game.

I'm finding it hard to go about my business today.

Paddy's recap:

2007-03-19T09:33:00.000-05:00

1. The wearing o' the green(s). They need not match. Why not look like you were drunk when you dressed?
2. Pack flask, drive to A2 and arrive late to workshop. Upon leaving, engage playfully with multiple drunken fratboys dressed like leprechauns who appear to be trying to get hit by cars.
3. Find friends and begin the day's revelry by lining stomachs with Jameson.
4. Set out on foot to pub crawl, jig across all intersections, arrive at Zing's and proceed to eat more corned beef, undercooked cabbage and Guinness gelato than should be legal.
5. Arrive at quiet bar down the street, suck down $2.75 pints of Guinness, then slurp flaming shots through melting plastic straws.
6. Hit the empty gay bar where the waitstaff are particularly festive, decked out in green sequined bow ties, neon green wigs, reflective eye lashes, and/or faces painted green. Drink made-up-on-the-spot green martinis (oh the childhood memories of emptying parents' bottles of midori come rushing back), more whishkey and beer. Think we've made a fine friend but realize he's gouged us for all the shots we assumed we'd be getting for free.
7. Undeterred, we skip back across the street to the bar where the drinks are cheap, do more shots involving Bailey's and throw back more Guinness. Ravenously eat pretzels.
8. I start losing track here, but I remember having a conversation with a three-legged dog outside the food co-op and terrifying the clerks at a cupcake shop by inhaling their delicate creations, cookie-monster style.
9. Finally meander to the one and only Irish bar downtown only to find a line to the door that winds around the block. Oh, but before that we rejected a few other watering holes including a realy lame street party inside a tent and someplace where the slippery foyer had me and my speedcats nearly splayed on the tile. We did get seduced into a frenchie cafe that advertised $3 car bombs on their placard outside. Score! But since we didn't specify the special, we got unspecial car bombs at double the price. Same curdling effect, though. But if you shoot the Bailey's first and then sip the Guinness instead of dropping it in, you don't have to look at the curdling happening in the tumtum. Regardless, we stiffed the bartender on her tip. What kind of person takes advantage of recreational drunks on Paddy's Day? Oh, right. At the Irish bar, I pushed my way to the front of the line and said to the people waiting there, "What in the hell are you waiting for? To get in and pay for drinks? Pfffffft. Y'all crazy."
10. Then I think we tried to find food but only discovered more lines out doors. So we walked and walked and jigged and skipped when possible all the way to a tavern with great burgers. Tried desperately to help Kiki tame his interminable hiccups. Failed. Thought we spotted our governor with bad hair at the bar. Passed out in the park across the street on the way home. Probably spent some time rolling in old dog poo. Came up with the brilliant idea to run part of the way home so that we might make it there in the same amount of time we would in a cab but save the cab fare. Destroy property and have a mild pine-cone fight on the way there.
11. Fall asleep in coat as friends watch Cabaret. Wake self up snoring and laugh. Sleep (mostly) through the neighbors' house party.

Thank Jaysus Paddy's Day comes but once a year! And thanks to M! and his brilliant photo essay of the entire day's events for supplying most of the information herein. As soon as he emails some of the highlights (hint, hint), I'll supply some illustration. . . .

I think I'm still hungover.

Transformation

2007-03-11T18:34:00.000-05:00

Here's what I've been thinking about: the divine feminine. I've become totally possessed by Jungian psychology lately. I feel a little bit like I'm practicing on myself without a license, but I'm unearthing stuff that's good fodder for my writing.

Speaking of which, I'm realizing there's very little fodder available in terms of creative work when there's no time for idleness. Yes, there's truth, I think, in the notion that if you want something done, give it to a busy person; however, I've busied and done to my breaking point. I am a holy mess, and have been for some time. And yet, I'm mostly excellent at keeping up appearances. But the body is wise and literal, and there's no fooling this body of mine, lord knows. I've been sick--exhausted, really. And now my face is breaking out like it did when the beginning of the end was near with HB. My skin along my jaw line erupts in defiance and anger when the emotional stress gets too great. I'm there again. Damn it.

My body's suffering, and the work that matters most to me is suffering. The result: I feel like I'm compromising my soul. I've been here before. Nothing should cost that much, even if you love it.

So, I've decided that as soon as possible contractually speaking, I'm going to eliminate the work that takes the most time and energy with the smallest financial return. I'm choosing to honor myself instead of allow an institution to exploit me. I think this is a big step. I'm being purposefully vague here because I haven't made any official announcements.

But simply by making the decision, I feel like a weight has been lifted. And while it will be difficult to give up a part of myself, I know in my heart there must be death for there to be rebirth. I expect, eventually, the world will open up to me.

Just in time for spring. The snow is melting, and the sun has been shining for three days straight! Today I went for my first run of the season outside. It felt so good to take the cold wind in my face and feel the warmth of the sun on my body. Just in time for the Shamrock Shuffle in two weeks. . . .

I also kept the momentum flowing from Paris on Friday and ate well at the new sushi joint in town (tres bien!) then danced my ass off at a little club. My date and I were the oldest ones on the dance floor, ugh; but damn, do we know how to move!
This is me at 5 a.m. in Paris after a fabulous meal and hours and hours of dancing--as KT said, we danced until our feet couldn't take it anymore! Funny how revived I look, non?

I got to see and touch the daffodils in Paris and Dublin; now I can feel them trying to emerge here at home. It's already begun. . . .

Back.

2007-03-08T11:24:00.000-05:00

From Pah-ree and Dublin. Lived it up--ate like royalty, danced 'til dawn, took in the lunar eclipse, chased down Oscar Wilde. Then popped across the pond to inhale the city I love more than anyplace on earth, to see the daffodils growing wild along the highway, watch the full moon make a path to me on the black Irish sea, and spend a few hours with people whose company I find relief in. A marvelous mix--an all-too-brief four days well spent. Now I'm jetlagged yet renewed. And I think I've made a professional decision that just might change my life.

I'll keep you posted. Photos to come.

Finally, the sun shines again. I can visualize spring on the horizon. It can't come too soon.

And Jesus wept.

2007-02-23T14:19:00.000-05:00

Or at least Divine M did.

*The City is off my list now for yet another reason.

I wanna see the NYPD try to enforce this in Chelsea and Spanish Harlem. Ha!

I don't know about you, but I don't plan on spending much time in a place where you need a license to dance. After all, this shaped my identity formation almost as much as Cyndi Lauper did.

In other movie news, I'm scrambling to watch all the nominees for Best Picture before Sunday. I caught Departed and Babel last night and today while waiting for the Consumers Energy people to come out and fix my damn furnace. I'm fixin' to lose a finger and three toes, here! Anyway, Departed was so expertly cast with such gorgeous shots of Boston, I can't help be partial--especially because it's about the Irish mob in Southie (I know it's wrong, but I love all things gangsta and all things Irish, so the combo is irresistible to me). But Babel hit me hard. Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu is a genius of a different variety than Scorcese. I love the postmodern things he does with narrative, not because it's intriguing, but because its gut-level effect is so profound. It gets me deep without my even trying. I cried four times watching that thing, and not from the pain of my appendages freezing off. Babel made me forget about how cold I was.

I still haven't seen The Queen, Little Miss Sunshine, or Iwo Jima. Have you? I'ma try to get LMS on DVD before Sunday. . . .

I think movies might be returning to their glory days. I'm excited.

*Thanks to BFF for the link.

I love Ash Wednesday

2007-02-21T23:01:00.000-05:00

. . . for a couple of reasons:

1.The return to dust/reminder of our mortality is a favorite theme of mine (in life and in writing)--and the Catholic Church gets ritual right: you have to give them that;

2.It marks the beginning of lent, and I love lent: the notion of meditating on suffering that leads to rebirth;

3.10 years ago I went to Ash Wednesday mass in Dublin with a dear friend there, so I always think of him and how I feel like we consecrated our friendship on that day. That mass also marks a personal turning point for me;

4.It means Paddy's Day is near!

I didn't actually go to mass today, although I tried to make it work. Teaching, going to the gym, going to class, going to the orthodontist, getting work done and sleeping in all took precedence. But my heart was in the day and its significance. I spent lots of time thinking about Kiki's mom--he was waiting to hear the results of her most recent scan. She has skin cancer and they were afraid she found a previously undetected mass. Turns out it was scar tissue. He cried with relief. I declared, "Not turning to ashes yet, bitches!" He laughed. That shit's better than mass.

I don't give up anything for lent. I kind of like the idea of penance, but I don't need that ritual to connect with or be reminded of suffering and death. I do go to La Mexicana Mercado and eat their Friday fish stew specials, mostly because I like hanging around Mexicans in their dusty bakery and cafe. I also love Easter, not because I believe in the literal resurrection of Christ, but because I love the promise of spring and seeing the daffodils poke their golden heads through the frozen earth; and I believe in new life, new love, endless possibility, transformation and reclamation.

No ashes, no giving up chocolate or martinis. But lots of thought and heart. This is the gift of choosing Catholicism because its practices fit my pagan soul, not because my 'rents forced me to participate in institutionalized traditions before they made sense or exposed me to such horrible, pervasive images as the Sacred Heart of Jesus bursting out of his chest (not to mention real, live, damaged, criminal, mentally ill authority figures) as a wee child. Score for liberal humanist ideals in parenting!

Anybody else love today? Or did you enjoy Phat Tuesday more--who has a good Mardi Gras story? I do: New Orleans 1995. But I'll save that for another time. Anybody eat those Polish donuts filled with prunes I don't know how to spell--something like paczkis? I did. My favorite Polish colleague brought some in. I sucked the prunes out of the middle and wished they were poppy seeds instead. My Bohemian blood trumps my Polish sympathies, what can I say?

More than enough.

Love and Blood.

2007-02-14T20:34:00.000-05:00

. . . on Valentine's Day, bitches.

I am happy for those of you out there enjoying time with a sweetheart. I am, really. But more than I'm happy for you, I'm bitter for the rest of the lonely community of humans who are suffering in the Western world's way of pushing stupid cupid and all the shit they want to sell us all under the guise of LOVE.

Fuck that kind of love. It's not the love I believe in.

I taught a kick-ass lonely-hearts-club spinning class today. "Listen, bitches, we're loving ourselves on this day!" I yelled through the microphone to great cheers.

I also learned, via the Soviet, that gay men can't give blood. No shit. I looked it up. The Red Cross says:

You should not give blood if you have AIDS or have ever had a positive HIV test, or if you have done something that puts you at risk for becoming infected with HIV.

You are at risk for getting infected if you:

are a male who has had sexual contact with another male, even once, since 1977

. . . among a long list of other things.

I am livid. Just one more way to exclude people from something powerfully good and transformative because of who and how they love. Total. Bullshit.

Now, I'm not saying we don't need serious screening for blood donors. I, for example, cannot ever give blood because I once suffered from a particular form of blood cancer. Fine. But in terms of HIV, targeting an entire group of people is fallacious. Anyone who works in the health care industry is more likely to have been exposed to HIV than whole hoards of gay men. Yet, as a group, they're allowed to give blood.

WTF?

Eleanor Rigby

2007-02-14T09:47:00.000-05:00

That's who I feel like today.

Last night I discovered my enneagram type. Any of y'all into that?

Apparently, I'm predominantly
with secondary leanings toward

and

which apparently makes me more of a conglomeration of JFK, MLK, Noel Coward, Mother Theresa, Bette Midler and Saddam Hussein.

Yep, sounds about right.

Great. What are you?

Beside myself

2007-02-13T00:08:00.000-05:00

I made the unfortunate mistake of drinking coffee at 6 p.m. So here I am. Watching reruns of Will and Grace and Sex and the City. Eating rice cakes. Reading a magazine. Ordering books online. All at once. This is a dangerous time.

Yet somehow safer than yesterday when I was seriously considering planning a nervous breakdown. It's time, isn't it? Mama says it's a good age for it. Kiki says it can't be that bad if I'm planning it. I guess in the end I'd prefer to go abroad than out of my mind.

(A big, fat thank you alternately to S, mama, Kiki and M! for keeping me company in my pathetic, puffy, flaked-out state yesterday. Isn't it great how your best friends can keep you laughing your arse off despite yourself?)

Here's what I have to say about the Grammy's: Christina Aguilera. I want to hate her. I try to hate her. But that voice. Son. Of. A. Bitch. On the other hand, I want to love the Dixie Chicks. I do. I really do. But that singer needs to pick up a little finesse from the horsey twins behind her. Carrie Underwear took too much Xanax and Red Bull before the show. I cannot see anything redeeming about American Idol. Nothing. Mary J. Blige is a queen. Justin Timberlake, I can't help it, is charming, and I love him. Don't tell anyone. Smokey Robinson still sings better than any of those other bitches. But he really needs to take it easy with the Botox. His smooth lack of expression is worrying. In fact, it might have been a wax figure of him accompanied by a recording. I'm not sure. And Lionel Ritchie should have stayed home and force-fed his daughter a pastrami on rye.

In more useful news, I may have found real funding opportunities for the August trip down (my favorite) memory lane. I already need something else to look forward to. You see, the book just got fucking harder to write. Sometimes writers' workshops turn psychoanalytic in the worst way, and that's exactly what happened Saturday. Not yet sure what to do with it all. Except cry a while. February--just before the 14th--is a good time for that anyway.

I got to see Volver, finally. Penelope Cruz is my favorite. I love her cleavage like Almodovar loves her cleavage. She totally gives this gay man a hard on. Especially with her welled-up brown eyes, smeared mascara, and voluptuous self zipped up tight in pencil skirts. She is perfection. Even though I had to sit in the second row and the fire alarm went off in the middle of the movie, it was totally worth it.

My Monday's over, so I'll say little else about it. Except today would have been so much better if I were in Philadelphia. Why is it when I'm already bummed, I naturally think about all the people, places and things I miss? Why are absences so huge?

Killing time.

2007-02-07T13:15:00.001-05:00

I am sitting in my favorite coffeeshop right now wondering who here might be hacking into my computer via wifi--thanks very much local tv "investigative reporters"!

Ooh. A slightly attractive dude in the corner just eyed me as if he were reading. . . .

Focus, M. Focus.

After having been snowed in for three days, and in coming to terms with this beautiful bleakness that is winter, I've found that I tend to revert to the kind of coping that has gotten me through much of my life. I daydream. Fatasize. Plot and scheme. And buy things.

Daydream/fantasy:
What if I took a cheap little flight from Paris to Dublin for just a night to suck down a few proper pints, dance in my old haunts and carouse with some of the people I love best in this world? Wouldn't that make my weekend getaway totally complete in its perfection?

Plot/Scheme:
How can I get someone to fund a longer, extended trip to Ireland for me to research the part of my book that takes place there? I want to retrace my steps of summer 1995--wind through the West of Ireland, sit on a cliff overlooking the sea until the salt air stiffens my hair. Then I want to go back to the Edinburgh Festival and take in as many performances as are humanly possible. This time I'd prefer to stay somewhere posher than some drunken Irishman's tent in a field outside the city. Or maybe not. . . .

Buying things:
So it's probably a good rule of thumb not to purchase accessories and/or cosmetics at the grocery store if at all possible. But I just couldn't help myself last night. I was in a janked-up, crashed-out, post-workout, late-night daze. I needed bandaids, which took me off my normally tread path on the periphery of the food isles. I bought a shimmery, apricot Revlon lipstick, some gold headbands (Wonder Woman, anyone?) to keep my short hairs off my face as I spin into oblivion, boxes and boxes of bandaids--none of which are able to help the gash on the tip of my right thumb grow back together, another 18 pound bag of Ruby Red grapefruits (God bless Texas), and a whole bunch of other shit I didn't really need as I aimlessly wandered around eating clementines from the box I dropped in my cart. Two days ago I ate five grapefruits. What is it with citrus and winter? Or maybe it's just me. As my mama said, "You must be awfully alkaline." I'm not sure how to take that.

How do you get through bleak times without self-destructing?

Wish Granted.

2007-02-05T13:57:00.000-05:00

Snowed in again. Hurray!

Everything around these parts shut down, including both academic institutions that employ me, and all kinds of other places, according to the banner at the bottom of my television screen.

This is my favorite so far:

Monroe Community Church
God's Gift cancelled

What a shame, eh? You'd think the cold and snow would have no power there. . . .

White Out.

2007-02-04T14:17:00.000-05:00

It would be much more enjoyable to get snowed in during the week, but this damn blizzard hit over the weekend. Gave me an opportunity to take down my Chri-muss tree (What? It ain't Valentino Day yet--give me a damn break), fire up the crotch pot and tidy up the hot mess that has become my house.

What would you do with two days trapped in your house with an acceptable excuse to blow off all your obligations?

I cranked up Prince and danced around my kitchen as I moved between cooking and doing laundry.

And to be honest, I did leave the damn house--the gym didn't close for the snow days, so today I still had to teach spinning. Then I decided to stay and take the next class. Why? Because it made me warm.

Friday, after spinning for three hours (endorphin high, anyone?), I got to see an extraordinary dance performance. Since I didn't have to review it, I just got to be a delighted audience member, pleasurably taking it all in. When the curtain rose, the dance transported me--right to the center of whatever tangible divinity we can access as mere mortals. The music, the skilled dancers moving through space together in their gorgeous bodies showed me--in an instant--what a glorious thing it is to be alive. To really be alive. To make meaning of experience and communicate it through symbols that penetrate all of us who take the human form is the highest of arts. And being in the presence of that is among life's greatest gifts.

I felt all that in about 3.2 seconds Friday night.

I live in a strange little city that doesn't make the map for the vast majority of people. Yet I get to take in the kinds of arts and culture on a weekly, if not daily basis, that truly fill me up. I also get to be in the presence of others who choose to do the same thing, and then are willing to sit back and talk about it with me. Often because I don't give them a choice in the matter (ha! LOVE being a teacher!), but still. I figured out how to teach Oscar Wilde in a journalism class, and I made my students read this. You should read it, too, if you're not familiar with it. God damn that man was a genius. And he continues to inspire me and give me new justifications for my life and choices. Love that!

After the dance performance, I hightailed it to a little brewpub where I met up with Kiki and the Bear to see a Glaswegian band headline a sold-out show to a roomfull of dirty hipsters, half of whom I knew. This means (1) this town is officially too small for me, and (2) Kiki, the Bear, and I were the only three present who had dragged a comb through our hair in the past three days. But the show was fun. The temperature outside had dipped well below zero, and as the little greaseheads in their flashdance outfits slipped outside to smoke their Gaulloises, I could feel the cold burst in and see the heat as it escaped. The small windows peering out of the painted, exposed-brick walls fogged up with condensation in the corners from the sweaty bodies bopping around like freshly-caught fish in a bucket. It made me smile and think, son of a bitch, this is what it is to be alive and young(ish) in Michigan.

But the fucking snow has foiled my plans for what Sid deemed the gayest Super Bowl Sunday party ever. Since K and B can't get out here without risking life and limb, we can't spend the afternoon watching this, drinking highballs and eating the roast beast I made in the crotch pot, slowing down only to catch the half-time show. I mean, hello? Prince, and perhaps a glimpse of those finely chiseled asses in tight, shiny pants?

I'll miss the boys. But don't you worry. I'll still be on that cruise ship--might even dress the part while I sing along. Too bad it's not as fun without an audience, though.

Goodbye, Old Gal.

2007-01-31T20:31:00.000-05:00

Ralph Barrera/Austin American-Statesman, via Associated Press.

Thank you for your fierce truth telling and for being true to your own voice when others demanded that you betray it.

The world is a far less beautiful place without you.

And yet, you will forever be an inspiration.

Ms. Ivins learned she had breast cancer in 1999 and was typically unvarnished in describing her treatments. “First they mutilate you; then they poison you; then they burn you,” she wrote. “I have been on blind dates better than that.”

But she continued to write her columns and continued to write and raise money for The Observer.

Indeed, rarely has a reporter so embodied the ethos of her publication. On the paper’s 50th anniversary in 2004, she wrote: “This is where you can tell the truth without the bark on it, laugh at anyone who is ridiculous, and go after the bad guys with all the energy you have.”

As I know it

2007-01-31T16:05:00.000-05:00

. . . the writer's life ain't so glamorous.

But it certainly is rewarding. Here's what it's been like pour moi:

After a Saturday afternoon of rewriting a new chapter, I went to see for the purpose of reviewing the show. Sunday I taught spinning to a real class of live people for the first time and then hauled my ass to the ballet, also for the purpose of reviewing the show.

After procrastinating by watching 60 Minutes and Cold Case featuring all U2 songs and washing my kitchen floor and cabinets, I went to bed at midnight, woke up at 3, spanked out the  two reviews by 6, went to the gym and spun for an hour, held office hours at a coffee shop and graded papers, took care of some business at the office--including booking my trip to Paris(!)--, spent the afternoon working and reworking the third draft of that now newish chapter and the first act of my old screenplay, prepared them for submission to a competition, went to my narrative theory class and bluffed my way through it, came home and got ready for the next day.
 
I'm learning what a deliberate writing practice takes for me.  I've always had some talent, whatever the hell that is, which has meant I can consistently write quickly and relatively cleanly and I work well under pressure.  But I've allowed myself to get away with dashing things off.  Now I'm getting into spending hours at a stretch revising a couple of pages.  Really working through my own material.  It's good.  I can do this writer's life thing.  I like to work at a coffee shop--it helps ease the isolation.  I don't know if writing for a living is my aim after all.  Perhaps.  Teaching seems to be a good balance.  It would be nice to have the option to live off my writing, though.  Get a place in the West of Ireland near a cliff, surround myself with animals and a big garden, have a pub where I can end my long days of writing, spend a few months out of the year teaching in Dublin.  Or Paris.  Or Sarajevo.

I suspect I'll always desire a kind of split life.  I crave a solitary existence, but I can also be intensely extroverted--on my own terms.  I'm city mouse and country mouse rolled into one, and I like it that way.

Oh so many ways to celebrate Paddy

2007-01-26T09:45:00.000-05:00

~Celebrate the "Luck of the Irish" During the
Cricket World Cup in Jamaica
this St. Patrick's Day~

Trade in reggae, Red Stripe and jerk chicken for traditional Irish music, a pint of Guinness and Irish stew to celebrate the fighting Irish on St. Patrick's Day, March 17th, as the legendary all-inclusive Sunset Jamaica Grande Resort & Spa debuts its first-ever 'Irish-Fest'.

As Jamaica plays host to the 2007 International Cricket Council World Cup, Sunset Jamaica Grande Resort & Spa will host several Ireland Cricket team fans and family members. With the luck of the Irish and four leaf clovers in hand, Irish-Fest will celebrate Ireland's entrance into the Cricket World Cup following the Ireland vs. Pakistan cricket match, which will take place on St. Patrick's Day at Sabina Park.

Irish-Fest will fuse Jamaican beats with traditional Irish music in the splendor of this white-sand beach resort, complete with a spectacular variety of amenities, five restaurants, two beach grills, eight bars, spa and stellar location. Five lavish swimming pools, waterfalls, jacuzzis and plunge pools meander through this beachside complex, offering the ideal getaway for singles, couples, families and groups.

The Duffy Brothers, an Irish pop band reminiscent of the Backstreet Boys, will headline the evening, performing a fantastic fusion of traditional Irish music with Celtic rock and reggae following their appearances at Ireland's world cup cricket matches against Zimbabwe and Pakistan. Extraordinary local reggae artists will also perform as guests dance to the island beat.

I have got to start working on my travel writing career. Having to show up for classes is cramping my style.

Sometimes you work hard and it pays off

2007-01-24T11:58:00.000-05:00

. . . unbeknownst to you.

I have lost 17 pounds since September. Can you believe that shit? I mean, I've been working out consistently and feeling good and all, but I had no idea.

I love calculations that turn out in my favor. Now I'm going to try to take that vibe into doing my taxes. . . . and ride it all the way through end-of-term grades on to bikini season!

I'm also thinking about taking a trip. I need an adventure to look forward to, and a break mid-winter, early spring always does me right. Now it's down to Paris or Atlanta. They both have reconnections on the table; Atlanta has better weather in March and a writer's conference that could be a career booster; and Paris, well, I mean come on! I've been hankering for visual art, sophistication and fun--is there any better place for that combo? I reckon, considering the facts at hand, the trips would each cost the same. But I could write off Atlanta. I guess I could write off Paris, too, if I produced an article or something about it. . . .

Obviously I'm leaning toward Paris. Wouldn't you?

You never know what a quiet Saturday will bring

2007-01-21T14:50:00.000-05:00

Do you remember when the world was fresh and new? When you believed you were the only person who felt emboldened by a song heard for the first time? When there was so much more ahead of you than behind you? When all that you could only imagine in the future was more thrilling than terrifying? When you believed there was more out there for you, and that you would indeed grab it? When you hadn't discovered love but you could taste the sweet, dripping juices of its possibility?

I had forgotten. For a long damn time. But yesterday I walked right into it in the form of a used record shop in Ann Arbor with the boys. I saw music on vinyl that had given birth to how the world sounds to me--yet I'd forgotten. I bought obscure cds from alternative bands (when alternative existed--before Nirvana) that I'd listened to before I could drive on cassette so many times that the tape squeaked louder than the singer sang. But I hadn't thought of that music for fifteen years. I put the cds on for the drive home, and I was right back in my bedroom with my headphones on singing every angst-laden lyric by heart.

I had forgotten that budding young person--her intense sense of wonder, her unshakable belief that a glorious undiscovered world was holding something beautiful just for her and that if she could hold out, she'd find it and escape the desperate isolation of that second-floor bedroom and days filled with monotony and school hallways packed with narrowly-lived lives that wouldn't dare fathom the expansive imagination of her interior world.

I had let all that go. Why? Partly because I've grown up, I've found what I had dreamed of--quite literally in some cases, and I've become accustomed to living outside of awe. I don't fear who I am anymore; I'm not afraid of being too much in the context of others. In my life these days I'm quite often the loudest, most-laughing, chatty, charming person with the best shoes on in the room. I'm usually in charge, and if I'm not, I often think I should be; therefore, I find a way to lead the way.

But there was a long stretch there when--unbeknownst to me--I gave up on myself. I let an Other take over; I provided a stage in which he could shine, and I submitted to his sense of the ways things should be, even when they didn't jive with mine. I straightened my hair. I quit leaving my car to idle in the summertime at red lights to run through sprinklers on the side of the road. I changed out of my pajamas to go get ice cream after dinner. I let him control the stereo. He became the maestro of the soundtrack of my life. I willed discovery to him. I let him be right, even when no one was wrong.

And yet one foot into a dusty old used record shop brought me a couple of steps closer to the dreamy world that lay the foundation for the sumptuous life I now lead. Closer to me.

Reclamation number 167,892: rediscovering my music.

"The judges of normality are present everywhere."--Michel Foucault

Hot fun in the wintertime

2007-01-17T20:43:00.000-05:00

. . . means I've been to Chicago!

Highlights:

*the drive through three states with Kiki and The Bear (thanks, Sid!), including a stop at an Indiana Dunkin Donuts in which I saw my future

*Two makeovers, one in which I actually looked like someone socked me in both eyes even after I told the lovely 12 year old named Lorelei with a rhinestone stud piercing where Marilyn Monroe's painted on mole was specifically not to make me look like I'd just lost a boxing match

*Cat on a Hot Tin Roof: a very interesting production in which the dude who played Big Daddy would have been better cast in a KFC commercial

*running into Bill Murray at a hip little Italian joint not far from the theatre

*bloody mary brunch with the always delightful Woog and Oog at The Lincoln

*bloody mary and Kir Royale brunch with the ever-lovely Shasta,

the fabaluss and also made-over Sid,

Kiki and the Bear at Angelina's

*shopping, shopping, shopping, scoring big on January sales at H&M

*drinking, eating, drinking, drinking, drinking, drinking at the usual haunts with the usual suspects, except this time I initiated a tart-like dance off between a doughy jock from Glenview and a wiry, 23-year-old Oaxhacan . . . the latin with the hips outdanced the golfer with the lips, but ultimately I won the prize for biggest whore on the dancefloor. I mean, really? Must I be loyal to a single dancer when there are so many others out there willing to give me a better spin? I need to go dancing more often. And spend more time with pretty MexiCANs.

*discovering why I scored a riverview room on the 17th floor of the Hyatt Regency for $65 a night on Priceline: Annual Narcotics Anonymous Convention. First it looked like a roadie convention, then it looked as if the pimpmobile made a delivery. Lots of smokers in the bar. Even more men in fedoras and floor-length minks. My kind of partay!

Unfortunately, after many, many martinis and very little sleep, my body rebelled, my throat screamed bloody murder, and I am still recovering from a nasty virus. My virtuous, spinning, gym-rat self isn't accustomed to such fun and debauchery. So, I've cancelled everything this week and undergone a fruit flush. Feeling better. Strep throat ruled out.

But speaking of spinning, the weekend before last was mad. The phrase "that really chapped my hide" has whole new meaning for me. Two days on a stationary bike'll do that to a gal. Damn. I start teaching my own classes in two weeks. Fun times. This is going to be good for me. How do I get myself motivated and committed? By motivating and urging on others! Does that make me an extrovert? Or perhaps a control freak? Whatevers. If it gets me into the kind of shape I think I'm capable of, then so be it. Not to get all Oprah on your ass, but I think that if one's aim is to live the best life possible, it means making the decision to embody that by getting in the best physical shape possible. That's what LL Cool J said on The View yesterday morning, so it must be true. This is why I cannot take any more sick days. (I also found out by watching The View that Rupert Everett wrote an autobiography. I love him. I want that book.) (I also discovered by accident that there is a transgendered character on "All My Children" and since absolutely nothing has happened on "Days of Our Lives" since 1985 when I stumbled upon it, I might just switch to the more progressive and by far more interesting Soap.) See?

Good Lord. I better get back to living my actual life. Off to Ann Arbor to workshop a new chapter I haven't yet written, see Volver, and do din dins with Kiki and the Bear this weekend. Wouldn't life be grand if we could call in sick every Monday through Friday and jump right into weekends? In other words, I need five days to recover from my weekends these days, folx.

Happy New Year!

2007-01-01T22:34:00.000-05:00

I know, I know. Divine has been on extended hiatus, but I'm back for 2007!

It's not that I haven't been living or writing, it's just that I've been leaving evidence of my whereabouts and goings on elsewhere.

Things such as getting drunk and ringing in the new year with a front-porch dance party in Ann Arbor with my buds,

turning 30!, getting drunk, putting up my Chri-muss tree and dancing in a new personal decade at home with my buds (and in style),

fun with power tools! and reconfiguring reclaimed furniture,

visiting my old haunts and buddies out East; loving and getting loved back by Philly, as always, and reclaiming Boston--

--seeing it for what it is and what I couldn't see while mired in graduate school and the sinking ship that was my love life at the time. (You know, I friggin' like that place and the people I know there and I could easily see myself living there again, even though I feel much more at home in Philly--and having nothing to do with HB, just as I had nothing to do with him this time around. Funny how the trip was utterly delightful without inviting him into the experience or even telling him I was in town. Note to self: remember how life can be smooth yet filled with passion when one chooses to step out of chaos's path.)

In addition to such highlights, I've spent a heap of time doing much less photogenic things such as teaching classes; attending meetings; writing papers, chapters, reviews, Chri-muss cards; grading papers; spending hours every day at the gym. Not that it's done anything but kept me from piling on holiday cheer in the form of many, many pounds. Meaning: I have lost no weight, simply maintained. And that's fine by me. Next weekend I'll train to become a spinning instructor. Me: officially becoming a gym rat. It suits me, especially now that they've redone the women's locker room so that it clearly resembles a spa. Ain't no effort I won't make when I know I can spend 20 minutes in the steam room afterwards. I've also discovered the finest masseur in the history of ever--and ya'll know I know massage; I got rubbed every chance I could by anybody willing last summer all over the Eastern Block. But in the 'zoo? Two. Hour. Massage. $65. Magic hands. Biggest, most beautiful queen north of the Mason Dixon. Enough said.

This is the year. I'm saying it now. My year of transformation has begun. 28 was about reclamation. 29 was about clarity. 30 is about transformation.

Watch me now, y'all!

And happy, happy days to us all! What's 2007 about for you?

Calm.

2006-10-31T17:23:00.000-05:00

And for no good goddamned reason other than I think I fit better in my skin than ever before. I'm starting to see the upshot of 30:

1. I'm getting recognition at work, and not because I'm running around doing flips and handstands, but because I've done good work for more than three years. People are noticing that.

2. I'm getting better at saying no to the things that require more of me than I'm willing to give and I'm also learning to say yes when people offer to help.

3. I've heard from two of my best, oldest students who have moved on in the world, one of whom hit the ground running reporting for a tiny newspaper in a desert town between LA and Vegas. I taught him everything he knows about practicing journalism and he's wowing them already. He's delighted and so am I, especially that I'm the person he wants to call to share his first war stories with.

The other student called me from France because she's been thinking about me, but more importantly, because she got a proposal to begin a love affair and I was the only person with whom she felt she could talk about it. We decided that yes, yes indeed, she should take this lover. She's over there teaching English, and she's been using teaching techniques she picked up in the classes I taught her.

How gratifying is that? Teachers don't often see the fruits of their labor, but there's nothing more satisfying than knowing you've affected people, changed them for the better just by doing what you do. Granted, I gave a little extra to these two--because I believed in them, but also because they gave a hell of a lot back. Obviously, they're still giving. . . .

I love knowing I've made the right choices.

4. I am taking damn good care of myself. Have I mentioned that I bought a juicer and a yogurt maker and have gone almost exclusively organic? I eat very, very little wheat, corn and alcohol, practically no sugar or pork, and damn if I am not feeling healthy. I've learned to accept that it may take Herculean efforts for me to feel good, but it's worth whatever it takes.

5. One word: Bodyjam. It might at first glance sound like some icky stuff you might remove from between your toes, but it's actually a newish class they're offering at my gym. Think club, think sober, think choreography, think hot, think latinhiphopcontemporarymodernfunk, think 900 calories burned an hour. It's the highlight of my week. I just don't go dancing often enough . . . now I get to dance my ass off instead of begrudgingly toiling away on some cardio machine. Next they'll be offering sex classes. No way it could get more fun. I'ma start wearing sparkles to the gym.

And all the other bullshit annoyances in my life pale in light of those things. At least for the moment. So, I thought I'd bask in the glory of that moment while it lasts.

Happy Samhain--it's New Year's eve for all you pagans out there: live it up. I'll be discussing Toni Morrison and Alice Walker instead of trick-or-treating, but I'll do my annual ritual when I get home: Slice an apple in half, concentrate all the negativity, bullshit, sorrows, disappointments, rage from the past year into those two apple halves. Place them back together and bury them. Voila! Happy, brand New Year!

No more wah-wahs.

2006-10-25T12:06:00.000-05:00

And I didn't even need someone to slap me. I can allow myself a little self pity every now and then, as long as it doesn't last any more than a day or two.

So today I snapped out of the birthday funk, which is not to say that I can promise not to slip back into it at some point(s) during the next month or so.

I spent a little time thinking about what has transpired since the last time Nov. 24 rolled around. This made me feel better. Here goes:

I've done lots of travelling. From San Francisco for my last birthday to Boston, New York and Philly in December to reconnect with U2, my peoples, and my craft out East to Texas for Chri-mas to Dublin for spring break to Prague, Budapest, Croatia, Bosnia, Italy, France for the summer and next back to Boston and Philly for my annual pilgrimage. That's a lot of miles.

I made money enough to fund most of that and put some away for retirement, because as morbid as I can get about cancer and whatever else might kill me, I do expect to live a while.

I got through three--almost four--semesters of my PhD. That ain't nothing.

I've made friends, I've reconnected with past friends and lovers, met interesting people galore, expanded my world. And that's certainly made me for the better.

I've lifted a lot of weight, run hundreds of miles--including a personal best at the Shamrock Shuffle in Chicago, gotten bronzed and blonde in the South of France, lost a few pounds, gained a few back, lost them again, cut and colored my hair like a rock star and brought it back to plain old me.

I've published a good armful of articles, some of which I hear have moved people.

I've made progress on my book--who knows how much exactly, but it's looking like a few chapters, anyway. Plugging away.

I've sat plenty of hours on my therapist's couch--crying, laughing, questioning, complaining, ranting--growing wiser about myself as best I can.

I taught more than 100 students, hopefully, how to write better and think differently about themselves as creators.

I saw the face of God.

I haven't solved any real problems--my own, anyone else's, the world's. But I am carving out a path for myself in this here life: stumbling, tripping over my own feet, gliding, running, flying, trudging. It's all there.

I guess I can look forward to what I'll make of 30. I trust myself to do it right.

And I can always return to the South of France in my mind. . . .

It's official.

2006-10-24T21:53:00.000-05:00

One month from today I'll turn 30.

Yuck.

I don't take birthdays well.

It's some combo of having been spoiled as a child on that day every year with great parties, extravagant gifts and generally being treated like the center of the universe+the gravity of having had cancer twelve years ago, hence the overwhelming feeling of gratitude that washes over me on the 24th of November+the fact that my life feels like it's at a standstill--PhD in progress, other two full time jobs in progress, freelancing in progress, yet somehow I feel like I'm spinning my wheels+no significant romantic relationship in sight+anxiety about all the things in my life I can't control+living in a beautiful house in a go-nowhere town albeit filled with lovely people I adore even though I have absolutely no time to spend with them+the usual financial stresses+aging and the unknown (besides a nasty fight with an underactive thyroid that gets progressively worse and harder to diagnose/treat) illnesses I am likely to develop prematurely because I underwent chemo and radiation 12 years ago+I still have goddamn acne and now I also have wrinkles+the guilt of occupying myself with such trifles instead of just practicing the aforementioned gratitude.

But really, who cares? I mean, what's another fucking birthday? I'm all for aging gracefully, aren't you?

Have I mentioned I've decided to boycott all holidays this year?

Meh. I probably just need to go dancing and get rip-roaring drunk. Then I'll forget about all of it--at least for a few hours. . . .

I wish a brand new blue bicycle with a red ribbon could salvage this day, or that I could just put it out of my mind until the day actually comes and then just blow it off. But when have you known me to take anything lightly?

Wanna blow your mind?

2006-10-12T21:54:00.000-05:00

Then give yourself 50 minutes, watch this with an open mind and ask yourself, "What if it's true?"

I'm very curious to hear your thoughts on it. . . .

You are a dancing queen

2006-10-11T11:21:00.000-05:00

Weekend recap:

My mama and I drove around the big lake, that's Lake Michigan, through Chicago, through Milwaukee (with lots of annoying traffic stops and starts through those joints) on up to Appleton, Wisconsin for my cousin Sean's wedding.

This was one wedding I did not want to miss. Not because it was a gajillion dollar affair, or a destination wedding or because, ahem, the bride might start a brawl with the dj. No. (In fact, Stacia was a perfect hostess.)

It's because my Seanie and I go way back. Not that we see each other very often, or ever have. It's just that we've been soulmates from the start. I've just always loved that kid. No matter how much he tormented me, teased me or goosed me just to hear me say, "Shaw-awn, stop sticking your fingers in my craw-ock," I adored him. Maybe because he was so damn cute, or maybe it was that impish gleem in his eye (it's still there); perhaps it was that he was always in trouble and I was always trying so hard to be the good girl . . . or maybe it was just that we were the two biggest personalities around. We tend to be less afraid than most of looking like the fools that we are, of being on stage (even when it's your auntie's living room) and of sticking to our stubborn guns about whatever, even when we forget what it was we were so upset about and it wasn't logical to anyone else to begin with.

Most of all, we are kindred spirits in the dance. We have very different styles, both pretty balls out, but man, can we cut a rug. But Seanie, well . . . he's in a category all his own:

And in the end, that's what I have to say for my family--that extended group of people that so often don't get along and have squabbles over silly trifles and annoy each other just because it's what we've always done--no matter what, we can all get out on that dancefloor and boogie. It might not always be pretty, but who cares? We sure have fun. So even when certain members of our group aren't speaking to other members, we can always move through space together, broken funky chickens that we are (unless we park our arses on a bar stool and refuse to move for any reason the entire night--not even an 88-year-old granny's desire to have a photo of all her present grandkids. . . . but that's neither here nor there, is it?)

It's nice to know that you can go home again, and it is in fact wonderful to see the people who have known you the longest and who like being around you.

Congratulations Sean and Stacia, and thanks for the fabalous party!

And it was great seeing Shasta and Carlos, if only for a minute as we swung back through Chicago on the way home!

Welcome, Tyler P.!

2006-09-25T10:06:00.000-05:00

This is my baby. He's one week old today. Okay, he lives in Texas, so he's not really my baby. I didn't make him or grow him or birth him. BFF did. But ain't he cute? I'm his proud auntie. Auntie M.

It's killing me that I haven't met him yet. But I have to wait until he goes home with mama and daddy. He's still in the hospital, but they've moved him from the heated bed, and if he can maintain his temperature, he'll get to go home this week.

I'm so glad BFF has had a baby for me. I'm reading a book
about how few published women writers there are and why. It's kind of a bummer, but it has also validated my life. It's very difficult to be an earner and a creator at the same time. And it's even harder to be a mama and a worker and an artist all at the same time. Damn near impossible. Especially without outside help.

And so it is for good reason that I am not married and not having babies. It's for annoying reasons that I hold something like 8 jobs to keep afloat, but I'm just paying my dues. . . .

The point is I'm reminded that I'm giving birth to myself. Again and again. That writing for me is breathing; it's as essential, although it doesn't quite come as easily. It's what I do, it's how I live. And thank God there are magnificent human beings such as my BFF and her huzzie birthing and rearing children right now. So I can write my book without guilt or pressure to propagate the species.

And I can't wait to see what path Tyler chooses for himself, although thank God he won't have to struggle with being only one out of 12 writers on the shelf. I pray he learns the power of his privilege and does nothing but good with it. From the look of things, he's already on his way. . . .

Why is it so important

2006-09-21T12:23:00.000-05:00

. . . for us to believe others are just like us?

*asks the woman who declared during her Tuesday night Women's Lit class (when pushed to explain why she had a hard time reading Virginia Woolf's "To the Lighthouse"), "I just wanted the characters to do something. I wanted them to be more like me!"*

Au revoir, fair lady.

2006-09-19T11:01:00.000-05:00

You were one hell of a broad.

I sure was glad to meet you and work on your campaign when I was just a lass. And I'm especially glad I got to tell you so when I bumped into you on Market Street in San Francisco a couple years ago. That shock of white hair and crystal-clear blue eyes couldn't have belonged to anyone else.

"You're the Texas governor who should be in the White House," I said to herself. "Well bless your little heart," she said back.

Politics sure could use more of your spirit, especially on the national stage.

Where the hell did everyone's sense of humor go, anyway? Terrorism, war, destruction, corrupt politics, suffering are here to stay. But does that mean we can't be smart and spunky anymore? God damn.

How can we honor her memory?

Harumph.

2006-09-19T10:40:00.000-05:00

So shortly home, yet so many problems already.

1. The PhD is wearing me down. Do I really want to do this academic gig? Sure, I love to learn, I love to teach, I love to write, but wouldn't being a full-time journalist afford me those things? But then there are the summers off. . . .

2. A lover. I'm lacking one. I'm ready for him. I did manage to break the curse/spell I was under during my jolly good time in Europe. That's all I'll say on that. Yup. It was that good. Now I'm ready for more. Longer-term, loving, devoted understanding, intimacy, adoration and frolicking. It is not too much to ask. I know this now.

3. Consuming too much beer, gelato and foie gras for three months equals me plus 10 pounds. I've dropped 3, but the others can't come off fast enough, dammit! It's soooo much easier and fun to put them on than take them off. But ain't nothing worth suffering in tight pants. Oy!

4. Shall I go to this or not this year?

5. Did I mention I'm turning 30 in two months? I'm thinking party in Chicago this year. Day after Thanksgiving, y'all!

In happier, non-whiny news, BFF birthed a beautiful baby boy yesterday! We welcome their new, little marvel of a precious person to the world. Yay hope for the future! And a quick recovery to the other Mz. M from her C-section. Ouch.

And I promise updated flicker photos by the weekend. . . .

Well, I've been back for a while now

2006-09-14T15:42:00.000-05:00

. . . and I've had lots to say, but mostly to live people in person. That's the beauty of coming home after a long journey. It's good to be back. I've dived right back into all my jobs and responsibilities, but most importantly, into the arms of family and friends. After spending a month travelling alone, I'm awfully happy to be with people who know and love me.

A hell of a lot happened between the last time I wrote and now. Glorious, delightful fun. I have photos. I'll share. Later.

Ah Nice, how I love thee!

2006-08-29T04:51:00.000-05:00

Is it any wonder that artists have always flocked here? Good lord, this place is perfect. Seriously. Perfect. Everyone's happy here. The sun always shines, the temperature hovers around 75 all the damn time, the food is probably the best and the freshest in the world, nobody's in a hurry and nobody's terribly slow, either. The city's just right. A little edgy, but not Miami edgy (not to knock Miami, but c'mon, this is France, people!).

This is the perfect place to disappear and find oneself. And so this I have done.

I've also done a little shopping, visited Eze and Monaco (I've seen Grace Kelly's grave and the roads that killed her) and hung out on the beach to my heart's content. That's all. Not much to report. And isn't that what a relaxing holiday is supposed to be?

I have taken in a few art museums, landed myself in the middle of a jazz festival and bought french underwear, perfume and my first bikini as an adult. When in France...

I declare myself an honorary French person. I sunbathe topless, I smell like armpits and expensive perfume, I have strong coffee and a croissant for breakfast. This afternoon I'm getting a French hairdo, surrendering to the will of my new hairdresser, who kindly put up with my broken French request for a cut and color until I asked if he speaks English. Why yes, of course! Such a doll. I loves him already.

I still need shoes and a bag to go with my dress for the wedding, and I must figure out how and when I'm getting to Aix. Ooh la la! So much to do. I'll be home in less than a week, but I will forever return to the French Riviera in my mind.

J'ai trouve mon coeur dans le Cote d'Azure!

2006-08-25T04:02:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I can't quite figure out this keyboard to put the right accents on those words, but I found my heart here, y'all! Yeah, the necklace was tucked away in a little satchel inside another one, and I'm wearing it again. And I have found my place in the sun. Y'all can have all of Italy. You can have the Dalmatian Coast. I'll take the South of France and I'll even share it.

It probably helps that I have a rudimentary grasp of the language. I was watching Sesame Street and Scooby Doo this morning with my coffee, and I could pretty much understand all of it. So, give me a four year old to converse with, and I'll do fine!

By the way, I'm in Nice. And I've decided to stay here. For a week. I rented what amounts to a little efficiency between the train station and the sea. It's a perfect base for exploring neighboring villages and the city itself. Prices are high here, but with my own kitchenette, I am having so much fun and saving so much by doing my own shopping and cooking! La vie est tres belle!

Yesterday I spent a lot of time recovering from Italy and the train ride. Too much air conditioning, too much snoring, and a bourgeoning sore throat left me feeling pretty punk. Now I feel much better, and ready to take on Provence! Looking to get my hair done and buy some shoesies.

Yay and more yay!

I lost my heart in Sarajevo.

2006-08-22T09:39:00.000-05:00

That city is my favorite I've encountered on this journey so far.

I landed myself right in the middle of its film festival, an event that began 12 years ago during the Seige of Sarjevo. I saw a couple of bad films; they're doing a tribute to Abel Ferrara, and he sucks. In person he sucks, too. Only bad direction could make Juliette Binoche and Forrest Whitaker bad. And the film "Mary" truly sucked. My new friend Mariana, a Bulgarian film critic, said she thinks he's the kind of director who got into the business to get women.

I also managed to do a little backpackers' tour of the city and we had a marvelous tour guide who is my age, which means he was a teenager during the Seige. During the four years in which the city was surrounded by Serb forces and snipers who shot anything that moved in the street that stretched between the Holiday Inn and the Old Town, life went on. No schools shut down, and despite no food, water, electricity, gasoline or communication with the outside world, people survived. Sheer will and ingenuity. They built an underground tunnel to the airport, one meter wide and 1.6 meters high, through which people escaped. It filled knee high with water and they ran lines of electricity and gasoline through it. Yikes. Yet no one who used it died. A lot of them hit their heads, but no one died. I got a chance to pass through a part of the tunnel that's been preserved. Extraordinary.

They called Sarajevo the Jerusalem of Europe because within 100 square meters you'll find the city's main mosque, Catholic church, Orthodox church and synagogue. Outside every mosque, fresh spring water fountains trickle; this is part of the reason Sarajevo never fell. Despite absolute useless measures to deliver aid, in the form of things such as U.S. army cookies from the Vietnam era and shipments of condoms, those who were brave enough to risk passing through sniper alley to get water from old town into downtown managed to keep people alive by transporting buckets of water.

Learning about this terrible history really opened my eyes. I vowed to myself not to ingnore news reports about the horrors going on in parts of the world I've never seen. It also made me not feel sorry for myself as I slept in a shed with the words "Bin Laden" spray painted on the outside of it and a mangy yet happy dog keeping watch in the yard. 20 people shared one toilet and shower, and I shared a room with three other women: the film critic from Sophia and two backpacking, alcoholic Brits. God love Mariana--she stayed there because she's a freelancer and had to pay her own accomodation for 9 days. The beds cost 10 euros per night. Don't let me complain about the meager pay I get per story; she gets $20 per story at best.

Seeing the city and learning more about the Seige truly made me question journalism and the way we do our jobs. Why didn't the world step in sooner? Why weren't people paying attention, me included? I think statistics, the 5 w's don't tell the story with the kind of urgency necessary. People stop hearing the death tolls in Iraq, in Lebanon, the facts aren't alive for them--how can we make stories come alive for people so they pay attention? I suspect I'll struggle with this my entire career.

It was hard to leave that magnificent place. Don't get me wrong, it's still devastatingly bombed out all over the place; but to me, this is the most beautiful city I've seen. You can have pristine Prague and its picturesque castle, you can have Dubrovnik, the pearl of the Adriatic and its walled city; I'll take Sarajevo any day. If I had any money to invest, I'd help revitalize it and return people to their homes.

The 8 hour train from Sarajevo to Zagreb is actually a 12 hour train, and don't let anyone tell you differently. It creeps at a snail's pace. I think without my luggage I could have run it faster. I met an arrogant Canadian--you think they're all submissive and friendly, well they're not--who tried to tell me everything about everything on the way. Thank God he got off at Banja Luka, a mere five hours into the journey. He's speed travelling--seeing as much as he can so he can say he's been places. He's actually spending most of his time on trains, poor lad. I didn't even bother suggesting this to him. He doesn't hear anything.

But once he left, a group of old boozers joined me in the cabin. I'm talking knock-me-over-with-their-stinky-alcholic-breath, 70-something-year-old dudes. They must have passed a dozen plastic liter bottles of generic beer among them. And it sounded like they were talking politics. It was that kind of heat. To complement the literal heat. That cabin was like an oven. Sweating just from sitting there. And everyone smoked right next to the no smoking signs. The windows only opened a crack. I nearly passed out.

As it got dark and cooled down a bit, one of the boozers tried to talk to me. He knew about five words of English and I know one word of Serbo Croatian. This guy looked remarkably like my father's dearly departed Uncle Jack, so I instantly took a shine to him, despite his odor. He told his boys about me, and all of a sudden I was part of the party. One of them brought out a little bottle of water, and I thought, huh? Water? Turns out it was more of that moonshine, and they insisted I drink with them. So I did. The only word I know in their language is "Hvala," which means thank you, so what are you gonna do? It were good stuff. When we finally got to Zagreb, it was well dark, and Uncle Jack insisted on showing me where I needed to go to catch the train to Venice. Such a doll.

The sleeper car to Venice was dreamy compared to the Bosnian oven train. I slept like a little lamb in between passport checks at the borders--in and out--of Croatia, Slovenia and Italy. I shared the cabin with an Aussie and two little, smelly German backpackers. But it was grand. When we got off the train and wandered out of the station, the Aussie wouldn't shut the hell up. She grew very loud and exuberant, the kind of loudness and exhuberance only youth breeds, and she asked me if I wasn't excited, like, Oh my God, we're in Venice. And of course, I was stunned, literally stunned by the green canals and architecture just right outside of the station. I was taking it in. The expression comes later for me. But I didn't bother explaining this to her, I just walked away.

I am getting so good at losing losers. It's a necessary skill as a lone traveler. Yesterday, sipping a $10 capuccino at a cafe overlooking the water at the Piazzo San Marco, a dude wandered up and sat down beside me for a chat. He couldn't afford the prices at the cafe, so the waiter made him leave. After I paid and left, he caught up with me and wouldn't leave me alone. He told me all about himself--he's an architecture student and he hates his job in a bakery because he's a good worker and his employers fuck him because he's a good worker. Men in nearly every country I've been in start up conversations with me about how much they hate their jobs. Do I look like I care? Do I look like I want to listen to your woes instead of taking in the beauty of Venice? I said as much with my body language. Then he asked me what I do. "I hate journalists. They're all liars," he said in response. So I cut him off and said, "Well, perhaps you don't want to spend any more time with me." That got rid of him. Italian riffraff bitches.

I also got yelled at by a fruitseller in the street. I made the mistake of touching his apricots. I couldn't help myself--they were so plump and beautiful, and I had every intention of buying the ones I touched. Yikes. Italians like to yell. It seems to be the best way to express whatever it is they need to express. Italian Americans in New York are the same, but Italians in Italy are louder.

So I've been eating Gelato instead. Those guys don't yell as much. And I went to a grocery store, because I always go to grocery stores in new places. It was a beautiful thing. The things the Italians do with ham and cheese are fucking astounding. Ricotta lemon cake. Yum. A million kinds of prosciutto. Gorgeous hard cheeses and fancy marinades for mozzarella with all sorts of olives. Some bread and a bottle of wine, and that was me for the day. All the restaurants I've found are so touristy, complete with tourist prices, so I made my own meal. And I was a happy girl. Went to bed watching BBC news, and my day was complete.

The beauty of this place is enough to knock a girl out. And so it did. Today I took it easy, did some laundry, wandered around some more, and now I need to go find something to eat. It won't be hard. Tomorrow I take the overnight train to Nice. I've got a rough itinerary planned for my week until the wedding. Hopefully I'll find a wireless spot so I can post some photos. I've got some great shots.

I also literally lost my heart in Sarajevo. You see, I like to bring little mementos from loved ones back home when I travel. And I've been wearing a lovely silver necklace with a heart pendant my dad gave me for Christmas last year. It disappeared in Sarajevo. A sacrifice to the travel Gods. I hope someone finds it and wears it as a symbol of hope for tomorrow. The kind of symbol that means more when found accidentally in Sarajevo.

How Bosnia is like Texas

2006-08-22T09:34:00.000-05:00

1. It's hotter than hell.
2. People there in small towns sit on their porches and wave at passing trains.
3. Those bitches can drink.
3. They'll give you the shirts off their backs, lead you in the right direction, and share their moonshine with you, even if you don't speak their language.
4. The people aren't at all what you'd expect if you pay attention to media images of them.
5. Red dirt, rocky hills.
6. The people ain't in no hurry to get nowheres.
7. They're resilient, independent minded, will and have defended their land and way of life to the end.
8. They seriously question the wisdom of the U.N.

Returned from an alternate universe.

2006-08-18T10:11:00.000-05:00

I have seen God, people.

(How's that for a lead?)

You see, I've been to the land of Medjugorje, a once sleepy little village in the mountains of Bosnia. In 1981 The Virgin Mother of Christ, aka The Blessed Mother, aka Our Lady, appeared to a group of teenagers and gave them messages. Word spread fast, the communists henchmen went after the kiddies but didn't get them because a holy Franciscan priest named Father Jozo, a man known to many as "a living saint," a man who was totally skeptical about the apparitions, hid the kids away. He got picked up, jailed and tortured, and now he runs a home for 5500 orphaned girls--throwaways from the war.

The story goes that Our Lady of Medjugorje continues to come down from heaven every day at 6:40 p.m. The teenagers are all moms and dads now, but a couple of them are still receiving messages. It's the only place on earth that she continues to visit, they say.

And by "they" I mean a gajillion and a half faithful Catholics, mostly from Ireland, Italy and Croatia, with a handful of Canadians, French, Americans, Polish thrown in. The Church doesn't officially recognize the place as an apparition site, unlike Lourdes, Fatima, Knock, to name a few, but they can't even begin to investigate until Herself quits showing up. House rules.

So I rolled into town, skeptical journalist and skeptical believer that I am, at the urging of a very dear friend of mine who has very dear friends who live there. They didn't know I was coming, they knew nothing about me, but when I asked the lady at a tour agency in town about them, she rang them up--had them on speed dial. "Honey, come home," they said, and rushed to pick me up. I only meant to spend the day, perhaps a night. Five days later, it was hard to leave.

I hung out with priests and nuns and lots of Irish and Italians who pray the rosary more than my Grandma does. We went to mass twice a day, said the Divine Mercies at 3 p.m., did the stations of the cross up a friggin' mountain before dawn, ate only bread and water two days of the week, went to the evening service that lasted from 6 to 11 p.m. and included mass, adoration, the rosary, confession if you wanted. . . . Holy Mother of God! (I confessed to an Irish priest who was a dead ringer for Teddy Kennedy. Can you imagine? Confessing your sins to Teddy Kennedy?)

It got to be a bit much by the fifth day, honestly, but these people were so loving and so accepting and so devoted and kind, it was hard to leave. They put me up, they washed my clothes, they fed me, they blessed me, they hugged me and kissed me and petted my face, they prayed over me, they brought me to Father Jozo who gave me a special blessing: "We love journalists. Be a beautiful journalist," he said. The Blessed Mother has come down from heaven to tell you that she loves you just as you are, they said first thing when we met. Yikesaroony. That's love, people.

And so all the pilgrims and the messages and the apparition and the validity of any of it is entirely beside the point, as far as I'm concerned. There's a whole lotta love in that strange little protected place. And that, to me, is all the God I need to know or see or feel with my heart of hearts.

Today I arrived in Sarajevo and it's astounding to be here. Bosnians are remarkable. It's their custom to treat visitors like family. Why that horrendous war happened here, I'll never understand. It was and is becoming again such a vibrant, diverse place. Mosques next to Orthodox churches next to Roman Catholic churches next to discos. The sound of church bells ring out along with the call to prayer. Can you imagine? Not too long ago there was nothing here but the sound of sniper's shots and bombs. The whole city was shut down. International journalists holed up in the Holiday Inn and an underground tunnel to the airport was the only connection to the outside world.

Word on the street is Our Lady of Medjugorje has said only prayer and fasting can stop war. Hmm. I believe we have to transform our own hearts--find and make peace within ourselves--before we can make a larger impact to effect change in the world, to stop war. But those of us who have the privilege, the knowledge, the ability to be peacemakers. . . . well it has to be up to us to act, doesn't it? And not just by sitting at home praying the rosary and eating bread and water, methinks. I guess we all must have our own beginnings.

I think mine is here. Seeing it for myself. Getting closer to an experience that is so far removed from my own. And struggling with trying to figure out what I can do about making it not happen again. How's that for a tall order?

Marvy Mostar.

2006-08-14T12:40:00.000-05:00

I love it here. It's shockingly beautiful, cheap, the people are laid back. This is my kind of town.

I stayed in a lady's house not far from the bus station last night. A little noisy, but nice. Her mother in law greeted me with Turkish coffee when I arrived. It's so cheap that I offered to pay for two beds so I could have a room to myself. Why would I want to share a room with any old scuzz coming off the bus?

I met a couple from Chicago at the house, and they were a delight. At the end of a few hours wandering around the city together, we parted as they caught the train to Sarajevo, but before they took off they offered to let me stay in their Wrigleyville condo anytime I come to town. I heart Midwesterners.

We ate Cevapcici on a terrace overlooking the emerald Neretva River and Stari Most. Cevapcici is the kind of food drunk Chicagoans would totally go for. It's lots of short, fat fingers of spicy lamb sausages stuffed into a thick, soft pita bread served with onions and pimento sauce. So yummy. And fills you up for days. Almost.

Before the 1990s war (as it's called around here) and the destruction of that 16th century bridge, men would jump off it into the river as a badge of virility. Now they're doing it again, and I caught a couple of dudes in speedos doing cannonballs. Made my heart glad.

But it sure as shit ain't all gladness around here. Lots and lots and lots of bombed-out buildings have not been rebuilt; parts of the city still look like a war zone. I've seen several Muslim cemeteries in which all of the tombstones reflect the same date of death: 1993. Chilling.

Yet these are the liveliest, most charming, welcoming people I've met on this journey so far. Sometimes it's the people who have gone to the depths who can most consistently embrace the possibilities of the day.

I am so glad to be here.

Last night in Dubrovnik

2006-08-12T12:37:00.000-05:00

So I've landed myself in the Hilton Imperial Dubrovnik to catch some Wifi. It's working. And it's happy hour. There's a guitarist playing with a sax player whose beauty puts that Croatian dude from ER to shame. No one seems to know or mind that I'm not a guest here. The beers keep-a-coming, and the beautiful people around me keep smoking.

Yesterday I went on a little three island cruise. I drank homemade brandy and wine, flirted with the captain of the "ship" and met a couple of very civilized English English school teachers from Leicester. Lots o' fun, sailing, fresh grilled fish and Croatian moonshine for lunch, swimming and sunbathing in the afternoon. I witnessed my first nude beach ever, and I do believe I saw a woman's uterus. Walking around a cliff and looking down I saw pie to the sky, kittens. Took me back to my Planned Parenthood days, so it did.

An aside: I've seen about 20 Italian Paris Hilton look alikes walk into this lounge, all decked out in white cowboy hats, rhinestone jeans and dangly earrings, with smokes and red bull as their most important accessories. Or are they glitterati Croats? I don't know. There is something of an arts festival going on right now. In fact, I saw a whole bunch of folks decked out in traditional folk costume doing dances in circles in Old Town Square. The men wore dented felt hats and ties while the women looked like peasants from any old where. Did you know Croats invented the necktie? At least, they claim it as their own. When men went off to war or whatever, their lady friends would tie a tie around their necks as a symbol of fidelity. Or maybe it was a threat: the tighter the tie. . . .

I'm ready to move on. After a nice sail on the Adriatic, walking around the Old City walls, plenty of swimming and sunning on the pebbly beaches, some local eats and drinks and new friends, I'm geared up to move on. Mostar. First thing in the morning. I must see the rebuilt bridge with my own two eyes. And I'll wander into Medjugorje, see if the Virgin has something to say to me, before I head into Sarajevo. I looked into staying at the Holiday Inn that was the last stand for journalists during the war, but I need to save dough for Italy and France. I'll probably stay in somebody's house. That's the way they do here--people just register their homes with the local tourist board and then take in strangers. It's the cheapest way to spend a night in these parts, although a bit dodgy for a lone gal. The Brits I met let some dude they met at the bus stop haul them to his house and it worked out great. I just don't think it'd be prudent for me to do the same, alone. But there's an agency at the bus station in Sarajevo that can recommend places, so I think I'll do that. The Brits were each paying a quarter what I paid for my dingy little hotel. Though it sure is nice to have my own bathroom and breakfast every morning. I'm sure it's all worked out for the best.

From Sarajevo, I'll take a bus to Split, then either island hop a little bit, or head straight to Venice on a ferry. I could see more of Italy if I wanted . . . start in the south somewhere and make my way north. But I don't know. I'm itching for France, I must admit. I want to leave myself enough time and money to do the South of France properly. By that I mean not penny pinching too terribly. I want Bouillabaisse, people! And the real stuff costs something like $100 for two people to slurp, and they only serve it to two people at a time, so I'll have to pick up some fool who will partake with me, or just slurp enough for two (though I suspect the French might frown upon that). 'Course, if I run out of money, I can always lollygag on the beach and keep working on my Mediterranean tan as I read my books. Costs nothing. Actually in Nice, they make you pay to lounge on the beach, but here they don't.

Croatia is not nearly as cheap as I'd expected. Hungary costs far less. Although I am in what is the next Nice. Perhaps in Zadar or Zagreb the living is less dear. But not as easy. . . .

Sometimes a cloudy day in paradise is what you need

2006-08-10T04:50:00.000-05:00

Dubrovnik is lovely, perhaps even "paradise on earth" as GB Shaw declared some years ago. That must have been before the hoards of Italian and Hungarian tourists showed up on big buses with their loud proclamations about everthing and their three-pack-a-day habits. I wish it were just all the quiet, elderly, cappucino sipping couples and me. Ah well.

After a day of sun, swimming and reading Naipaul on the pebbly beach not far from my hotel yesterday, I'm off to explore the old, walled city. But now I'm sitting drinking Croatian beer before noon at an outdoor cafe. The coolness of the sea air feels good on my sunburned legs. And damn this beer is good: Ozujsko pivo they call it. Tastes like fruit to me. Mind you, I haven't had a drink since Heviz, so I'm due. Now it feels like a holiday.

The funny thing about travelling alone--especially as a single woman--is it's stressful. I have no problem taking myself out for a meal and sitting alone in a restaurant full of couples and families, but it does wear on you after a while. And it's a big responsibility to get yourself from one place to another, to keep your clothes clean and dry, to keep yourself fed and safe. And it takes a little while to get adjusted to a new place. A little while. And it is the nature of a traveller to get an itch to move on as soon as she begins to feel comfortable in a place. Or maybe that's just me.

Dubrovnik is a tricky place to navigate. Taxis are rip offs, and public transportation is limited to a few buses. It's set up so that you're best off taking tours to the surrounding islands and into Bosnia if you like, but I can't stand tours. I want to get away from the crowds! So that means setting off on my own, which takes a lot more effort. I guess I never said I wanted the easy way, now did I?

Although swimming in the Adriatic sea first thing in the morning and then reading the greatest living writer all day in the sun ain't so bad.

Damn.

Here's some photos from Budapest; first inside the Gellert baths and second is a view of Buda from Pest:

Croatia, baby!

2006-08-09T03:16:00.000-05:00

I've been to Lake Balaton, Heviz, Budapest again and now Dubrovnik since last I wrote. I soaked up a lot of thermal mineral water, steam, radioactive mud, and I expect I'm now healed from whatever might have ailed me. I've gotten used to getting a massage every day.

So now that I won't be massaged every day, it's a good thing I've got something pretty to look at. I'm so glad to be at the seaside. Even though I played in lots of water, I still knew I was in a landlocked country.

An interesting Hungarian human rights lawyer took a shine to me on the flight last night. He's way more interested than I am. Damn! Why is that always the way?

I passed on the candy, liquor, perfume and cosmetics at the Duty Free shops yesterday in the interest of picking up some books in English. They're quite a treat, really. And I've read "A Moveable Feast" twice now. Now I have some V.S. Naipaul and Umberto Eco to keep me company on the beach. Yay!

I probably should go out and see the sights right away, but honestly, I just want to lollygag. The beach is calling. . . .

I heart Hungary.

2006-08-02T13:16:00.000-05:00

No, that's an understatement. I fuhriggin' looove it.

I walked across the Danube today. Twice. How cool is that?

Budapest has just the right combo of grit, old world beauty and spas. This is my kind of town. If I didn't think there might be something more beautiful ahead, I might never leave.

After the overnight train--uneventful after I actually got on the train; waiting at the train station was like night of the living dead; I saw dirty feet sticking out beneath a toilet stall, scary--I had a little bit of trouble finding my digs, but that's ancient history now. To recover, I got myself to the nearest spa, which just happened to be the Gellert, Budapest's oldest. And I spent the next four hours swimming in the Parthenon, steaming, saunaing, cool baths, hot thermal spring baths, and receiving a marvy "medical" massage from a very nice lady while she sang along to "Eye of the Tiger" on the radio playing in the big room where other naked ladies were getting rubdowns. I love hanging out with unselfconscious naked ladies. We're talking hot babes mixed with old fat bellied, skinny-legged grannies with the somewheres in betweens like me, all walking around, hanging around, swimming around totally naked. Joy!

Then I walked from Buda, where the baths and my hotel are, to Pest--hence the Danube crossing--and found myself some Hungarian food. They always start meals with soup, so I had a liver-dumpling in clear broth soup before my meal of chicken, veggies and berry dumplings covered in custard for dessert. I also bought myself a pastry for breakfast at the train station. I picked it, not knowing what it was, because it had the word "turd" in its name. This, for some reason, delighted me. And it was delicious. Not at all stale. One more point for the Hungarians over the Czechs! I also think I discovered that "turd" is Hungarian for raisin. Tee-hee.

After din-dins I walked around some more until I stumbled into St. Stephen's Basilica--right into a mass. So I went to mass, and I think this place is the most beautiful church I've ever seen. Mind you, I've seen a lot of friggin' gorgeous churches. Maybe it's just that each new one is always surprising in its beauty.

I walked around some more and now I'm back at the hotel/hostel, which is really just a dingy old dorm in the university section of town. But what more do I want for a private $20 room with a sort-of view toward the river? Breakfast? Sure, I could have that for an extra $2.50, but I'd rather venture out on my own for more turd pastries.

I'm also falling in love with Hemingway as I read "A Moveable Feast." Picked it up at an English language bookstore in Prague before I left. Love it.

Anybody read it?

Last Night in Praha

2006-08-01T06:17:00.000-05:00

Why is it that the last night is always the best night? Dang.

Kiki and I finally got around to drinking absinthe.

In a fabulous little dive bar called Hany Bany that served up big, roasted sausages with potato pancakes and cabbage for a buck a pop. Loved. It.

Okay, so the green shot wasn't so easy going down, at least for Kiki; but we both felt fabulous, like, three and a half seconds afterward. Good. Buzz. And no hallucinations to report, somewhat regretfully.

Before landing in the pub, I hauled my ass to the Franz Kafka museum, because I knew I'd regret it if I didn't. Very interesting. I'll have to read more of his stuff now.

There was a nice statue out front of two dudes with moving buttocks pissing together.

Is this Kafkaesque? I'm still not sure I understand the full meaning of that adjective.

I also was disturbed this morning after Kiki left for the airport by a very large, very angry, very blond Czech woman named Sharka. Funny how names always seem to suit people. She demanded I pay another night's rent thinking I had only booked the place for the month of July. Good Goddamn thing I had a copy of my booking form on my laptop to show her. Then she got on her cellphone and raised holy hell with the agency I booked through. Then she got nice and apologetic and told me I could leave my bags in the flat for the afternoon, but that she's got Italians moving in later in the afternoon. Whatevers.

I am so getting out of Dodge.

Au revoir, Praha!

2006-07-30T08:39:00.000-05:00

Program's over; apartment lease is up. I'm on to bigger and better things. (I hope.)

I'm thinking overnight train to Budapest, a couple of days lollygagging in Turkish spas, perhaps a day or two at Lake Ballaton, then on to Croatia and the Dalmatian Coast, maybe a side trip to Mostar, then back to Dubrovnik and across to Venice, see a bit of Italy before heading to Le Cote d'Azur! I really should consider a budget, but I've never before done such a thing. It just all seems to work out, as long as I only splurge every once in a while and live meagerly the rest of the time. Eastern Europe is pretty cheap; I need to save my pennies for Italy and France.

This time of year seems to be crazy with tourists everywhere. I almost prefer travelling when it's bleak and gray and when I'm the only crazy person around. Where is it quiet; where have these people all come from? Those places must be dead empty, unless it's Paris and London from which those people are escaping to get away from the tourists. . . .

But how dare I complain as I traipse around the globe?

In other news, my ipod is ready to retire and so are my pants. They're ready to walk right off me. Time to go shopping. . . . As for the ipod, well, it displays a horrible little exclamation point next to a file folder when I turn it on. I did everything the troubleshooting website told me to do, but I can't even restore the thing because my Mac doesn't recognize the ipod. Sheesh. The dude at the Apple store told me the ipod wasn't long for this world; they're not made to last very long, and I've had mine for two years. Wah. No more muzak of my choosing in Eastern Europe.

Last night Kiki and I went to see "A Prairie Home Companion" in English with Czech subtitles. All the movies in the listing were written in Czech, and it was the only film we recognized. Bad screenplay. Wonderful performances. How does that happen? Are actors so giddy to work with Altman they'll do any old shit?

After the film, we went to Le Cafe Louvre, a famous joint where Kafka used to hang out and write (or so the story goes), to get a bite to eat. The waiter dumped off some particularly stale bread (the only kind there is in the Czech Republic) and a tray of condiments, neither of which we ate or used. Then we got charged "couvert" for these things--a cover charge for the privilege of eating stale bread and paprika sauce! I tried to explain to the waiter that we neither asked for nor ate the stuff, but he wasn't having any of it, and I couldn't stand the smell of his pitted-out waiter uniform anymore, so we paid the charge and left in a huff, ugly Americans open to getting ripped off that we are.

I'm getting tired of this place. Itching for adventure or home or both at the same time. When I thought I had no money and no identity of my own, I looked into changing my flight. It would cost an additional $930 to do it. Yikes! Yet far less than I'll spend the rest of the month gallavanting around. Less fun. More practical. This is the debate I've been having inside my head. And sticking my head into the mouth of the monster is where I'm going. Facing the unknown, arms open wide.

It helped to read the NYT this morning and take a look at some articles about Croatia and the South of France. Got me excited about what's in store. Imagine the unimaginable for a bit.

How're y'all's Sundays?

Problem solved.

2006-07-25T12:39:00.000-05:00

Hurrah!

It was scary there for a little while--imagining the Russian mob in Karlovy Vary had taken over my identity, leaving me with no way home. . . .

But turns out the bank blocked the card after my charges at the spa. Once I talked to them, they unblocked it and now I have moolah again!

I did feel like George Bailey. People came out of the woodwork to help if I needed--and some people were pissed that I didn't go to them immediately. I easily could have financed my way anywhere with all the help and money people wanted to throw my way. Thanks, y'all. I am the richest man in Bedford Falls.

Penniless in Prague

2006-07-23T06:46:00.000-05:00

Discovered today that my ATM/Debit card decided to up and quit on me. It's times like these that is sucks to be a gal without a back-up plan.

I've emailed my credit union to find out if they've blocked my account or what. I guess the strip could be used up or God forbid someone's gotten a hold of my account number and drained all my dough. I just don't know. But I hate it.

I do have some euros and some dollars I could change (or use) and I've got a functional credit card with which I could take out a cash advance. I also have friends who can spot me a little money. . . .

But dang.

I hope I can resolve this soon, or I might just have to beg my way home early. . . .

Longing to dream it all up again, y'all.

2006-07-20T11:19:00.000-05:00

So, here I am, almost two-thirds of the way through this here writer's workshop in Prague--nearly halfway through the second half with Patricia Hampl. She's good, she's very good. I had my workshop yesterday, and I got some good stuff. But honestly, I'm feeling a little directionless. Like it's time to remove myself from everyone else's babble and return to what it is that I do: write. Reclaim this book, this project from everyone else's clutches. It's good to hear what readers have to say about what I've got down, but then there comes a time to forget about all those bitches altogether and just fucking write. The story is mine, the aesthetic is mine. I need some distance to remember what it is I'm up to.

And I'm tired. You know? Just worn the hell out. I could spa my way through Eastern Europe, but that would get old and overly self-indulgent quick. I think what I need is to rent a humble villa on the sea, perhaps in Dalmatia to swim, lollygag, and write. Away from the grind. Even the beautiful grind in Prague.

Because the beauty has gotten to be a bit much. I can't stand it. I think the art and architecture is sapping my magic or something. Weird, I know. But I've been dreaming of slaughtered elephants, and whenever I dream about dead and dying majestic creatures, it means I'm losing my largesse. I need rejuvenation.

So, does anyone have a grandmother or know someone with a room to rent on the Adriatic Sea? Got any other good ideas?

My trip to Karlovy Vary, or The Weekend in which I finally got naked with a big cocked stranger

2006-07-16T17:40:00.000-05:00

Kiki and I were planning to head west, something that in my experience has always been a good thing. West resonates with me, always has. And Western Bohemia makes a hell of a lot more sense to me than Prague. Maybe that's where my people are from--lots of them, the Bohemians, the Prussians (okay, my geography sucks, but this is working for me in my imagination). They're kind of German there, and the city of Karlovy Vary is run rampant with Russians. One woman told me they bought the town with money from the black market shortly after the Velvet Revolution. Them Russians are pushy. But being pushy doesn't always work, now does it?

So, on our way to class on Friday, Kiki hemmed and hawed about the trip when I expressed great exhuberance about it. He never shows his bare legs, much less the rest of himself, so he had already decided he wouldn't go in for the spa treatments Karlovy Vary is famed for. Then he had an insulting workshop. We went for cake and decided it would be best for us (spoiled little only children that we are, accustomed to lots of alone time) to go our separate ways for the weekend. I could get my spa on, and he could have the flat for himself to work on his plays.

I arrived Friday afternoon, booked into a quaint hotel, and headed straight to the open-air thermal pool.I swam laps for an hour. I had forgotten that swimming is a natural state of being for me--it slams me back into my body, weightless, yet the movement allows me to meditate without trying. Most everyone else there was farting around: little girls with their daddies, and couples making out. When I got out of the pool, I found the sauna, which was marked by all kinds of unreadable signs (for this ugly American). A lady took my ticket, gave me a tablecloth, and pointed me to a room that contained several shower heads, a cold pool, a few lounging chairs in a room off to the side, and a small sauna with three stacked benches (stairstep style).

I rinsed off under one of the shower heads and brought my tablecloth into the sauna to sit on. After about three minutes, a very tall man with a ginormous schlong in full view came in and told me in no uncertain terms (albeit in Czech) that I had to take off my bathing suit. It was kind of like how Tomas in "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" has this power over women when he simply says, "Strip!" And they all do. It was just like that, except totally not erotic. I took off my suit, and big dick and I sat around staring at each other, naked and sweating, just like you're supposed to in a sauna. Hot, yet so not hot.

Afterwards I felt like a million bucks.

Saturday I signed up for the "superior" package at a spa,but they couldn't fit me in until the afternoon because a huge group of Japanese business men came in before me. They were all pissed off that they had to wear swim suits in the spa. They hadn't brought any with them, so they all had to buy little swimming trunks that were waaaaay too small for them.

So I hiked all over town, found the Russian Orthodox churchdecked out in glittery gold and a nice little monument to Karl Marx.Then I followed the trail behind Marx that took me to what I believe might be the highest point in Bohemia.It's such a steep climb that they built a funicular railroad to take the throngs of tourists to the top. Me, I walked it. Then took the friggin' train back down. But the views were gorgeous, and I had my spa treatments to look forward to.

Lounging around in a Romanesque bathhouse for a good four hours is totally my idea of a good time. In between my little treatments of inhaling mineral-infused air in a cavern (felt a little like a gas chamber) and skipping from a hot foot bath to a cold foot bath for 15 minutes ("very good for foot," the big, blondie "nurse" told me) I lollygagged around a big, fancy pool and sipped tea with cranky Russians and their frisky children. Then came the highlight of my trip: a full-body massage from a flirtatious, fully-clothed Czech dude with a goatee, who tried to teach me better pronunciation of the few Czech words I know.

Again, a burly man gave me the command to take off my clothes. "Complete!" he said, and accentuated his seriousness with a sweeping hand gesture. He looked at me approvingly (certainly because communication was successful) and then told me to get on the table, which stood below a deep, cylindrical skylight and a security camera. I awkwardly flipped over a few times before assuming the position he wanted: face up. What ensued were among 40 of the most delightful minutes of my life. It's a damn shame it's taken nearly 30 years for someone to touch my ass like that. Well worth the wait.

I hope I won't always have to pay people to rub me the right way.

To top off the spa experience, a very nice lady prepared what they call a pearl bath for me. Again, I stripped and then placed myself into a magic bathtub that shot out little fizzy bubbles systematically through pinhole-like jets. Another full body massage of sorts. Made me tingle all over in a different way. The number of ways a gal can tingle in one weekend seems to increase exponentially in Karlovy Vary.

It's been a long time since I've slept so well. This spa trip was exactly what I needed: to get away from the tedious ego-bruising and back into my body. It's a good place to be again.

(Karlovy Vary also happens to be the home of becherovka, a beverage the Czechs like to refer to as the real Jaegermeister. It sure tastes like hell, but it ain't so bad mixed with tonic and drunk after several rounds of pivo. Oh the things one learns whilst abroad!)

Officially off my high horse.

2006-07-12T22:30:00.000-05:00

So I had my second workshop with Lopate today. It was impromptu--no one had read the piece ahead of time; I read it aloud.

And got cut down to size. Lopate nailed all the problems I didn't even know the piece had. Damn. He's good. Brutal. But my ego's wounded. I know what I have to do, but I need to wallow in self pity for a little while first.

It's a perfect moment for feeling sorry for myself because I washed all my clothes this afternoon and then realized I have nothing to wear but my party dress. So, I'm sitting around naked, trapped in the flat, crying when Kiki sends me a text message: ("Marin, yr an excellent writer. U w-shopped a brand new piece. It wasn't ready. U didn't live with it long enuf. It isn't bad. Stop beating yrself up"), and finally, listening to Madonna, as I'm wont to do when I need to shake myself out of a funk.

I found a spot in my room where I can steal someone's wifi.

Good idea or bad: a boilermaker of Gambrinus with a shot of Absinthe? You decide. I imbibe. Or not.

Oh, and I'm reading Ivan Klima's Love and Garbage. It's not resonating with me. Anybody read it? He's giving a reading and a lecture as part of the program.

Today I tutored a Czech high school student--yet another unpaid job that landed in my life. But she's adorable, young, precocious, delightful. And she worships me. So we had a working lunch after my workshop. It was a good distraction for a little while.

I need to get out of town. Today I hate Prague. I hate writing. I hate the sun.

Tomorrow I'm going swimming. I feel so disconnected to the myriad parts of myself that make me feel like myself. Being focused and committed to writing is really scary when it's not going so well. I'm much more comfortable in a world in which I spread myself across lots of different activities. Here I'm just writing and walking and eating and drinking. I miss running and dancing and watching movies and mowing the lawn and wearing my beautiful shoes. It's tough to feel fabulous when you're wearing nothing but sensible shoes. And sweating all the time. And being told your writing is self-congratulatory and it needs work when you're used to applause for something you haven't worked that hard on. Damn it. I'm spoiled.

I've been dreaming about everything and everyone. Pointe shoes, broken teeth, embarking on unknown voyages.

I guess I'm still struggling to define and redefine myself in constantly changing circumstances and contexts. And asking myself, "What good am I?" It's hard to remember when you're separated from the things and people and routines and sensations and language that make you feel at home.

Where is my home?

2006-07-09T18:35:00.000-05:00

I didn't actually touch him, but I got awfully close to Vaclav Havel during the ceremony in which WMU gave him and Arnost Lustig honorary doctorates.

The middle three dudes, from left to right are Havel, the program director, and Lustig:

It's a strange phenomenon--to witness history and have an awareness of it at the same time.

And then there's one's own personal history. Friday night I kicked off the student reading series.

I had written a new piece the night before about my grandmother and her body. The theme of this year's program is home, homeland (security) and its relation to artistic ambition. We've been listening to people talk about Czech and Central European national identity in various lectures and conversations, and the idea of home and homeland as a woman, a mother, a feminine figure keeps coming up. And this notion has invariably been created and perpetuated by dudes. So I started to wonder, "what must home be for a woman?" Then I thought about Virginia Woolf's quote "As a woman I have no country. As a woman my country is the whole world." So then it occurred to me that the only home a woman knows, really, is her own body, which is in large part, psychically created by her own mother. Are you following me here? So that's why I went back--remembering my own sense of a physical self through my mother's mother.

The new piece was well received. Today I'm working on more new stuff. I'm looking forward to a second workshop with Lopate.

Just for kicks, here's Kiki sitting on the roof of our local.

He's such a good kid. He kept me from joining a stag party of 20 tattoed Brits yesterday afternoon. We went home and ate curried chicken with dhal and more beers out of small glasses. I am like fucking MacGyver in that pathetically underequipped kitchen. Then we watched Germany pummel Portugal and turned in. We're both recovering from weird colds. Beer and ice cream seem to be helping.

I miss my Sunday NYT and CBS Sunday morning. I think I'll check them out online. Happy Sunday!

Got what I came for.

2006-07-06T19:57:00.000-05:00

Had my first workshop with Phillip Lopate yesterday, and after he made another lady cry with his blunt dislike for her work ("This didn't work for me at all. Show me something else if you want."), he delighted in my manuscript, stroked my fragile little ego, and gave me some real guidance on where to go from here. Although he did say something like "When writing's this good, just keep going, go for it. I don't have much to say about marvelous work."

This is wonderful for a couple of reasons:

1. Duh.
2. Having worked with a mentor who confessed to falling in love with me and then mercilessly manipulating me (okay, I know I had to be complicit to some extent), I began to question if what he had to say about my writing was actually about my writing, or if it was about his doing anything to make me submit to his desires. Buttering me up, so to speak. Well, now it doesn't matter, because someone I respect much more than him has validated my project in a huge way.
3. Yikes! Maybe I am a real writer.

Whatever that means. I guess I realize I suffer from having been a young, lousy "poet" and playwright who then became a philosophy major who mastered mediocre academic writing, only to go to journalism school where they beat that shit out of me (thank God) so I could become a working journalist. It's only now that I've taken the real risk of attempting literature, telling the story I've needed to tell since I can remember in an artful way. You never know with your own work whether it's any good until a trusted reader gets his hands on it. And trust is something I've questioned and wrestled with a lot lately.

So, this isn't an end point, not at all. I'm not in this to be told I'm good. I'm in this to get something done. And I'm ready to keep going.

In other news, I'm getting more and more adjusted to the place, to the culture. Kiki, delicate flower that he is, is also making a valiant effort to quit being a poopy puppy and overcome his homesickness and desperate loneliness and isolation in being away from his boyfriend. Yesterday we ate: pastries for breakfast, crepes for lunch, and a much needed dinner of grilled meat at a Columbian joint a block from home--all at outdoor cafes; found H&M, Marks and Spencer, and a Sephora (hot damn!); got ice cream twice; and watched what we think was a Czech movie on cable. We also walked eleventyfive miles and had our first really good night's sleep. Today I cooked scrambled eggs with veggies for breakfast and I'm working on ratatouille with couscous for dinner. It's fun playing house with someone again. We also attempted to use the Czech washing machine in the flat, but I think we ended up deep frying our clothes.

Good thing we already found the H&M.

Tomorrow I give a reading, and I better figure out what in the hell to read. I might just write something new. They say not to do that, but I do lots of things people warn against, much to my own delight.

What's going on with y'all?

Praha!

2006-07-01T12:32:00.000-05:00

I arrived, safe and sound, and fully capable of blogging again after a good night's sleep. Apartment's fine, the city's fine; I'm plugged into the program that starts officially tomorrow; I've hooked up with some friends from back home, yay! Had my first couple of beers in this country, and life is good.

This is the view from my apartment:

Enjoy!

Live from Schipol

2006-06-30T12:00:00.000-05:00

How is it that Europeans can smell clean yet not perfumy amid a cloud of cigarette smoke?

And why didn't it occur to me that I would find it very difficult to spend a four-hour layover in a very small place within a very small country from which HB hails? A place that happens to be filled with people and things and general quirkyness that simply pummels me with HBness?

Yeah. I don't know, either. But it's enough to drive a gal to smoke. And drink. And hang out with rugby players at the airport bar. Okay, not really. I'm too grumpy. But maybe that'll be next--cheer me the hell up!

WiFi's pricier here: 10 euro for the day. But still worth it for killing time, kids.

I didn't sleep a wink on the plane. Instead I read the drivel that I'll be workshopping for the next two weeks. How about a 58-year-old woman from Houston's book-length memoir about the month she spent in spiritual retreat writing and teaching yoga in Ireland after she finally got her college degree. Could be inspiring, could be right up my alley, right? But instead it's full of horrid cliches and wonderment at the leprechaunian magic and spirits in the hills and blah, blah, blah. I don't know how not to rip her a new asshole.

Maybe I just need some sleep.

I've got to get off my high horse. But she's calling the friggin' thing "And that would be Ireland." As if. Why can't people try to be experts about themselves and themselves alone, albeit in different contexts, instead of trying to write about entire peoples and cultures with sweeping generalizations as if they know anything about anything? Huh?

And why have I encountered birds flying around my head and perching near me in two out of three airports I've been in this trip? And a toad in my garage (no, that is not a euphemism for anything! although I'd take it if it were more delightful than the fright I got in finding the damn thing hop out from under a garbage bag this morning.)?

I also watched two in-flight movies: Failure to Launch--nice eye candy in the form of one of my favorite Texans, Matthew McConnaughey, and his oddly long torso, but otherwise stupid; and a fucking fabulous documentary on The Ballet Russe. Those dancers seem to get it right so much of the time. Except when they start marrying their directors and choreographers. Bad, very bad. But they still manage to live for-practically-ever and keep dancing in some form or another into their dang 90s. Amazing. Loved it. Loved the history, seeing the costumes, style, bodies change over the 20th century.

I think I might need to tell somebody I'm here and planning to transfer onto my flight to Prague. Laters y'all.

On the road again

2006-06-29T20:13:00.000-05:00

How much do I love travelling with my laptop + WiFi? The Northwest Airlines wing of Detroit Metro rawks! I thought I was going to have to join the fancy elite club for the day (at a cost of $45) to get online, but noooo. Just $7.95 will get you full-out, all-over access for the day. Yay!

So, I've been able to take care of some business--research, write and file a story for the paper back home. Yes, it's true. I conducted interviews two hours before my flight and the story is due tomorrow. What?

I'm bringing my cell phone (although don't call my U.S. number--I'll be picking up a local SIM card/number), digital camera, ipod, laptop abroad. This looks and feels so different than the first time I hopped across the pond 11 years ago. It's weird. But fun. I have become so high maintenance in a single decade. If I keep going at this rate, I'll have to hire someone to cart around my luggage.

Naw, I did pretty well. Shoes, gadgets and cosmetics comprise the bulk of my necessities. I'll be glad to have them, no doubt, and Kiki has agreed to bring my laptop back to the 'States a month before I return.

So for July, anyway, I plan to keep y'all informed and perhaps even bring some photos. You can see some of what I'll be seeing! How dang cool is that?

Well, I take off for Amsterdam in a little over an hour, arrive 8:30 a.m. local time, kill four hours doing God knows what (I got Euros burning a hole in my pocket already--left over from trip to Dublin in March), and then Praha at 12:30! Someone will pick me up (holding a placard with my name on it, yay!), take me to Kiki's and my digs for the month, and then I'll probably cash out for a good while. Kiki gets in Saturday morning. Our first stops will be: pivo!, church made of human bones, sex museum. In that order, methinks.

I'll keep you posted, although I can't promise a lot. The more fun one has, the less one writes in my experience. Living and creating take up the same energy. . . .

long overdue update

2006-06-09T13:58:00.000-05:00

Madnes has taken over for the past couple of weeks. Finishing up the term, getting grades in, taking on freelance writing and grading(!) jobs (if only I got paid $20 a paper in my real job), attempting to finalize arrangements in Europe (unsuccessfully) and all the other usual bullshit.

So that's why you haven't heard from me.

And my laptop is fucked. Again. Needs to get shipped off for repairs. Again.

After sending off a cashier's check to a friend of my screenwriting prof to secure a sublet, he informed me that his landlord is pissed and it's a no go. I had planned on staying there for two months. This has caused me to reconceive my entire trip. Good thing I hadn't made hard travel plans. And he did send the check back.

Fuck it. I wish I could control these things, but I can't. I think I've gotten another place--more expensive and just for one month, but it'll do. Maybe I'll just take out a loan and wander around until the wedding in France. I could hit a lot of places I've never seen in Germany, Austria, Hungary, Poland, maybe even Italy. I could skip all that and go straight to Istanbul. I could do a spa tour. . . . I could shack up with a fabulous someone who has several country homes in which I could choose to live for a while. Who the hell knows?

I don't even know if I have time to take care of all the things I need to take care of. Finishing stuff now and preparing for what will come in the fall (I return the week classes start). Oy! Why do I do this to myself?

Oh, that's right. Because I love challenge and change and all the good that can come of it. But now is the scary stuff. The not knowing. I like to know it all, have all the information in front of me, but alas, ce n'est pas possible! Oh shit! I need to brush up on my French, too. . . . !

The good news is I'm also having fun. I went to see KiKi's new play last night and he is a fucking genius. The whole theatre laughed so hard they cried. I love having smart, talented, funny friends. Is there anything better?

And I'm hoping to escape for a little while to Chicago. It's Bluesfest weekend, people! See you there?

How does it all go wrong?

2006-05-28T13:03:00.000-05:00

Last night I was awakened by a man and a woman screaming at each other two houses down. I had my upstairs bedroom window open, and with the expanse of quiet lake outstretched in my backyard, I could hear every word. It sounded like a perhaps drunken argument about the man's infidelities. I just wanted them to shut the hell up so I could go back to sleep. I thought about stepping outside and yelling that at them. But I knew that would just give them an opportunity to direct their anger at me. I listened, hoping they might quickly make nice and indeed, shut the hell up. But after about 30 seconds I knew this argument would only escalate. I was awakened by the woman screaming a string of obscenities at a rather quiet man; after a minute or two, the man started yelling threats.

So, I turned on the light, found the phone book in the pile of books on either side of my bed, and I called the cops. They took my name and number, which made me a little nervous that I'd get located as the narc, but fuck it. By the time I made the phone call, I knew somebody might end up dead. And by the time the police arrived, the woman was pleading with the man. "I can't breathe, get off me!" The man responded by ordering her to breathe. She was crying and screaming. Then the cops announced their arrival and yelled at him to get off her.

Meanwhile, I'm lying in my bed with my heart racing, knowing that I might have saved that woman's life by calling the cops.

Sometimes it's a tough call--figuring out when to step in during someone else's fight. Hasn't everyone who has lived in an apartment--on top and beneath others--had to face this question? Hell, I went walking in the woods near my house last week and I came upon a man and woman on the path. She stood with her arms crossed and head down. He towered above her, shaking his finger at her and admonishing her for something. I wanted to tell him to knock it off. The remote location, the body language, all seemed dangerous to me. But I just walked by, looping back around to listen if things had gotten worse. I couldn't find them again.

I could have clipped him at the knees, yelled at him, questioned them both about what was going on. Why didn't I? Well, I couldn't hear what they were saying. He had clearly placed himself in a self-righteous stance above her. Could it have been for good reason? Doubtful, but possible. I tend to believe no one has reason for arrogance or self-righteousness, but maybe she really fucked up. But does any adult have the right to treat another adult that way?

Still, it didn't seem like my place to step in. Should I have? What should I have done? It took me off guard. And I worried for my own safety. I usually am, but mostly I'm on the lookout for deer--I nearly got trampled by a family of four white-tailed deer racing across the trail after being spooked by the ice-cream man and his incessantly playing "Pop Goes the Weasel."

I have no regrets about calling the cops last night. I heard one of the officers talking to the woman about what had gone on. It sounds like she threw a beer bottle at the guy during some point in the argument. The cop tried to explain to her what a bad idea that was--that egging on a drunk dude is asking for trouble. She raised her voice at the cop and asked if he thought that made it okay for the dude to sit on her chest, or whatever the hell he was doing. The cop said no, but again, tried to explain what part she played in the altercation and how not to get into that situation again.

This is an old, complicated tactic, I think. After working in rape crisis, I bought the line that rape isn't about sex, it's about violence. Yes, but it also uses sex as violence. Getting raped is different than getting smacked around. Different effect, different intent. Both horrible. But I've also heard well-intentioned people trying to explain to women how to dress or not dress, behave or not behave, to fend off rape. Well, that gets a little murkier for me. Yes, women need to be taught to be smart, to not go home with strangers thinking they might just cuddle, to trust their instincts more than they trust what men say to get them into bed when they don't want to go there. But women don't make men rape them. Period.

Should women be able to behave any way they want? Showing up in the middle of the night wearing tight little red dresses, throwing beer bottles, screaming obscenities, making accusations and still remain safe? Yes. But do they? Often, no. So should we all be taught to be accountable for our actions? Absolutely. But what this actually means is where things get really tricky. In this state, the law says a person is incapable of giving consent to sex while intoxicated. So when a couple gets shitfaced and then fucks, who is the perpetrator?

A few weeks ago the Sunday NYT magazine ran a cover story about contraception--about fundamentalist rejection of contraception and its relationship to abortion. It was an incredibly well done piece--deeply historical and complex. I had my students read it and discussion went like this: the women in class had a lot to say; the men mostly remained silent. Then, one female student raised the idea that heterosexual sex is implicitly rape. Good God! I've read all the theory behind it, I get it, but is there any quicker way to shut up a bunch of smart, scared man-boys in a classroom discussion?

This is my problem with the direction the women's movement has taken on college campuses: victimization. Sanctioned victimhood leads to divisiveness full stop. Led by women who have felt like victims their whole lives, young women realize how they've been victimized, and they all get together as a bunch of victims feeling sorry for themselves and angry at a nebulous other. Can someone tell me how this is progress? What about recognizing oppression and then doing what it takes to overturn it, to fight against it, to live with dignity in the face of it? That should look very different than victimization.

But so now what? How does a person keep herself safe yet remain open to deep, abiding love? One must make allow oneself to be vulnerable in order to reap life's greatest rewards. But how do we do that and remain safe? Rely on the kindness of strangers, on caring (and tired, pissed-off) neighbors to call the cops? Rely on the cops to teach us personal accountability?

Where do we go from here?

man bashing

2006-05-25T17:10:00.000-05:00

But you won't hear it from me.

I'm getting it from all around. Mostly from badly wounded, scorned, divorced women who--I think--have given up on themselves but cloak it in the straight man bashing. It's bumming me out, man. That kind of "down with love" "all men are after is pussy" "they are not compassionate, thinking human beings" "they all have an agenda" bullshit is so goddamn divisive.

Where is the learning in that? Where is the personal accountability?

Oh if only blame could honestly fall on someone else all the time. How about no blame? Okay, so it's way harder and painful to own up to how we've all fucked things up for ourselves. But then when you scratch the surface and dig deeper, you can figure out that each ruinous date, relationship, whatever you once sought represented a piece of you, showed that piece to you, fulfilled a particular need or desire. Own that shit! Then move on.

. . . so says the girl who has gone on a handful of cheap and boring casual dates since her self-imposed break up damn near two years ago.

Today is HB's birthday. Today and tomorrow. He's a Gemini; don't ask. But that's what this is about. Yesterday I smelled him all day long. And I swear, I didn't douse myself in his cologne. I leaned over the staircase to listen for him downstairs; I was utterly convinced he was in the house. Then at my office, I kept smelling him. Weird. Haunting. Sick, perhaps.

I wrote a new chapter today. The first since my trip to Dallas. It started out being about the day my dad told me he was moving out, and it turned into a remembrance of my early girlhood crushes, including Jim from kindergarten who puked in class, causing me to abruptly love him no more; Michael Jackson and my 7-year-old's personal Thriller fantasy; the werewolf from "An America Werewolf in London"; Brian, the next door neighbor who treated me like a younger brother and then fell in love with another Betty from the block, dammit; and ever-pretty River Phoenix.

For the most part, they were weird creeps. Terrifying and thrilling at once. Nothing changes, do it? So how can I rightfully bash someone else for my choosing him, huh?

Day of Gracious Living

2006-05-23T12:21:00.000-05:00

Here at the little institution where I work, a place that likes to refer to itself as "the Harvard of the Midwest", we have a long-standing tradition of calling off work for one day, unannounced until the night before by the student council president, so that we who are so privileged and work so hard may live graciously.

Pffft.

Originally intended to get all the spoiled brats off their duffs and into the real world, the day once meant that students, faculty and staff left the classrooms and offices and got together for a big community project. Volunteering. Building a house. Planting flowers. Stuff like that. Now pretty much everybody goes to the beach and gets shitfaced.

Not a bad way to spend a day.

But not for me. Instead, yesterday I sat wearing a cashmere hoodie under the sun in my backyard and read this. I could. Not. Put it down. I can't figure out why I hadn't read it before now.

Sonofabitch.

I still have serious questions about Capote's reportage. How he could reconstruct so many of those quotes without taping and without taking notes. Now I've got to read this.

And this.

But soon I'll be reading loads and loads of Czech writers. In English. Although I've signed up for a Czech language class. What fun! I'll be expanding my understanding of Czech culture and literature beyond what my high school obsession with Milan Kundera offered me. And I'll know how to communicate more than "Beer, please!" (although knowing just that phrase, as well as "toilets?", in tongues native to the countries in which I've travelled has gotten me very far. Far as I wanted to go, anyway.)

I may have secured a sublet in Prague for much cheaper than I expected. And I have an opportunity to keep it longer than the one month I'll be working. I'm starting to think that may be the best option for me. Instead of flitting off to hard-to-reach islands or Eurorailing it across Western Europe, I might just plan to stay grounded in Prague; do trips from there to Eastern Europe; see new things, new people; position myself to take a lover; and have a hell of a lot of fun. Without spending all the money I don't even have. That'll leave me just enough time to skeedaddle off to the South of France by the end of August. . . .

Is it just me?

2006-05-18T11:57:00.000-05:00

Or do posh English boys all seem gay?

I just watched this. And all those menfolk threw off my gaydar. Except for him. But he's Irish, so that explains that. Oh so pretty, although the least pretty among a beautiful bunch of Irish actors making it on the silver screen.

Who knew those boys were both Geminis? Figures.

God help me.

Dallas did not kill me.

2006-05-13T04:45:00.000-05:00

But the trip has given me pause.

Here are the facts of the matter:

1. Bono wore a shiny yellow tie with a black shirt and suit to address the World Affairs Council in Dallas May 5. I pulled the press card, got myself a press packet and a VIP invite to a reception following the event. I giddily thought about what I'd say to himself, something I've pondered for a good 20 years. I couldn't figure it out. Luckily, he didn't show to the party. The anticipation was worth it, though. Whew!

He didn't say anything I hadn't heard or read before (one of the hazards of being a shameless stalker-fan). But being in his presence, observing his charm, his charisma was a great education.

2. I visited my hairdresser--the one who took care of me and my fuzz post-chemo. He's sick with all kinds of problems, but still the most loving, caretaking man. Love him! And any radical old queen who has survived growing up Southern Baptist in Plano, Texas and made a life for 28 years with the same partner in the small, oft-foresaken gay community of Dallas deserves props.

3. Ate lots of Tex-Mex. Drank margaritas and Shiner Bock and then made the mistake of sucking down more bourbon than is probably legal. Even in Texas. Drank so much Jim Beam that I fell out of bed, bruised my knee and got rugburn. That shit'll wake you up. Just in time to puke. It's been a long time since I've fallen out of bed.

4. Laughed, cried and fought with BFF. Love her, really do. I must. Cuz she's the only person I know of that I won't fight to a bloody pulp. I just roll over belly up like the dog I am. It's cuz I love her and she's the meanest, dirtiest fighter I know. I can't win with that shit. 'Course, check with her about her version. We have always lived and remembered two separate realities, even though we've always been girls together. That realization will certainly throw a non-fiction writer for a loop. I'm starting to believe there's no such thing as non-fiction. God damn.

And we still manage to have so much fun and laugh so hard we almost pee ourselves.

5. Went back to the hospitals where I was diagnosed, misdiagnosed and treated for cancer in 1994. Started the process of requesting medical records. Saw all those sick and dying kids. Again. Nothing'll light a hotter fire than survivor's guilt.

6. Revisted the old haunts: home, schools, the bar my dad managed when I was a kid, the apartments and houses I stayed in during my weekend visits with him. A lot of strangeness and sorrow there. Still. That bar still smells the same.

7. I ran into the kid who I knew would be my only connection to a long-lost friend the day after I said out loud, "Man if I could find Eric, I know I could find Erin." And then there he was, working in a bookstore I popped into. Crazy. I've got to start aiming higher.

8. Just to make things difficult, I decided to return to the jewelry store where HB bought my diamond ring to see if I could transform it or sell it back to them. Reclaiming that ring is one of my New Year's resolutions. But when I walked in and explained the situation to the skinny armed, tanned, fake-titted, fake fingernailed, big haired, overly made-up, typical North Dallas bitch wearing a diamond the size of her nose, she took pity on me. "Aaaaw. I'm so sorry, honey." See lady, pity is what I don't need from you. Then she explained that the ring doesn't look like an engagement ring as it is and any new design shouldn't look like an engagement ring, either. But that'll be hard with a solitaire diamond. And they can't reuse the platinum. And diamonds are like used cars in that they lose value as soon as you take them off the lot. Whatevers. Why can't the ring look how I want it to look, engagement ring or not? Why does it matter what other people think?

Which led me to the huge realization that Dallas is a place that values what things look like above all else. Has something to do with why the people are so pretty and tarted up and why they drive around in big, shiny cars and wear beautiful clothes and big hair and lots of make up. I like lots of that stuff, don't get me wrong. In fact, in the context of where I live, the folks around me consider me a girly-girl fashionista who obviously cares very much about appearances. But growing up I was a freak. I didn't fit any of the molds. I didn't buy into the importance of making everything seem fine when it wasn't. And most importantly, I've always been more concerned about how things feel and what they mean above all else. I've sought the connection between beauty and truth instead of valuing one or the other on its own. Okay, that might be stretching things a bit, but I think reconciling the two has, in many ways, been my life's work.

Just to take things entirely into the theoretical.

I have, no doubt, been shaped by that culture, the place, the heat, the concrete, the green, manicured lawns, the lack of water, the politics, the dust bowl of the city's soul, my friends and family--those who have never left, and those who have died. But I very deliberately chose to leave. And that may say more than anything else.

I have gone back, and I likely will continue to go back. The place and I get along better now. Demons can become lovers. And I can remain the same no matter where I go.

The Big D

2006-05-03T10:43:00.000-05:00

. . . as in Death March. I don't know that I've ever articulated this before, but every time I go to Dallas I feel like I'm going home to die. Especially this time.

I have no parents there anymore; although my very real, consistent, tender and tough family in the form of my BFF/sistergirl does indeed live there still, in a house in which I feel very much at home, with her darling husband and dog and baby-to-be. I will be the most horrifyingly doting, smothering, adoring, wacky auntie that ever was. Mark my words.

So I'm going back, back, back to the hospitals where I was treated for the dreaded cancer that did not manage to kill me. I'm going back to the places where I learned to numb myself, to separate from my body, to trust in my own strength and despise my vulnerability. I'll be looking at it all square in the face.

But before then, and because of my neurotic fear that I might not return alive, I'm tying up as many loose ends as possible around here. I'm spending time telling the people I love how much I love them; I'm seeking resolution with the stupid fuckers who think they love me but nearly destroy me instead.

So I'm embodying a place of deep compassion, but that scares me a little, too. I worry that the closer I get to some kind of enlightenment or self-actualization or whatever the hell you want to call it, the faster Death will come and take me away. I have an irrational belief that each of us has been put here to take care of certain cosmic business, and as I tick off each thing, I wonder what's left. Don't get me wrong, I don't think that I have finished everything or attained enlightenment (God help us all if this is what it looks like), but who knows, really, what the end will be.

All kinds of people attempt to reassure me about things like love and life and death, and I appreciate it. Really, I do. And I listen. I honor other people's experiences and the narratives they tell themselves about those experiences. But mostly it doesn't hold a lot of water for me. It's not that "nobody knows the trouble I've seen." That's bullshit. It's that I'm a journalist who believes in empirical evidence. And I listened to a whole lot of Motown as a kid. I believe what I see, what I experience. And then only half of that.

Yet none of it really explains any of the existential questions. So I'm going deeper. Attempting to anyway. I'm seeking the contours of my own heart. For me that means paying attention to right now and looking back to discover what the path to right now has been.

And then what?

I'll keep you posted.

Women on Testosterone are Hawt.

2006-04-30T05:10:00.000-05:00

This is probably what the headline of the the story I filed yesterday for the local paper should have read. Maybe those overnight editor bitches wouldn't have edited out the heart (along with 3/4 of the copy) and buried the goddamned story on B12. I had been promised 25 inches of front-page newshole for this pup.

I have got to start publishing somewhere else. In fact, I think I'll start sending out the original piece I wrote about the first ever FTM (female-to-male) Transgender Conference in the state. Actually it was the first transgender conference full stop in the state, perhaps the friggin' region. I'll have to look that up.

But it was a beautiful thing to see so many people who had felt so isolated come together to talk openly about their struggles, their identities, their attempts to show up in this world and be loved--truly--for who they are. They were kind, compassionate and generous--so eager to educate and make me, and through me, the community comfortable in their presence. It would never have occurred to me to judge any one of them. I see them as heroes.

So after I turned around the story in two hours for my deadline, I bought groceries and picked up "Breakfast on Pluto," a film I had already watched twice. Now I have watched it four times, once with commentary by Neil Jordan and Cillian Murphy. A part of me wants to drop out of everything I know, go off, dream it all up again, and then enroll in film school. Maybe. Although I don't think I have the vision to produce and direct. I'm just a friggin' writer after all. But I see so many similarities in theme and scope between my screenplay in progress and "Pluto."

I know it sounds like I might be leading up to an announcement that I am planning to become a man, but this is in fact not the case. Yes, I'm a gay cowboy on the inside, but I'm one of those gay cowboys who likes dressing up all girly and dating manly men. I learned yesterday that there are actually four male-female continuums upon which we must locate ourselves. Or so said the massage therapist trans man who I think really just wanted to know where I fell on those continuums so he could figure out what kind of massage I might let him give me. Meh. No go. Too bad, though. Because it would seem that a man who has had the experience of living in a woman's body might be the most compassionate and ideal mate for a straight gal. Who the hell knows. I've never seen an ideal mate of any kind whatsoever, so I'll reserve judgment.

But back to "Pluto," the story of a trans woman abandoned by her mother in 1950s Ireland. In the context of 1970s Ireland at the height of "The Troubles" she begins a quest for her mother, but on the way finds herself through and despite cruel lovers, terrorism, hatred, disownment, abuse. . . . the most interesting part of it all is that she doesn't really have to find herself--she was there from the get go. She finds love and acceptance without changing who she is. Could there be a more triumphant story?

I sure as shit hope mine makes its way to the same ending. Damn.

I've had a strange week. Spent most of my energy kindly fighting off unwanted sexual advances from an authority figure without compromising my dignity and work. Friday I was as close to emotional exhaustion as I think I've ever been. Then I hung out with the embracing trannies Saturday and that helped. Then the paper supremely fucked up my story and ran it with my byline. I'm pissed. And not getting any closer to finishing my final papers for a lit professor who has been so kind to grant me an extremely generous extension. I need a vacation. I've been working too hard on every possible level. Still hussling to make ends meet, though. Crazy.

Could someone please arrange for more money than I need to fall on my lap without strings attached? Please and thank you.

In the meantime, I'll continue to do everything I can not to abandon myself in the midst of intense emotional chaos. I guess it's all I can do.

Existential Crisis #472, inspired by Cyndi Lauper

2006-04-25T12:31:00.000-05:00

I’ve been thinking about the pop icons I grew up with, the music, the culture, and there’s all kinds of stuff there. I was thinking about Madonna, because she is the biggest, most obvious female icon of the era, but she didn’t really do much for me until I got much older. I started paying attention to her in college, really. I was aware of her when I was a kid—“Like a Virgin” was a song I remember my friends' parents banning; censorship was never part of the rules in my household. I remember the “Material Girl” video and learning from my mother that Madonna was ripping off Marilyn Monroe in “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes,” a film I didn’t see until I was in middle school, a film which now I know by heart. I can sing all its songs and recite all the dialogue verbatim.

The first Christmas I spent with my dad after my parents divorced, it was just the two of us in his little apartment overlooking a golf course. He gave me a stereo, among all kinds of other trinkets. It had a cassette player, a turntable and two speakers, all of which could be tucked up to form a kind of suitcase. A transportable thing, the first of many gifts that I could take with me wherever I went. With the stereo, he gave me the Madonna record, “You Can Dance.” It’s the one with the red sleeve, and she’s dressed in black, posed as if she's about to spin around. In addition to the happy title song, “Holiday” is on the album, and it remains the most joyous song I’ve ever heard. It unfailingly inspires me to dance with abandon every time I hear it. But Madonna’s more of an afterthought in the culture of my coming of age.

If I think of the pop icons that I really connected with in the early ‘80’s, I come up with Cyndi Lauper, Tina Turner, Michael Jackson, Boy George and Wham. Gay boys and tough broads. All carving their own way and celebrated for it. I loved performing for my parents and their friends, and my favorite role was Tina. I’d tease out my hair, put on some sunglasses and a shiny, hot pink unitard, grab a bottle or anything as a microphone, stand up on the piano bench and sing “What’s Love Got to Do with It?” My mother had seen Tina play clubs in San Francisco and loved her. They both had those gorgeous legs.

But Cyndi Lauper felt closer to me. If my mother had allowed it, I would have colored my hair red and yellow. My punk style was more Cyndi than it was Madonna. For my 7th birthday party, I invited kids over to the house, but they had to come dressed punk. Most of them misunderstood the costume requirement, so it was a bunch of first graders in polo shirts and khaki shorts and me with my hair as big as I could get it wearing evening gloves with the fingers cut off, pink leggings under a short, poufy skirt and a short, lacy blazer over a ripped t-shirt. I distinctly remember having a huge, rhinestone pin that spelled out PARIS pinned to my lapel. “She’s So Unusual” was my favorite record, and I played it nonstop. My mother took me to see her perform at the Bronco Bowl in Ft. Worth when I was 8 or 9. I remember weeping at the sight of Cyndi in the flesh—overwhelmed by that feeling that she was singing to me and me alone, that somehow I was plugging in to her. I couldn’t speak after the performance and I don’t think I ever articulated how powerful the event had been for me.

In fact, I forgot about Cyndi Lauper, like the rest of the world, until last week when I read in the New York Times that she is performing on Broadway in Three Penny Opera. She’s 52 now, married and a mom. But she’s ballsy as ever, pushing her own boundaries, doing what she loves whether or not she receives the recognition or the credit for what she’s doing. (Some say Madonna ripped off Cyndi’s vocal, dance and fashion style and gave her no credit).

But I decided to revisit Cyndi Lauper. I found a CD of hers at the grocery store of all places, on sale for $7.99. After I loaded up my car with the salmon, eggs and green beans I bought, I popped in the disc. “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” took me back 20 years in a flash, and tears streamed down my cheeks beneath my sunglasses. In the song, the girl’s parents are nagging her about what she’s going to do with her life and she pleads with them: she just wants to have fun. But the subtext is she never really does. And here I am, 20 years later, still wondering what I’m going to do with my life, wondering when I’m going to have fun.

What is thought of as such a light, joyous pop song made me tap into my own deep melancholia, something I rarely do these days, certainly not publicly. I thought of something my dad used to say to me. “Kid, you’re born into this world alone, and you die alone.” I always thought he was being melodramatic, but he’s right. But he didn’t take it far enough. What he didn’t say was you fucking live this life alone, too. And that’s where I am. Fucking 29 years old, alone, after escaping death, on a wild goose chase after life . . . I got nothing. What in the hell do I think I’m doing, anyway? Distracting myself from my own melancholia by attempting to beat the time with my own memory?

People rarely see my deep sadness because my mother has taught me by example how to hide it and my father has always demanded that I “fake it until you make it.” Make it where? And how? I suspect the quest is itself the destination, but right now that’s simply not enough. There’s too much grief for it to make sense. And what’s the fucking point of it? If I were truly Catholic, I’d say it’s the suffering, the suffering and subsequent compassion that is the point. But I’ve done that and so what? I’m in it, living it, and so what? A real Catholic believes in the resurrection, believes in everlasting life in the Kingdom of Heaven, but I joined the Church for the ritual and I never bought into any of that shit. I see no prize awaiting me. I don’t live according to some reward system.

Most of the time I take great pleasure in small things: the way the soft light of spring illuminates a budding daffodil; a great guitar riff, played too loudly; the tender touch or kind word of a dear friend. But when I am not in the immediate presence of those things, when I feel I’ll break from the absence, I can no longer muster the false hope, the optimism that comes so naturally to me.

And I wonder, what the fuck do I think I’m doing? What does it matter? Who am I to be so arrogant to think I have something to say? Do I have something to say? Or does the world have something to say to me? Journalism is so much safer—its importance is implicit. But what is the purpose of revisiting my own darkness? To what end . . . ?

I fear there is no end—that this book project is insurmountable, that I’m fooling myself, spinning my wheels, that there isn’t even an ending because it hasn’t yet played out. So why write it down? The answer can’t be my own therapy, because who gives a shit? If I do it, if I don’t do it, if I finish, if I never finish . . . I’m still alone, an only child, alone with a darker, deeper streak of melancholia that cannot be shaken.

Neglected.

2006-04-22T12:42:00.000-05:00

I return to you, dear bloggy friends, because I have missed you, yes. But why today in particular? Because I am on deadline and have already done the following in stalling writing this friggin' piece:

*cleaned the kitchen, including the floor
*had a good, long soak and shaved practically every damn thing that can be shaved on my body
*blew out my hair
*changed my outfit 3 times, and I have no plans to leave the house today at all
*ate every cookie in the house
*paced around in my slippers
*made lots of phone calls, mostly left messages
*booked the flights for my 2006 European Summer Extravaganza
*conducted a lengthy google search on "Phantom of the Opera" (ick) (for the review I'm stalling on writing)

What's left? A run, but I'm too full of ginger snaps for that.

Blogging.

Since the last post:

*HB came to town, called me "Baby" despite my protestations, then got caught (by me) talking on the phone to someone else apparently named "Baby", then he took me to dinner and confessed that he has always and continues to love me (pfft), then he emptied the house and drove back to Boston in a big truck filled with all kinds of shit that I used to use. Like a dining room table. As BFF said, "Now you've got a blank canvas and more room to dance." God, I love that girl. Speaks the truth, so she does.
*a very important figure in my life who also happens to hold a position of authority over me, confessed that he has fallen in love with me.
*I went to Confession. For the first time in many years.
*after doing the Stations of the Cross, on my knees. That's right, people. It was me getting crucified this Good Friday.
*I finished one of my teaching gigs for the year. Bye, bitches!
*And still no word on the job front, but there's been all kinds of proposing and rallying and potential movement surrounding the positions I hold. We'll see.

Geez. That's enough, isn't it?

Next week is finals week, so I'm hastily trying to finish up my own classwork. Oy. I can't wait for summer.

Sitting on it.

2006-04-11T11:42:00.000-05:00

Thank you for your well wishes and encouragement; and to those of you who tried to play the devil's advocate (you know who you are and you've always played the role so well), thank you for relenting and finally agreeing with me. See, this is what I do. I make up my mind and then tell everyone I know what the situation is, ask for their reaction, and then proceed to persuade them to see it my way. It's like if I succeed with my powers of persuasion, then I convince myself that I'm right.

And since there really is no formal offer, I have no decision to make. Things could change a dozen times before I get a chance to make a choice.

In the meantime, much more wonderful things are in the works. I am spending July in Prague teaching and networking with famous, fabulous writers. Woot! One of my dearest, most fabulous friends is getting married in France at the end of August. Hooray! This means two things for me: 1)I get to buy a new hat, and 2)I get to find a way to kill a month in Europe, cuz I'm not shelling out summer European airfare twice. I already have two pretty solid options: stay on in Prague and babysit or bartend in a friend's latest business venture south of Dublin. I'm leaning toward Irish pub life. Duh.

Can anyone out there propose any other options?

And HB is breezing into town to pick up his furniture. This means: an emptier house (I'm a slave to others' absence) and greater liberation from the ex whom I still love but choose not to be with. I'm looking forward to seeing him, and eager to observe myself in his presence. I feel like such a different woman than the one I embodied when we were together. The only way I can describe it is I'm more in possession of my power. And it's thanks to deliberate time away from an "other".

Have I mentioned how much joy I find in being alone these days? Seriously. I am productive and producing exactly what I want, including a deeper understanding of what it is I want. Connecting to my own desire, not someone else's is incredible freeing. I highly recommend it.

Yesterday the sun shone, the birds sang, a warm breeze moved the newly blossomed daffodils and I hurried home after work to go for a run. It's all I wanted to do. That has never happened before. I run; I've trained for a marathon; I exercise most days. Not because I love it, or particularly enjoy these things . . . I love what it does for me and the way I feel. But yesterday I longed for the doing of it, not the effect. And strangely, running the trails was a little hard, but I appreciated my breath and the way my body moved differently.

Thank God for spring. It changes everything and creeps up like a surprise every damn year.

Oh Sunday morning.

2006-04-09T12:19:00.000-05:00

Already--and it's just 10 a.m. in these parts--I'm weepy and reconsidering the way I think about the nature of art. All thanks to taking in CBS Sunday Morning and the New York Times, my weekly Sunday ritual. Thanks to Bill Flanagan, God love him, I've also downloaded two new albums from itunes. I've never bothered to figure out how to steal music, so I continue to buy it. I hope the artists--and not just Steve Jobs--get the money.

Which brings me to my latest dilemma: what does it cost to be an artist? Is it worth giving up security, stability, to chase a dream? How much faith and trust does it take?

Van Gogh sold one painting during his lifetime. Was it worth it? How do we define a good life? Would Van Gogh have had a better life if he'd trained to be an accountant? Would he have suffered less? Would he have been more comfortable?

Or for a person who is driven to create, is a life that denies them opportunity to create the equivalent of a death sentence? Selling themselves one day at a time, allowing the world to suck the living life out of them all in the name of a paycheck, a hot meal, the warding off of frostbite?

I am not a member of that privileged class of artists who can rely on a trust fund or a wealthy family as a safety net, so for me to turn down a position that doubles my salary and more or less guarantees a fast track in the most stable industry around is no small thing. Especially considering the amount of debt I'm in.

But what is more important: a debt-, frostbite-, hunger-free existence or doing what I love? I think denying my calling would create a deeper hunger in me that no amount of money or what it can buy could satisfy.

And what of truth and beauty? What does being a high-level college administrator have to do with that? So I could walk around in Ferragamos and get my hair done every week and furnish my home with antiques and drive a shinier car . . . and perhaps the education of others has something to do with beauty and truth--but whose?

What is it worth?

Up and running.

2006-04-08T20:42:00.000-05:00

Hooray! Laptop in hand and running at full throttle. I'm even online at home again.

But the day I thought I might lose her for good (and found out I indeed lost 6000 words of my book manuscript for good), I made myself feel better with bon bons and lipstick. That's right. There ain't much in this world that a newly purchased Chanel Barcelona Red and Rouge lip liner and a few Godiva chocolates can't temporarily soothe. And no headache or VD in the morning.

What's your quick fix?

Shell shocked

2006-04-07T15:33:00.000-05:00

Okay, so it's true. There's a real possibility, but no concrete offer of a new position with lots more money and perhaps less work. But it's in an entirely different direction than where I thought I was headed. Means full time administrative work, no more teaching journalism. Or still teaching journalism, but for no more money--just cuz I love it and want to do it.

Ugh. I hate administrative work.

I just have to keep thinking about the father's speech in "Long Day's Journey Into Night." He's lamenting the fact that he could have been a Shakespearean actor, but he's ended up a hack who has played the same role over and over again because it made him a good living. He ends with "What is it I wanted to buy that was worth. . . . "

This haunts me.

I'm calling my therapist.

Out the door

2006-04-07T14:48:00.000-05:00

. . . and on my way to a meeting with a very powerful man. This could be good; this could be bad.

I've been summoned. And I don't know why. But I know it's important enough for the original meeting to have been moved up a week with one day's notice.

In the next half hour I might discover a big professional shake up in my life. Let's hope that means a big, fat raise and lighter workload. C'est possible?

Oui!

Disappeared.

2006-04-04T11:34:00.000-05:00

So the thing about living is when you're all caught up in it, it's hard to find time to reflect on it. Or write about it. Whatever. I've been spending time writing about the past and finding myself where I am now through what I remember of the past, but I ain't publishing that stuff here. So, I'll update y'all on the past two-ish weeks that I've been away:

1. Paddy's Day: aka my coming out to my creative writing program. With a too-low cut top and shamrocks stuffed into my cleavage (for coverage, people!), I stood in front of colleagues, friends, family and enemies and presented my writing past and present. It went over well. At one point I looked up from the podium and saw my mom, Sher and Carlos in front of me, my philosophy mentor directly to my right and my current writing mentor to my left. It was a moment; I felt the love.

Then we all high tailed it back to my house for a fabaluss partay. Tex Mex and Irish music. Dancing and Drinking and Dining--the three d's essential to a good night. Fun, fun. Yay.

2. Screenplay workshop: I discovered that in writing Act One of my screenplay, I have given voice to my shadow side. She is unleashed. I was surprised that people's reaction to the thing has been, "Wow. This is dark. Every scene is sexually charged." Hmmmmm.

3. At one point in the past couple of weeks I paused, looked around (metaphorically speaking), and thought to myself, "God damn. I am exactly where I want to be, doing exactly what I've always wanted to be doing."

4. Technical difficulties: My digital camera's battery power is zip. I've had to replace the batteries four times in a month. So I returned it, and the guy exchanged it no problem. That night I discovered he sent me home with the same defective camera I brought in. The previous morning, my computer wouldn't boot. After three calls to AppleCare, a dozen calls to the tech guys at work, a borrowed firewire, a borrowed laptop, borrowed time on a colleague's top-of-the-line, souped up Mac, I realized that I could not solve the problem. The AppleCare guys treated me like a 'tard. I couldn't cope anymore. So I hightailed it to the nearest Apple store (an hour away) where a beautiful geek missing his trigger fingers listened to my baby like it was a human heart and then shook his head sadly. "This is not good," he said. Then he helped me transfer as many documents as possible onto my ipod, which also mysteriously, spontaneously shut down. You see, and I don't want any finger wagging, please, I had not backed up my stuff. My book manuscript, my screenplay, all my articles. We managed to rescue most of them, but not all of the book chapters. You see, the computer's hard drive has been dying, and some of those files were already dead.

But what can you do? Trust that the chapter will come out better the next time, pray that my baby come back from Memphis even stronger, and back up everything in three different places forevermore. Live and learn.

5. Chicago: the trip was abbreviated because of my technical difficulties. But it was a blast. Eating, drinking, not enough dancing, but lots of laughing with some of the people I love the most. Thanks Sid, Shas, Y, Carlos. Y'all are my kind of fun.

Thanks especially to Sid and Carlos for accompanying me to the ballet on Saturday. NYC's American Ballet Theatre was in town to put on "Le Corsaire" and it was divine. I had never seen the show or ABT in the flesh before. They're astoundingly glorious dancers, and I've never seen such a male-centered classical piece. Act Two has a pas de trois that is the hottest thing I've ever seen on stage. And as I said after act one: "I'm in heaven. A shirtless pirate heaven." Lord have mercy. And did I mention that we scored student tickets for $20 a piece that happened to be center orchestra seats--the best in the house? Chicago Civic Opera House is a glory. Go see something there if you get a chance. It's worth it just to look at the house ceiling.

I ran the Shamrock Shuffle Sunday--the first race of the new season--and had a personal best. An 8K under a 10-minute pace. Hot damn. I'm on fire. Started strong, ended strong. Then went for brunch and got drunk. Man, life is good.

6. I also started a new quarter at the private college where I teach. This means a new narrative journalism class, and I have a feeling this group is going to kick ass. I'm eager to get my hands on their eager young minds. . . .

Geez. There's all kinds of other stuff, too, but that should do it for now. I got my hairs cut and I did a presentation in a lit. class on Toni Morrison's novel, "Jazz", that went awfully well. Read that book. It's hot. And astounding in what it sets out to do and what it actually accomplishes. Great writing changes the temperature of my blood as I'm reading. Whew!

Oh, and remember Bono? We have a date May 5. In my hometown.

And the daffodils are blooming where I can see them everyday.

Okay. That's enough for now, methinks. Thanks for your patience and sorry that I've neglected you.

I hope all y'all have had a less eventful time the past couple of weeks.

Or do I?

Happy Paddy's Day from Dallas

2006-03-16T16:44:00.000-05:00

Via my Da:

"Late news, in case you hadn't heard:

Kinky was Grand Marshall at the Greenville Avenue
Thanks Paddy's Day Parade last weekend. Someone handed
him a Guinness, and he took a good long pull from it.

Now, some people (Baptists, presumably, or others who
would like to drink but don't, except secretly) are
raising a stink because it's illegal to drink an
alcoholic beverage in public in Dallas.

Kinky's response: 'Guinness is the drink that kept the
Irish from taking over the world. It would be
unthinkable not to have a Guinness during a St.
Patrick's Day parade. In fact, it would be spiritually
wrong.'"

I suggest we all move (back)to Texas (if we don't already live there) just so we can vote for this most righteous man. How 'bout it, y'all?

Comfort.

2006-03-16T01:00:00.000-05:00

I've taken to bed with regularity these days. It's the only way I can bribe myself into doing work. (And by work I mean the daily grading, reading, writing that I do at home in the evenings after I put in my hours at the office and in the classroom.) The logic goes: if I make myself as comfortable as possible by preheating the bed with my electric blanket (thanks again, SMH!) and climbing in after I've had a long, hot soak in the tub and dressed myself in flannel jammies, then I can endure any torture I imagine my work will bring. This is my new anti-procrastination tactic.

Tonight it worked. I got a chunk of stuff done. Yay. Monday night, I got too comfortable and fell asleep before I got much of anything done. Damn.

Problem now is I need to clean the house, shop and cook for the ceilidh I'm throwing Friday after my reading. I can't do that from my preheated bed. Damn.

I need a wife. Naw. I need a P.A. Sid's ready for the job, so she says, but I can't afford her.

Oh well. Guess I'll just keep doing it all myself. I am looking forward to having a house full of people. Dancing, drinking, partying like it's Paddy's Day!

And I might have actually figured out what I'm going to wear for the reading. . . .

Trapped.

2006-03-12T08:43:00.000-05:00

I'm experiencing a period of creativity in which the stories are all stuck inside, quietly percolating, preparing to burst forth. But nothing's coming out willingly. It's not a dry spell; my mind is racing with images, thoughts, memories; I'm planning, plotting, scheming; I guess I'm working wet. Shaping the clay before it dries up. But does it dry up if I don't get it out in time?

Anybody out there commiserate?

I find that it is during these fiercely internal creative periods that I turn to other outward expressions of what's on the inside. I cook. Yesterday I made barbeque sauce, barbequed pork tenderloin, cabbage slaw, sweet potatoes, porridge with apricots, creamy, lemony celery soup, orange chocolate mousse. . . . this is officially the house of delicious things.

I also buy shoes. But when don't I buy shoes?

Shoes like these just seem to make everything a little bit better. Do you think they might help tease out some of those stories, if I stare at them long enough, or dance around the house in them to the right music? That is actually what I did Friday night before going to bed. I made up a new cocktail (rye+1/4 of an orange+dash of bitters+grapefruit seltzer=delicious), drank it out of my new Rosenthal bourbon glasses, and danced like there was no tomorrow. I need more of this in my life. And I can make it happen.

Now I just need to make this writing happen. Shit.

From rock star to pin-up girl

2006-03-11T13:45:00.000-05:00

You're Bettie Page!

What Classic Pin-Up Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Chameleon indeed. I figured out when I was in Dublin that I am a shapeshifter. I'm not always aware of it; I need to tap into this power. Interesting things abrew.

Thanks to Shasta and Viv for the quiz tip off.

This weekend I'm set to work. Grading and writing. I've been thinking a lot about writing a Dublin piece for my reading on Friday. Dublin, my lover. Dublin, the most erotic place on earth to me. Dublin, the place where I buy lacy, racy undergarments without even thinking about it. Dublin, the place that makes me quiver, just when I step off the plane and onto the ground. Dublin, the place where the rock star, pin-up, intellectual, shapeshifter, journalist, street fighter, saint and pole dancer in me converge without conflict.

Damn, I think I might have started this piece. . . .

Two-minute poem.

2006-03-08T12:07:00.000-05:00

Nothing was the same now that it was midnight.
All the pubs had closed and the blonde
from Dallas wanted to dance.
The boys of Dublin wanted
her--
chest exposed, nipples pert,
ready to dance.
The boys wanted to dance alright,
horizontally speaking. But what
they didn't know is she'd only give
it up under the mirrorball.
To get with her, they'd have to
groove with her.
Too drunk. Flat foot. Whiskey dick.
She danced her way home.
Alone.
Satisfied.

Now you try! Start with the same first line and see where it takes you. . . .

Poetry rawks!

Home sick.

2006-03-07T15:55:00.000-05:00

I've become a complete wuss when it comes to the slightest sign of illness. I wish more people were like me--then I probably wouldn't be sick as often as I am.

So I cancelled all my appointments and I'm not going to class today. I am doing a bit of work, and I went for a good run in the sunshine this afternoon. (I have an awful sore throat, but it hasn't moved into my chest, so I think a good aerobic workout might help kick the bug).

I would like to take a moment to give thanks for my life: I've filled it with work and some level of chaos, but it is pretty free of drama, the nasty variety. I've been wounded in the past, and I will no doubt be in the future, but I will continue to lay my cards on the table . . . I don't know any other way to live. But I think I can be (and have gotten) smarter about whom I'll make myself vulnerable with. Cut loose the bloodsuckers and hold near the people who'll throw their cards down, too.

Shit. I'm not even on any cold medicine. Pretty cryptic, huh?

Life in the Zoo

2006-03-06T03:53:00.000-05:00

I'm back. And it's fine. For the first time ever I didn't cry all the way home from Ireland. This is personal growth. I think it means I'm more at home with myself--I don't need a particular place to feel like myself. This is good.

Although I do love the place. Miss it, too. But I'll return, as often as I need to.

In the meantime, I'm back to work in full force. I taught class last night and this morning and soon I'm off to another class and then to meet with students. I'm back to the gym working my ass off, too. I like being strong. And I'm back to running--put in a good hour outside yesterday. Getting geared up for the Shamrock Shuffle in Chicago April 2. Sid will be in town then, too!

Yay!

As life goes on, I have memories and photos to keep Ireland with me--and part of me in Ireland. . . .

More to come as I get myself a flickr account. I promise.

And more about the street fighter Chicagoan I chatted with the seven hours back from Dublin . . . later.

Ash Wednesday.

2006-03-01T07:17:00.000-05:00

This will be my second time receiving ashes on my forehead in this fair city.

Seeing "Breakfast on Pluto" in Dublin is a very different experience than seeing it in Dallas. Although I was mildly drunk both times. Everyone here seemed much more amused by it all--I just think they copped on to the jokes better.

Is it wrong that I find Gavin Friday incredibly sexy?

Instead of seeking trouble yesterday, I hung out with Aisling and Ben. I spent some time in town, wandering around, running errands, seeing the movie, but I went back to the house and walked around the nearby memorial gardens beside the Liffey with my dear friends. It snowed. Can you believe it? That shit follows me. But I'll upload photos when I get home. You'll understand why I can't resist that kid. And my God is he loved. It's a beautiful thing.

Today, after ashes to ashes and dust to dust, I think I'll head toward the sea. I've decided not to visit Glendalough--it's too friggin' cold to be walking around a snow capped mountain. I'll lose my frostbitten fingers for sure. But I must sit by the sea before I leave. Maybe I'll go to Bono's house and see if they'll have me for tea.

What? If you don't ask . . .

Trouble, but just a bit

2006-02-28T07:15:00.000-05:00

So I finally met up with my dear friend Michael yesterday afternoon. I accompanied him on a business errand (he's always up to one of those) and then we sat around talking, eating, drinking for the better part of six hours. We discussed the plight of the Irish all over the world, globalization, the troubles, the riots . . . and he encouraged me to write a piece for one of the papers here. In fact, I think he'll hound me until I produce some copy. Everyone's a fucking editor.

But really, it was wonderful to reconnect with someone who knows me so well.

Then I picked up a newspaper and planted myself in an old haunt, The Foggy Dew, drank a beer, read the paper, wrote in my journal. Then I got chatted up by a mechanic from Galway who was born two weeks later than I. He had a tattoo of his childhood dog on his arm. After the pub shut down for the night, I managed to convince him and two of his friends (also Irish-speaking lads from Galway) to escort me to Ri-Ra, another of my old haunts, a fabulous club that plays the kind of funky music that makes my body want to move.

And so it did. Until 3 in the morning.

Being the fabulous Sagittarian born in the year of the Dragon that he is, Brian Duggan spun me around the dance floor like crazy. Great. Fun.

And I'll leave the rest to your imagination. Although keep in mind that Duggan is a family name on my mother's side, and I have no interest in risking any sort of inbreeding whatsoever.

So, as far as I'm concerned, I got into just enough trouble last night to keep my vibrant wildness well alive.

We'll see how I manage today. I've made contact with one of the old gang. His brother is like a drug to me. Said brother, I now know, is in town again after many years of living everywhere but here.

Playing it by ear, y'all. . . .

Red Carpet, Irish style

2006-02-27T09:09:00.000-05:00

Last night Daniel Day Lewis and Rebecca Miller came out to the final event of the Dublin Film Festival, a showing of their film, "The Ballad of Jack and Rose." Who was there? You guessed it. Who managed to not see himself in all his beautiful aged glory (but it doesn't matter anyway because he will always be Tomas from "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" in my mind)? That's right. I also managed to miss him at the Irish premiere of "Gangs of New York" three years ago when I was here because of all the screaming girls after Leo. Bono was there that night, too. Missed him as well. I often wonder how many times I've passed him in the street and not even noticed him. I probably brushed up against Cillian Murphy and Colin Farrell, too. Or several of their look alikes. That kind of beauty isn't a rarity around here, folks. So, I'll enjoy the eye candy, famous or otherwise.

Yes, news does seem to come to me, or at least near me; however, my absolute resistance to pack journalism will always keep me on the periphery. And that's just fine with me. I'll pay attention and evaluate everything I take in, then write novels and screenplays down the road. Memoir, too. Although, everything is memoir as far as I'm concerned. . . .

So, I ended up seeing "Capote" last night since "Ballad" was sold out. I loitered as long as I could and managed to see a few famous (although not to me) folks saunter down the makeshift runway constructed outside the Savoy theatre on O'Connell Street. Then I got shooed away and I didn't feel like fighting or playing the journalist card, so I meandered up the steps to "Capote." Interesting film. My favorite part was the epitaph at the end Capote wrote for an unfinished manuscript: "There are more tears shed for answered prayers than unanswered ones."

I had to search for a quiet drink after the movie ended at 10:30. The city was still abuzz with Welsch lunatics after the rugby match. I wandered into the Octagon Bar inside Bono's Clarence Hotel in Temple Bar and ordered myself a grey goose martini. The bartender told me it would cost 24 euros. So I switched to Ketel One and paid 12.50. $30 for a fucking drink? Gives me new appreciation for my half-off martini high five thursday nights.

During the day yesterday I hung out with Aisling and Ben and then we went to her partner Michael's family's house--a house of artists, writers, students, thinkers, performers. Great fun. Lively discussion about the riots and the state of affairs in this country. Two of Michael's sisters are journalists whose bylines I've read. I got to ask them lots of questions about practicing the craft here. Great stuff.

So now it's almost half past two here, I've slept in, bathed, had some breakfast and am now considering wandering back into town to see what kind of trouble I can get into. I'm not as good at it as I once was--either I'm not trying hard enough, or I've just fucking wised up. Dublin appears to be a much more sinister place than it ever was to me before. I think this has something to do with the ways I learned to feel safe in dangerous situations, and the closer I get to myself, to honoring my body, the more perceptive I get about danger. Don't get me wrong, I'm not fearful; I think I'm just smarter.

But I miss the trouble a bit. Perhaps if I can get past that and find joy in the calm, in the tension of great conversation (which is everywhere in this city), in the beauty of a caring word, then I'll be able to move toward something greater than my destructive love of bad boys.

I might be on to something here. . . .

Ah, the Dub.

2006-02-26T06:46:00.000-05:00

It's the morning after the day after a rough day in Dublin.

Yesterday the Ulster Unionists, aka Orangemen, were given permission to hold a pride parade in Dublin city--the first ever of its kind in the Republic. Their intention was to memorialize protestants who have been killed in the long-standing cultural clash here that is too complicated to try to explain here. Usually these folks march in the North and that's where most of the trouble has been in terms of violence and terrorism. But in the spirit of peace and in the hopes of proving that letting down the borders will result in unity, Dublin government, Fianna Fail, said, "Go ahead, come down here and march."

What you'll probably hear on television and read in the papers is that the Republicans, the IRA, had something else in mind yesterday. That it was the Republicans who organized the violence, the rioting, the looting that terrorized the city yesterday. That's what I heard in a report by a Northern Irish journalist on CNN.

It's bullshit.

That's not what I saw.

A small faction of IRA organized a peaceful demonstration before the march was set to begin. The march never happened.

O'Connell Street is under major construction and the bricks and barricades became weapons. Homemade bombs were thrown, five store fronts on O'Connell Street got bashed in, the mob moved up toward Grafton Street, bashed in a few more shop windows, and managed to shut down the city for a little while. I got locked into a cellphone shop while a mob of people went running past, Garda (police) chasing after them, Keystone Cops style.

3000 gards with riot gear showed up at the scene before any hint of violence broke out; about 20,000 people congregated in center city. When 100,000 people gathered for an anti-war demonstration last year, about 1000 gards went on duty.

As Michael, one of my friends' I'm staying with here, said, "The city is full of thieves and thugs, and they send the entire police force to one place. What did they expect would happen."

And that's the story folks. The rioting and looting was caused by the thugs and thieves of this fair city, many of whom were kids and foreign nationals--those who suffer from abject poverty amid a city and country of increasing wealth. You want to know what got stolen? Shoes. A couple of Lithuanians made off with boxes of sneakers after bashing in the Foot Locker on O'Connell Street. To say the IRA is responsible is like saying Al Qaeda is responsible.

Now riots have been set off in the north, a politician has resigned, and everyone's worried about how the riots in the middle of a football match weekend filled with tourists will affect the city's reputation.

Me? I still love the place for all the same reasons I always did. I'm saddened at what implications this has for the direction of the peace process in Ireland, and in a larger scale, on the ability to dismantle old, deep conflicts and wounds and move on to unity or at the very least tolerance. Anywhere in the world and on every scale.

When I realized what was going on, my first instict was to run right into the center of it, to start taking notes and taking pictures. Rumors were flying around like mad, and I wanted to see it for myself and tell other people what I saw as the truth. I guess no matter how I might fight it, I am a journalist at my core.

So, this is my piece. I'm not filing a story for the New York Times or anyone else, just for Divine Writes. My new digital cameral malfunctioned just as I was about to snap a shot of a garbage can on fire smoking up toward a statue of revolutionary Jim Larkin in front of the General Post Office on O'Connell Street, site of the famous 1916 Easter Rising's last stand. Oh well. The image will live on in my memory. And I fixed the camera.

***

In other news, I managed to stumble into a panel discussion of screenwriters and producers as part of the Dublin Film Festival on Friday. Learned me a thing or two. I haven't even been inside a pub, yet. I've been busy playing with Ben, my friend Aisling's beautiful little boy, and hanging out at home: drinking wine, eating well, sleeping in. . . . it's been grand, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I'll head into town today and do my own wandering a bit, maybe meet up with some other friends. I got an Irish SIM card for my cell phone, so I can keep in touch easier with my people here. Y'all can still call my old number and leave messages; but I'm not checking very often.

I hope all is well with you--I'll update as I can.

Add another title to that resume . . .

2006-02-21T07:35:00.000-05:00

Yes, yes it's true. You are now reading work from the non-fiction editor of a small but prestigious literary magazine.

Now, get off your duffs, write some magnificent creative non-fiction and send it my way so we can become stars together. . . .

Travel Uniform

2006-02-20T18:29:00.000-05:00

Is it wrong for me to greet Dublin this way?

What?

No one ever said I'm not proactive. . . .

Lookit!

2006-02-19T02:58:00.000-05:00

I got a digital camera! Just in time for Dublin . . . but I decided to try it out first and lookee! Now you can look at the sweet, sweet faces of Kiki and MDog just like I did this evening as I fed them hot toddies, shrimp satay and peanut sauce (homemade, y'all) and red wine. We sat by the fire and talked like grownups until I played them the Wonder Woman theme song and then we, er, I, danced around like it was the '70s again. I was 4, yes, but a dancer then, too.

Speaking of dancing, I reviewed one hell of an irritating "modern dance" performance last night. Where do they get off calling that modern, much less, dance? Sheesh. Maybe I'll link you to the article tomorrow if I can. I've already gone off on my "modern dance" tirade three times today, so I'll spare you. For now.

Okay. Sleepy time now so I can be bright eyed for Sunday Morning and the NYT!

Mission Accomplished.

2006-02-17T01:41:00.000-05:00

I fookin' finished the first 12 pages of my fookin' screenplay, The Boys of Dublin.

So far there's just one boy, one girl, a flight attendant, a customs agent, a bouncer and two mothers. My Dublish is rusty, though, and I'm not sure the character of the place comes out in the language yet. I read an interview that Colin Farrell conducted with Cillian Murphy in the Dec/Jan Interview magazine at the gym today. It inspired me, but I want to conduct live, in-the-flesh research.

A luxury that only living among the natives again wil afford me. One week from today, baby!

Oh happy day! I started my screenplay, and I think I got all the formatting right, and I think it doesn't suck. I'll find out what the class thinks Monday when it gets workshopped.

Oy. Vulnerability. Again.

But what the fuck do I care? I'll be in Dublin next week!

Did I mention I'm going to Dublin next week, for the first time in a long time?

Writing is weird, though. It's creating and then entering a world, part imagined, part real. I feel like I was just in Dublin for the four hours it took me to write the first pages of The Boys of Dublin.

This phenomenon is exactly writing the memoir is so intense. This week I finished writing parts of my life that happened 20 years ago. And I was right back there. No kidding. But talk about power! I'm going back to those places and in order to make sense of them, beautify them, I get to rewrite them, within the confines of my own truth. I am writing my life. And writing for my life.

I just wish I didn't have to earn a living and health benefits at the same time. Oh and deal with screwy ex-boyfriends and icy roads, and Consumers Energy bills. . . .

Nah, if I lived in a bubble, what the hell would I write about?

2 p.m. Tuesday

2006-02-15T13:30:00.000-05:00

I step out of the locker room shower wrapped in a towel. I hear my cell phone ringing. I check the caller id and see a number with an area code I don't recognize. I think, "This is probably one of my students with a cell phone from some suburb of Detroit. I'm not talking to any student of mine while I'm naked."

Later I listen to the message.

"Oh. Hi. This is HB. It's a little awkward--it's Valentine's Day. I just wanted to call and wish you a happy Valentine's Day. So, happy Valentine's Day. Talk to you later."

???!?!?!?!?

When I ask Sid what she thinks is going on, she says, "Oh, you mean he's 47, sad, lonely, has 8 jobs and no one to spend his time with?"

Right.

Fef, a woman in my lit class said, "Well, I don't know anything about any of this, but that seems terribly selfish of him."

Mmm. I like Fef.

Later that night, I got a text message--not even a voicemail--from yet another unavailable man. "Happy Valentine's Day!" he wrote.

How does this make me feel? A little loved, strangely. But a little loved. Haven't I already mentioned that reciprocity is what I'm after? When I love, I love huge. Shit, when I do anything, I do it huge. And I want huge love back.

Little love distracts me; it leaves me hungry, doesn't fill me up.

Maybe that's why I ate four sandwiches for lunch and still haven't finished my screenplay.

I'm also starting to feel a little sick, so I made sure to sleep 8 hours last night.

I need a break. Thank God for Dublin. . . .

But don't get me wrong, I'm getting some good love, too. I treated myself to a fine pasta primavera dinner at home with wine, candlelight and chocolate for dessert; I got a couple of lovely valentines (thanks da, thanks Gram); I even got jewelry (thanks for the bracelet, mama); I also got unselfish phone calls (thanks Sid, Kiki, Murder Pig, aka BFF).

It is possible to be grateful and hungry.