Saturday, November 29, 2003

"Don't be afraid to be in overwhelm; you're moving up the spiral into a new frequency." -Friend of Kate M

For those of you dearly beloved who use this blog to check in on me (and thank you for caring), that's where I am right now: overwhelmed, frequed-out and all a-spiral. I was in a deep one a couple of weeks ago, but I've since been given a fine opportunity to be thankful in this season of gratitude: not only am I being paid actual money to do a little project I enjoy, there are a couple of other cool possibilities in the autumn wind. Which means less time to post commentary. And much less time to sleep. But I slept plenty last year, so I'll draw on that for awhile. Look, you got to shake it it to make it.

Um, I don't know what that means. It just popped into my head. It means whatever you want it to mean. What does it mean to YOU? Yes, you there, with the bloodshot and bleary eyes from too much Internet and 'WAY too much caffeine. Shouldn't you be in bed? Can't sleep either, can ya? Okay, then, report back. You know how to reach me.

Back in a bit...

Saturday, November 15, 2003

"Sadness is kind of my religion." -Margaret Cho

One of my faithful blog readers is my dear mother, Evelyn B. This should come as no great shock, as it it a mother's duty to pay loving attention to all that oozes from her offspring. But, since Mom's a writer, too, her interest means that much more to me. It is she who gave me a true love and informed appreciation of the English language, teaching me to read from The New York Times at the age of 3 (by then, I could read AND UNDERSTAND the Daily News), annoying me at every turn thereafter with grammatical corrections and elocution lessons. Thank you, Mom. As much as the smartass kid resented your relentless efforts, the smartass adult is deeply grateful.

Mom aka Evelyn recently sent me an article from USA Weekend entitled "What's YOUR Blog?", containing information of which I, blogger of 3 months, was not aware. For instance, there's a weblog site that actually PAYS their members; a portion of the monthly $5.95 fee goes to the most widely read bloggers in the membership.

Ah...yet another in an endless series of popularity contests, which have long been anathema to me. Admittedly, I gave rapt attention to Miss America Pageants between the ages of 4 and 21. Yes, I have aspired to winning a Grammy, Oscar, Emmy, and Tony and have composed (and rehearsed) eloquent and entertaining speeches for each occasion. A number of my friends and associates have won at least one of each, so I have observed the minimal and fleeting impact it has on the quality of one's performance or, more important, one's personal growth. And I understand, from direct experience, the underlying insecurity that fuels a human being's desperate need to be acknowledged.

It doesn't matter that I was admired by my parents' friends as a bright, mature and always welcome child; I was also an only child and craved their attention, so I'd jump through flaming hoops to get it. (A shame, since many of them were under the influence much of the time, so who was I really impressing?)

Never mind that my teachers regularly lauded my creative approach to studies, my exemplary work habits and thoughtful behavior; the fact that I fooled them into thinking I'd spent hours on a project I'd waited the last minute to start haunts my creative process to this day. (Fellow only child Brian W recently reminded me that we latch-key kids are essentially trained to wait, an observation that explained a number of my poorer habits).

Lucky me, to have a larger-than-life father, whose high-profile, glamorous career as a musician afforded me a healthy dollop of reflected glory; no matter how much sincere encouragement he lavished on me to follow in his footsteps, it would take me years to understand that it was more important to create footprints of my own.

And pay no attention to the fact that I was a cheerleader, the female icon of high school popularity, in my junior and senior years; I was the token zaftig, the girl with the short, stocky legs for which my father periodically apologized (the fault of his genetics). The girl with the woman's breasts that made it impossible to accomplish the airy gymnastics my slender counterparts easily performed. I spent years in therapy dealing with body image issues because of the boobs that no brassiere could contain, bouncing to the merciless ridicule of the freshman boys (and the secret delight of the seniors -- and, I suspect, their dads). Perhaps the misplaced appreciation of my nubile nipples would have been easier to swallow if the Dallas Cheerleaders/Laker Girls precedent had already been set. As it was, it just made me inexpressibly sad. The inescapable infusion of raging hormones didn't help matters, either.

I have been sad for much of my life, though few knew it to be true. People pleaser that I was, I didn't want to let -- or bring -- anyone down, so I kept the secret; as long as there were enough available substances to imbibe, I could maintain the charade. I think I would have been a happier child, a more balanced teenager (however oxymoronic that sounds), a more satisfied -- and probably sober -- young adult, if I hadn't felt the need to live up to unrealistic expectations. If I had been gently guided to simply discover who I am, and enjoy that daily miracle.

But the spilt milk is mopped up, and the tears have been dried; just in time. Now I enjoy kicking propriety in the nuts, wantonly slaughtering sacred cows, fearless in the face of all that is holier-than-thou. Now my sadness is not for myself, but for those who are still trying to fit someone else's bill.

I'm sad for poor little rich Paris Hilton (special thanks to BSW for making me consider her when I rarely do), who apparently put the "casual" in casual sex with her blase encounter, captured on tape for pop culture vultures to devour and regurgitate. It's not her performance's availability to all eyes that makes me sad (although such aspirations inevitably raise questions of character); it's that she lacks the passion that sexual activity should evoke. I'm just saying, if you're going to have it, have it for all it's worth -- otherwise, it's worthless. I wonder what makes her so unwilling to let go. Maybe she's just afraid -- as so many of us are at one time or another -- to be alive.

Yeah, I know: NOW who's holier-than-thou?

Saturday, November 08, 2003

"The mind is such a disloyal friend." -Brian Lambert

After a walk around the hill with loyal friend Brian L, during which I shared my various misgivings and disillusions, he spouted that wise observation.

It's quite true: we artfully talk ourselves into impossible corners. We trip grandly over our own insecurities into deep, dank holes. With only one well-placed negative thought, we can be easily sucked into an abyss of hopelessness, rendered completely ineffective. Creative flow staunched. Constructive energy shut down. Wasted.

I'm usually better off ignoring my mind and listening to my heart. It may be permanently scarred, but it invariably tells the truth.

Friday, November 07, 2003

"That's all any of us wants -- a nice person to hang out with until we drop dead." -Lorelai Gilmore

While my fabulously longer-than-usual fingernails had been making my hands look quite elegant for the past several months (a testament to the virtues of nutritious eating, appropriate supplements, and regular moisturizing), they had become a nuisance when it came time to write. I was making so many typographical errors, I began to believe it was the result of a chemical imbalance. In truth, it was my glamorous manicure creating a form of speech impediment, a fashion-forward dyslexia, if you will. Now that the talons are sufficiently trimmed, however, I can click away on the keyboard with ease and clarity of expression (well, one out of two).

I can also passionately dig my more conservative nails into the back of my lover without fear of leaving indelible scars on his flesh.

There's a fine line between lovemaking and bloodletting...anyone who's been in a longterm relationship will attest to that. Hanging with someone who's just a "nice person" (and Lorelai, let's please leave out the "until we drop dead" angle -- it's too "'til death do us part" for me) doesn't usually take you to that incredibly sexy, back-grazing edge. Not that I'm eager to hook up with the Bad Boy. Those guys can really damage a woman, inside and out...besides, they have no discernable character arc. No, I like a nice, smart guy who takes me on intriguing, unique, romantic dates, then gets me home and pulls out the Bad Boy (as it were), taking me right to The Edge. See, I like The Edge -- it's not only an erotically charged destination, he's one of the great guitarists of our time.

I wonder how long HIS nails are.