Away, again

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

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

. . . 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

Fabulous compliments

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

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?

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

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

Who says art and politics don't mix?

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

Serious breakfast

It led to this.

Big Baby

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

. . . 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

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

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?

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)

Check it.

Thanks to Sid for the link!

Pay attention, now

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

. . . 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:

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

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. . . .